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1001	----	THE DIVINE COMEDY OF DANTE ALIGHIERI (1265-1321) TRANSLATED BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) CANTICLE I: INFERNO CREDITS The base text for this edition has been provided by Digital Dante, a project sponsored by Columbia University's Institute for Learning Technologies. Specific thanks goes to Jennifer Hogan (Project Editor/Director), Tanya Larkin (Assistant to Editor), Robert W. Cole (Proofreader/Assistant Editor), and Jennifer Cook (Proofreader). The Digital Dante Project is a digital 'study space' for Dante studies and scholarship. The project is multi-faceted and fluid by nature of the Web. Digital Dante attempts to organize the information most significant for students first engaging with Dante and scholars researching Dante. The digital of Digital Dante incurs a new challenge to the student, the scholar, and teacher, perusing the Web: to become proficient in the new tools, e.g., Search, the Discussion Group, well enough to look beyond the technology and delve into the content. For more information and access to the project, please visit its web site at: http://www.ilt.columbia.edu/projects/dante/ For this Project Gutenberg edition the e-text was rechecked. The editor greatly thanks Dian McCarthy for her assistance in proofreading the Paradiso. Also deserving praise are Herbert Fann for programming the text editor "Desktop Tools/Edit" and the late August Dvorak for designing his keyboard layout. Please refer to Project Gutenberg's e-text listings for other editions or translations of 'The Divine Comedy.' For this three part edition of 'The Divine Comedy' please refer to the end of the Paradiso for supplemental materials. Dennis McCarthy, July 1997 imprimatur@juno.com CONTENTS Inferno I. The Dark Forest. The Hill of Difficulty. The Panther, the Lion, and the Wolf. Virgil. II. The Descent. Dante's Protest and Virgil's Appeal. The Intercession of the Three Ladies Benedight. III. The Gate of Hell. The Inefficient or Indifferent. Pope Celestine V. The Shores of Acheron. Charon. The Earthquake and the Swoon. IV. The First Circle, Limbo: Virtuous Pagans and the Unbaptized. The Four Poets, Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan. The Noble Castle of Philosophy. V. The Second Circle: The Wanton. Minos. The Infernal Hurricane. Francesca da Rimini. VI. The Third Circle: The Gluttonous. Cerberus. The Eternal Rain. Ciacco. Florence. VII. The Fourth Circle: The Avaricious and the Prodigal. Plutus. Fortune and her Wheel. The Fifth Circle: The Irascible and the Sullen. Styx. VIII. Phlegyas. Philippo Argenti. The Gate of the City of Dis. IX. The Furies and Medusa. The Angel. The City of Dis. The Sixth Circle: Heresiarchs. X. Farinata and Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti. Discourse on the Knowledge of the Damned. XI. The Broken Rocks. Pope Anastasius. General Description of the Inferno and its Divisions. XII. The Minotaur. The Seventh Circle: The Violent. The River Phlegethon. The Violent against their Neighbours. The Centaurs. Tyrants. XIII. The Wood of Thorns. The Harpies. The Violent against themselves. Suicides. Pier della Vigna. Lano and Jacopo da Sant' Andrea. XIV. The Sand Waste and the Rain of Fire. The Violent against God. Capaneus. The Statue of Time, and the Four Infernal Rivers. XV. The Violent against Nature. Brunetto Latini. XVI. Guidoguerra, Aldobrandi, and Rusticucci. Cataract of the River of Blood. XVII. Geryon. The Violent against Art. Usurers. Descent into the Abyss of Malebolge. XVIII. The Eighth Circle, Malebolge: The Fraudulent and the Malicious. The First Bolgia: Seducers and Panders. Venedico Caccianimico. Jason. The Second Bolgia: Flatterers. Allessio Interminelli. Thais. XIX. The Third Bolgia: Simoniacs. Pope Nicholas III. Dante's Reproof of corrupt Prelates. XX. The Fourth Bolgia: Soothsayers. Amphiaraus, Tiresias, Aruns, Manto, Eryphylus, Michael Scott, Guido Bonatti, and Asdente. Virgil reproaches Dante's Pity. Mantua's Foundation. XXI. The Fifth Bolgia: Peculators. The Elder of Santa Zita. Malacoda and other Devils. XXII. Ciampolo, Friar Gomita, and Michael Zanche. The Malabranche quarrel. XXIII. Escape from the Malabranche. The Sixth Bolgia: Hypocrites. Catalano and Loderingo. Caiaphas. XXIV. The Seventh Bolgia: Thieves. Vanni Fucci. Serpents. XXV. Vanni Fucci's Punishment. Agnello Brunelleschi, Buoso degli Abati, Puccio Sciancato, Cianfa de' Donati, and Guercio Cavalcanti. XXVI. The Eighth Bolgia: Evil Counsellors. Ulysses and Diomed. Ulysses' Last Voyage. XXVII. Guido da Montefeltro. His deception by Pope Boniface VIII. XXVIII. The Ninth Bolgia: Schismatics. Mahomet and Ali. Pier da Medicina, Curio, Mosca, and Bertrand de Born. XXIX. Geri del Bello. The Tenth Bolgia: Alchemists. Griffolino d' Arezzo and Capocchino. XXX. Other Falsifiers or Forgers. Gianni Schicchi, Myrrha, Adam of Brescia, Potiphar's Wife, and Sinon of Troy. XXXI. The Giants, Nimrod, Ephialtes, and Antaeus. Descent to Cocytus. XXXII. The Ninth Circle: Traitors. The Frozen Lake of Cocytus. First Division, Caina: Traitors to their Kindred. Camicion de' Pazzi. Second Division, Antenora: Traitors to their Country. Dante questions Bocca degli Abati. Buoso da Duera. XXXIII. Count Ugolino and the Archbishop Ruggieri. The Death of Count Ugolino's Sons. Third Division of the Ninth Circle, Ptolomaea: Traitors to their Friends. Friar Alberigo, Branco d' Oria. XXXIV. Fourth Division of the Ninth Circle, the Judecca: Traitors to their Lords and Benefactors. Lucifer, Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius. The Chasm of Lethe. The Ascent. Incipit Comoedia Dantis Alagherii, Florentini natione, non moribus. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) INFERNO Inferno: Canto I Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost. Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say What was this forest savage, rough, and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear. So bitter is it, death is little more; But of the good to treat, which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there. I cannot well repeat how there I entered, So full was I of slumber at the moment In which I had abandoned the true way. But after I had reached a mountain's foot, At that point where the valley terminated, Which had with consternation pierced my heart, Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders, Vested already with that planet's rays Which leadeth others right by every road. Then was the fear a little quieted That in my heart's lake had endured throughout The night, which I had passed so piteously. And even as he, who, with distressful breath, Forth issued from the sea upon the shore, Turns to the water perilous and gazes; So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward, Turn itself back to re-behold the pass Which never yet a living person left. After my weary body I had rested, The way resumed I on the desert slope, So that the firm foot ever was the lower. And lo! almost where the ascent began, A panther light and swift exceedingly, Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er! And never moved she from before my face, Nay, rather did impede so much my way, That many times I to return had turned. The time was the beginning of the morning, And up the sun was mounting with those stars That with him were, what time the Love Divine At first in motion set those beauteous things; So were to me occasion of good hope, The variegated skin of that wild beast, The hour of time, and the delicious season; But not so much, that did not give me fear A lion's aspect which appeared to me. He seemed as if against me he were coming With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger, So that it seemed the air was afraid of him; And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings Seemed to be laden in her meagreness, And many folk has caused to live forlorn! She brought upon me so much heaviness, With the affright that from her aspect came, That I the hope relinquished of the height. And as he is who willingly acquires, And the time comes that causes him to lose, Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent, E'en such made me that beast withouten peace, Which, coming on against me by degrees Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent. While I was rushing downward to the lowland, Before mine eyes did one present himself, Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse. When I beheld him in the desert vast, "Have pity on me," unto him I cried, "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!" He answered me: "Not man; man once I was, And both my parents were of Lombardy, And Mantuans by country both of them. 'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late, And lived at Rome under the good Augustus, During the time of false and lying gods. A poet was I, and I sang that just Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy, After that Ilion the superb was burned. But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance? Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable, Which is the source and cause of every joy?" "Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?" I made response to him with bashful forehead. "O, of the other poets honour and light, Avail me the long study and great love That have impelled me to explore thy volume! Thou art my master, and my author thou, Thou art alone the one from whom I took The beautiful style that has done honour to me. Behold the beast, for which I have turned back; Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage, For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble." "Thee it behoves to take another road," Responded he, when he beheld me weeping, "If from this savage place thou wouldst escape; Because this beast, at which thou criest out, Suffers not any one to pass her way, But so doth harass him, that she destroys him; And has a nature so malign and ruthless, That never doth she glut her greedy will, And after food is hungrier than before. Many the animals with whom she weds, And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain. He shall not feed on either earth or pelf, But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue; 'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be; Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour, On whose account the maid Camilla died, Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds; Through every city shall he hunt her down, Until he shall have driven her back to Hell, There from whence envy first did let her loose. Therefore I think and judge it for thy best Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, And lead thee hence through the eternal place, Where thou shalt hear the desperate lamentations, Shalt see the ancient spirits disconsolate, Who cry out each one for the second death; And thou shalt see those who contented are Within the fire, because they hope to come, Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people; To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend, A soul shall be for that than I more worthy; With her at my departure I will leave thee; Because that Emperor, who reigns above, In that I was rebellious to his law, Wills that through me none come into his city. He governs everywhere, and there he reigns; There is his city and his lofty throne; O happy he whom thereto he elects!" And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat, By that same God whom thou didst never know, So that I may escape this woe and worse, Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said, That I may see the portal of Saint Peter, And those thou makest so disconsolate." Then he moved on, and I behind him followed. Inferno: Canto II Day was departing, and the embrowned air Released the animals that are on earth From their fatigues; and I the only one Made myself ready to sustain the war, Both of the way and likewise of the woe, Which memory that errs not shall retrace. O Muses, O high genius, now assist me! O memory, that didst write down what I saw, Here thy nobility shall be manifest! And I began: "Poet, who guidest me, Regard my manhood, if it be sufficient, Ere to the arduous pass thou dost confide me. Thou sayest, that of Silvius the parent, While yet corruptible, unto the world Immortal went, and was there bodily. But if the adversary of all evil Was courteous, thinking of the high effect That issue would from him, and who, and what, To men of intellect unmeet it seems not; For he was of great Rome, and of her empire In the empyreal heaven as father chosen; The which and what, wishing to speak the truth, Were stablished as the holy place, wherein Sits the successor of the greatest Peter. Upon this journey, whence thou givest him vaunt, Things did he hear, which the occasion were Both of his victory and the papal mantle. Thither went afterwards the Chosen Vessel, To bring back comfort thence unto that Faith, Which of salvation's way is the beginning. But I, why thither come, or who concedes it? I not Aeneas am, I am not Paul, Nor I, nor others, think me worthy of it. Therefore, if I resign myself to come, I fear the coming may be ill-advised; Thou'rt wise, and knowest better than I speak." And as he is, who unwills what he willed, And by new thoughts doth his intention change, So that from his design he quite withdraws, Such I became, upon that dark hillside, Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise, Which was so very prompt in the beginning. "If I have well thy language understood," Replied that shade of the Magnanimous, "Thy soul attainted is with cowardice, Which many times a man encumbers so, It turns him back from honoured enterprise, As false sight doth a beast, when he is shy. That thou mayst free thee from this apprehension, I'll tell thee why I came, and what I heard At the first moment when I grieved for thee. Among those was I who are in suspense, And a fair, saintly Lady called to me In such wise, I besought her to command me. Her eyes where shining brighter than the Star; And she began to say, gentle and low, With voice angelical, in her own language: 'O spirit courteous of Mantua, Of whom the fame still in the world endures, And shall endure, long-lasting as the world; A friend of mine, and not the friend of fortune, Upon the desert slope is so impeded Upon his way, that he has turned through terror, And may, I fear, already be so lost, That I too late have risen to his succour, From that which I have heard of him in Heaven. Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate, And with what needful is for his release, Assist him so, that I may be consoled. Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go; I come from there, where I would fain return; Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak. When I shall be in presence of my Lord, Full often will I praise thee unto him.' Then paused she, and thereafter I began: 'O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom The human race exceedeth all contained Within the heaven that has the lesser circles, So grateful unto me is thy commandment, To obey, if 'twere already done, were late; No farther need'st thou ope to me thy wish. But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun The here descending down into this centre, From the vast place thou burnest to return to.' 'Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern, Briefly will I relate,' she answered me, 'Why I am not afraid to enter here. Of those things only should one be afraid Which have the power of doing others harm; Of the rest, no; because they are not fearful. God in his mercy such created me That misery of yours attains me not, Nor any flame assails me of this burning. A gentle Lady is in Heaven, who grieves At this impediment, to which I send thee, So that stern judgment there above is broken. In her entreaty she besought Lucia, And said, "Thy faithful one now stands in need Of thee, and unto thee I recommend him." Lucia, foe of all that cruel is, Hastened away, and came unto the place Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel. "Beatrice" said she, "the true praise of God, Why succourest thou not him, who loved thee so, For thee he issued from the vulgar herd? Dost thou not hear the pity of his plaint? Dost thou not see the death that combats him Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?" Never were persons in the world so swift To work their weal and to escape their woe, As I, after such words as these were uttered, Came hither downward from my blessed seat, Confiding in thy dignified discourse, Which honours thee, and those who've listened to it.' After she thus had spoken unto me, Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away; Whereby she made me swifter in my coming; And unto thee I came, as she desired; I have delivered thee from that wild beast, Which barred the beautiful mountain's short ascent. What is it, then? Why, why dost thou delay? Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart? Daring and hardihood why hast thou not, Seeing that three such Ladies benedight Are caring for thee in the court of Heaven, And so much good my speech doth promise thee?" Even as the flowerets, by nocturnal chill, Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them, Uplift themselves all open on their stems; Such I became with my exhausted strength, And such good courage to my heart there coursed, That I began, like an intrepid person: "O she compassionate, who succoured me, And courteous thou, who hast obeyed so soon The words of truth which she addressed to thee! Thou hast my heart so with desire disposed To the adventure, with these words of thine, That to my first intent I have returned. Now go, for one sole will is in us both, Thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Master thou." Thus said I to him; and when he had moved, I entered on the deep and savage way. Inferno: Canto III "Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost. Justice incited my sublime Creator; Created me divine Omnipotence, The highest Wisdom and the primal Love. Before me there were no created things, Only eterne, and I eternal last. All hope abandon, ye who enter in!" These words in sombre colour I beheld Written upon the summit of a gate; Whence I: "Their sense is, Master, hard to me!" And he to me, as one experienced: "Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned, All cowardice must needs be here extinct. We to the place have come, where I have told thee Thou shalt behold the people dolorous Who have foregone the good of intellect." And after he had laid his hand on mine With joyful mien, whence I was comforted, He led me in among the secret things. There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud Resounded through the air without a star, Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat. Languages diverse, horrible dialects, Accents of anger, words of agony, And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands, Made up a tumult that goes whirling on For ever in that air for ever black, Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes. And I, who had my head with horror bound, Said: "Master, what is this which now I hear? What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?" And he to me: "This miserable mode Maintain the melancholy souls of those Who lived withouten infamy or praise. Commingled are they with that caitiff choir Of Angels, who have not rebellious been, Nor faithful were to God, but were for self. The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair; Nor them the nethermore abyss receives, For glory none the damned would have from them." And I: "O Master, what so grievous is To these, that maketh them lament so sore?" He answered: "I will tell thee very briefly. These have no longer any hope of death; And this blind life of theirs is so debased, They envious are of every other fate. No fame of them the world permits to be; Misericord and Justice both disdain them. Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass." And I, who looked again, beheld a banner, Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly, That of all pause it seemed to me indignant; And after it there came so long a train Of people, that I ne'er would have believed That ever Death so many had undone. When some among them I had recognised, I looked, and I beheld the shade of him Who made through cowardice the great refusal. Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain, That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches Hateful to God and to his enemies. These miscreants, who never were alive, Were naked, and were stung exceedingly By gadflies and by hornets that were there. These did their faces irrigate with blood, Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet By the disgusting worms was gathered up. And when to gazing farther I betook me. People I saw on a great river's bank; Whence said I: "Master, now vouchsafe to me, That I may know who these are, and what law Makes them appear so ready to pass over, As I discern athwart the dusky light." And he to me: "These things shall all be known To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay Upon the dismal shore of Acheron." Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast, Fearing my words might irksome be to him, From speech refrained I till we reached the river. And lo! towards us coming in a boat An old man, hoary with the hair of eld, Crying: "Woe unto you, ye souls depraved! Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens; I come to lead you to the other shore, To the eternal shades in heat and frost. And thou, that yonder standest, living soul, Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead!" But when he saw that I did not withdraw, He said: "By other ways, by other ports Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for passage; A lighter vessel needs must carry thee." And unto him the Guide: "Vex thee not, Charon; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and farther question not." Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks Of him the ferryman of the livid fen, Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame. But all those souls who weary were and naked Their colour changed and gnashed their teeth together, As soon as they had heard those cruel words. God they blasphemed and their progenitors, The human race, the place, the time, the seed Of their engendering and of their birth! Thereafter all together they drew back, Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore, Which waiteth every man who fears not God. Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede, Beckoning to them, collects them all together, Beats with his oar whoever lags behind. As in the autumn-time the leaves fall off, First one and then another, till the branch Unto the earth surrenders all its spoils; In similar wise the evil seed of Adam Throw themselves from that margin one by one, At signals, as a bird unto its lure. So they depart across the dusky wave, And ere upon the other side they land, Again on this side a new troop assembles. "My son," the courteous Master said to me, "All those who perish in the wrath of God Here meet together out of every land; And ready are they to pass o'er the river, Because celestial Justice spurs them on, So that their fear is turned into desire. This way there never passes a good soul; And hence if Charon doth complain of thee, Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports." This being finished, all the dusk champaign Trembled so violently, that of that terror The recollection bathes me still with sweat. The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind, And fulminated a vermilion light, Which overmastered in me every sense, And as a man whom sleep hath seized I fell. Inferno: Canto IV Broke the deep lethargy within my head A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted, Like to a person who by force is wakened; And round about I moved my rested eyes, Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed, To recognise the place wherein I was. True is it, that upon the verge I found me Of the abysmal valley dolorous, That gathers thunder of infinite ululations. Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous, So that by fixing on its depths my sight Nothing whatever I discerned therein. "Let us descend now into the blind world," Began the Poet, pallid utterly; "I will be first, and thou shalt second be." And I, who of his colour was aware, Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid, Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?" And he to me: "The anguish of the people Who are below here in my face depicts That pity which for terror thou hast taken. Let us go on, for the long way impels us." Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss. There, as it seemed to me from listening, Were lamentations none, but only sighs, That tremble made the everlasting air. And this arose from sorrow without torment, Which the crowds had, that many were and great, Of infants and of women and of men. To me the Master good: "Thou dost not ask What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are? Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther, That they sinned not; and if they merit had, 'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest; And if they were before Christianity, In the right manner they adored not God; And among such as these am I myself. For such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire." Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard, Because some people of much worthiness I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended. "Tell me, my Master, tell me, thou my Lord," Began I, with desire of being certain Of that Faith which o'ercometh every error, "Came any one by his own merit hence, Or by another's, who was blessed thereafter?" And he, who understood my covert speech, Replied: "I was a novice in this state, When I saw hither come a Mighty One, With sign of victory incoronate. Hence he drew forth the shade of the First Parent, And that of his son Abel, and of Noah, Of Moses the lawgiver, and the obedient Abraham, patriarch, and David, king, Israel with his father and his children, And Rachel, for whose sake he did so much, And others many, and he made them blessed; And thou must know, that earlier than these Never were any human spirits saved." We ceased not to advance because he spake, But still were passing onward through the forest, The forest, say I, of thick-crowded ghosts. Not very far as yet our way had gone This side the summit, when I saw a fire That overcame a hemisphere of darkness. We were a little distant from it still, But not so far that I in part discerned not That honourable people held that place. "O thou who honourest every art and science, Who may these be, which such great honour have, That from the fashion of the rest it parts them?" And he to me: "The honourable name, That sounds of them above there in thy life, Wins grace in Heaven, that so advances them." In the mean time a voice was heard by me: "All honour be to the pre-eminent Poet; His shade returns again, that was departed." After the voice had ceased and quiet was, Four mighty shades I saw approaching us; Semblance had they nor sorrowful nor glad. To say to me began my gracious Master: "Him with that falchion in his hand behold, Who comes before the three, even as their lord. That one is Homer, Poet sovereign; He who comes next is Horace, the satirist; The third is Ovid, and the last is Lucan. Because to each of these with me applies The name that solitary voice proclaimed, They do me honour, and in that do well." Thus I beheld assemble the fair school Of that lord of the song pre-eminent, Who o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together had discoursed somewhat, They turned to me with signs of salutation, And on beholding this, my Master smiled; And more of honour still, much more, they did me, In that they made me one of their own band; So that the sixth was I, 'mid so much wit. Thus we went on as far as to the light, Things saying 'tis becoming to keep silent, As was the saying of them where I was. We came unto a noble castle's foot, Seven times encompassed with lofty walls, Defended round by a fair rivulet; This we passed over even as firm ground; Through portals seven I entered with these Sages; We came into a meadow of fresh verdure. People were there with solemn eyes and slow, Of great authority in their countenance; They spake but seldom, and with gentle voices. Thus we withdrew ourselves upon one side Into an opening luminous and lofty, So that they all of them were visible. There opposite, upon the green enamel, Were pointed out to me the mighty spirits, Whom to have seen I feel myself exalted. I saw Electra with companions many, 'Mongst whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas, Caesar in armour with gerfalcon eyes; I saw Camilla and Penthesilea On the other side, and saw the King Latinus, Who with Lavinia his daughter sat; I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin forth, Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia, And saw alone, apart, the Saladin. When I had lifted up my brows a little, The Master I beheld of those who know, Sit with his philosophic family. All gaze upon him, and all do him honour. There I beheld both Socrates and Plato, Who nearer him before the others stand; Democritus, who puts the world on chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales, Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus; Of qualities I saw the good collector, Hight Dioscorides; and Orpheus saw I, Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca, Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy, Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna, Averroes, who the great Comment made. I cannot all of them pourtray in full, Because so drives me onward the long theme, That many times the word comes short of fact. The sixfold company in two divides; Another way my sapient Guide conducts me Forth from the quiet to the air that trembles; And to a place I come where nothing shines. Inferno: Canto V Thus I descended out of the first circle Down to the second, that less space begirds, And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing. There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls; Examines the transgressions at the entrance; Judges, and sends according as he girds him. I say, that when the spirit evil-born Cometh before him, wholly it confesses; And this discriminator of transgressions Seeth what place in Hell is meet for it; Girds himself with his tail as many times As grades he wishes it should be thrust down. Always before him many of them stand; They go by turns each one unto the judgment; They speak, and hear, and then are downward hurled. "O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me, Leaving the practice of so great an office, "Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest; Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee." And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too? Do not impede his journey fate-ordained; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and ask no further question." And now begin the dolesome notes to grow Audible unto me; now am I come There where much lamentation strikes upon me. I came into a place mute of all light, Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest, If by opposing winds 't is combated. The infernal hurricane that never rests Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine; Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. When they arrive before the precipice, There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments, There they blaspheme the puissance divine. I understood that unto such a torment The carnal malefactors were condemned, Who reason subjugate to appetite. And as the wings of starlings bear them on In the cold season in large band and full, So doth that blast the spirits maledict; It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them; No hope doth comfort them for evermore, Not of repose, but even of lesser pain. And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays, Making in air a long line of themselves, So saw I coming, uttering lamentations, Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress. Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those People, whom the black air so castigates?" "The first of those, of whom intelligence Thou fain wouldst have," then said he unto me, "The empress was of many languages. To sensual vices she was so abandoned, That lustful she made licit in her law, To remove the blame to which she had been led. She is Semiramis, of whom we read That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse; She held the land which now the Sultan rules. The next is she who killed herself for love, And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus; Then Cleopatra the voluptuous." Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles, Who at the last hour combated with Love. Paris I saw, Tristan; and more than a thousand Shades did he name and point out with his finger, Whom Love had separated from our life. After that I had listened to my Teacher, Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers, Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered. And I began: "O Poet, willingly Speak would I to those two, who go together, And seem upon the wind to be so light." And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them By love which leadeth them, and they will come." Soon as the wind in our direction sways them, My voice uplift I: "O ye weary souls! Come speak to us, if no one interdicts it." As turtle-doves, called onward by desire, With open and steady wings to the sweet nest Fly through the air by their volition borne, So came they from the band where Dido is, Approaching us athwart the air malign, So strong was the affectionate appeal. "O living creature gracious and benignant, Who visiting goest through the purple air Us, who have stained the world incarnadine, If were the King of the Universe our friend, We would pray unto him to give thee peace, Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse. Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak, That will we hear, and we will speak to you, While silent is the wind, as it is now. Sitteth the city, wherein I was born, Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends To rest in peace with all his retinue. Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize, Seized this man for the person beautiful That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me. Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving, Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly, That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me; Love has conducted us unto one death; Caina waiteth him who quenched our life!" These words were borne along from them to us. As soon as I had heard those souls tormented, I bowed my face, and so long held it down Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?" When I made answer, I began: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire, Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!" Then unto them I turned me, and I spake, And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca, Sad and compassionate to weeping make me. But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs, By what and in what manner Love conceded, That you should know your dubious desires?" And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery, and that thy Teacher knows. But, if to recognise the earliest root Of love in us thou hast so great desire, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. One day we reading were for our delight Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral. Alone we were and without any fear. Full many a time our eyes together drew That reading, and drove the colour from our faces; But one point only was it that o'ercame us. When as we read of the much-longed-for smile Being by such a noble lover kissed, This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided, Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein." And all the while one spirit uttered this, The other one did weep so, that, for pity, I swooned away as if I had been dying, And fell, even as a dead body falls. Inferno: Canto VI At the return of consciousness, that closed Before the pity of those two relations, Which utterly with sadness had confused me, New torments I behold, and new tormented Around me, whichsoever way I move, And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze. In the third circle am I of the rain Eternal, maledict, and cold, and heavy; Its law and quality are never new. Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow, Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain; Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this. Cerberus, monster cruel and uncouth, With his three gullets like a dog is barking Over the people that are there submerged. Red eyes he has, and unctuous beard and black, And belly large, and armed with claws his hands; He rends the spirits, flays, and quarters them. Howl the rain maketh them like unto dogs; One side they make a shelter for the other; Oft turn themselves the wretched reprobates. When Cerberus perceived us, the great worm! His mouths he opened, and displayed his tusks; Not a limb had he that was motionless. And my Conductor, with his spans extended, Took of the earth, and with his fists well filled, He threw it into those rapacious gullets. Such as that dog is, who by barking craves, And quiet grows soon as his food he gnaws, For to devour it he but thinks and struggles, The like became those muzzles filth-begrimed Of Cerberus the demon, who so thunders Over the souls that they would fain be deaf. We passed across the shadows, which subdues The heavy rain-storm, and we placed our feet Upon their vanity that person seems. They all were lying prone upon the earth, Excepting one, who sat upright as soon As he beheld us passing on before him. "O thou that art conducted through this Hell," He said to me, "recall me, if thou canst; Thyself wast made before I was unmade." And I to him: "The anguish which thou hast Perhaps doth draw thee out of my remembrance, So that it seems not I have ever seen thee. But tell me who thou art, that in so doleful A place art put, and in such punishment, If some are greater, none is so displeasing." And he to me: "Thy city, which is full Of envy so that now the sack runs over, Held me within it in the life serene. You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco; For the pernicious sin of gluttony I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain. And I, sad soul, am not the only one, For all these suffer the like penalty For the like sin;" and word no more spake he. I answered him: "Ciacco, thy wretchedness Weighs on me so that it to weep invites me; But tell me, if thou knowest, to what shall come The citizens of the divided city; If any there be just; and the occasion Tell me why so much discord has assailed it." And he to me: "They, after long contention, Will come to bloodshed; and the rustic party Will drive the other out with much offence. Then afterwards behoves it this one fall Within three suns, and rise again the other By force of him who now is on the coast. High will it hold its forehead a long while, Keeping the other under heavy burdens, Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant. The just are two, and are not understood there; Envy and Arrogance and Avarice Are the three sparks that have all hearts enkindled." Here ended he his tearful utterance; And I to him: "I wish thee still to teach me, And make a gift to me of further speech. Farinata and Tegghiaio, once so worthy, Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca, And others who on good deeds set their thoughts, Say where they are, and cause that I may know them; For great desire constraineth me to learn If Heaven doth sweeten them, or Hell envenom." And he: "They are among the blacker souls; A different sin downweighs them to the bottom; If thou so far descendest, thou canst see them. But when thou art again in the sweet world, I pray thee to the mind of others bring me; No more I tell thee and no more I answer." Then his straightforward eyes he turned askance, Eyed me a little, and then bowed his head; He fell therewith prone like the other blind. And the Guide said to me: "He wakes no more This side the sound of the angelic trumpet; When shall approach the hostile Potentate, Each one shall find again his dismal tomb, Shall reassume his flesh and his own figure, Shall hear what through eternity re-echoes." So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow, Touching a little on the future life. Wherefore I said: "Master, these torments here, Will they increase after the mighty sentence, Or lesser be, or will they be as burning?" And he to me: "Return unto thy science, Which wills, that as the thing more perfect is, The more it feels of pleasure and of pain. Albeit that this people maledict To true perfection never can attain, Hereafter more than now they look to be." Round in a circle by that road we went, Speaking much more, which I do not repeat; We came unto the point where the descent is; There we found Plutus the great enemy. Inferno: Canto VII "Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!" Thus Plutus with his clucking voice began; And that benignant Sage, who all things knew, Said, to encourage me: "Let not thy fear Harm thee; for any power that he may have Shall not prevent thy going down this crag." Then he turned round unto that bloated lip, And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf; Consume within thyself with thine own rage. Not causeless is this journey to the abyss; Thus is it willed on high, where Michael wrought Vengeance upon the proud adultery." Even as the sails inflated by the wind Involved together fall when snaps the mast, So fell the cruel monster to the earth. Thus we descended into the fourth chasm, Gaining still farther on the dolesome shore Which all the woe of the universe insacks. Justice of God, ah! who heaps up so many New toils and sufferings as I beheld? And why doth our transgression waste us so? As doth the billow there upon Charybdis, That breaks itself on that which it encounters, So here the folk must dance their roundelay. Here saw I people, more than elsewhere, many, On one side and the other, with great howls, Rolling weights forward by main force of chest. They clashed together, and then at that point Each one turned backward, rolling retrograde, Crying, "Why keepest?" and, "Why squanderest thou?" Thus they returned along the lurid circle On either hand unto the opposite point, Shouting their shameful metre evermore. Then each, when he arrived there, wheeled about Through his half-circle to another joust; And I, who had my heart pierced as it were, Exclaimed: "My Master, now declare to me What people these are, and if all were clerks, These shaven crowns upon the left of us." And he to me: "All of them were asquint In intellect in the first life, so much That there with measure they no spending made. Clearly enough their voices bark it forth, Whene'er they reach the two points of the circle, Where sunders them the opposite defect. Clerks those were who no hairy covering Have on the head, and Popes and Cardinals, In whom doth Avarice practise its excess." And I: "My Master, among such as these I ought forsooth to recognise some few, Who were infected with these maladies." And he to me: "Vain thought thou entertainest; The undiscerning life which made them sordid Now makes them unto all discernment dim. Forever shall they come to these two buttings; These from the sepulchre shall rise again With the fist closed, and these with tresses shorn. Ill giving and ill keeping the fair world Have ta'en from them, and placed them in this scuffle; Whate'er it be, no words adorn I for it. Now canst thou, Son, behold the transient farce Of goods that are committed unto Fortune, For which the human race each other buffet; For all the gold that is beneath the moon, Or ever has been, of these weary souls Could never make a single one repose." "Master," I said to him, "now tell me also What is this Fortune which thou speakest of, That has the world's goods so within its clutches?" And he to me: "O creatures imbecile, What ignorance is this which doth beset you? Now will I have thee learn my judgment of her. He whose omniscience everything transcends The heavens created, and gave who should guide them, That every part to every part may shine, Distributing the light in equal measure; He in like manner to the mundane splendours Ordained a general ministress and guide, That she might change at times the empty treasures From race to race, from one blood to another, Beyond resistance of all human wisdom. Therefore one people triumphs, and another Languishes, in pursuance of her judgment, Which hidden is, as in the grass a serpent. Your knowledge has no counterstand against her; She makes provision, judges, and pursues Her governance, as theirs the other gods. Her permutations have not any truce; Necessity makes her precipitate, So often cometh who his turn obtains. And this is she who is so crucified Even by those who ought to give her praise, Giving her blame amiss, and bad repute. But she is blissful, and she hears it not; Among the other primal creatures gladsome She turns her sphere, and blissful she rejoices. Let us descend now unto greater woe; Already sinks each star that was ascending When I set out, and loitering is forbidden." We crossed the circle to the other bank, Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself Along a gully that runs out of it. The water was more sombre far than perse; And we, in company with the dusky waves, Made entrance downward by a path uncouth. A marsh it makes, which has the name of Styx, This tristful brooklet, when it has descended Down to the foot of the malign gray shores. And I, who stood intent upon beholding, Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon, All of them naked and with angry look. They smote each other not alone with hands, But with the head and with the breast and feet, Tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. Said the good Master: "Son, thou now beholdest The souls of those whom anger overcame; And likewise I would have thee know for certain Beneath the water people are who sigh And make this water bubble at the surface, As the eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turns. Fixed in the mire they say, 'We sullen were In the sweet air, which by the sun is gladdened, Bearing within ourselves the sluggish reek; Now we are sullen in this sable mire.' This hymn do they keep gurgling in their throats, For with unbroken words they cannot say it." Thus we went circling round the filthy fen A great arc 'twixt the dry bank and the swamp, With eyes turned unto those who gorge the mire; Unto the foot of a tower we came at last. Inferno: Canto VIII I say, continuing, that long before We to the foot of that high tower had come, Our eyes went upward to the summit of it, By reason of two flamelets we saw placed there, And from afar another answer them, So far, that hardly could the eye attain it. And, to the sea of all discernment turned, I said: "What sayeth this, and what respondeth That other fire? and who are they that made it?" And he to me: "Across the turbid waves What is expected thou canst now discern, If reek of the morass conceal it not." Cord never shot an arrow from itself That sped away athwart the air so swift, As I beheld a very little boat Come o'er the water tow'rds us at that moment, Under the guidance of a single pilot, Who shouted, "Now art thou arrived, fell soul?" "Phlegyas, Phlegyas, thou criest out in vain For this once," said my Lord; "thou shalt not have us Longer than in the passing of the slough." As he who listens to some great deceit That has been done to him, and then resents it, Such became Phlegyas, in his gathered wrath. My Guide descended down into the boat, And then he made me enter after him, And only when I entered seemed it laden. Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat, The antique prow goes on its way, dividing More of the water than 'tis wont with others. While we were running through the dead canal, Uprose in front of me one full of mire, And said, "Who 'rt thou that comest ere the hour?" And I to him: "Although I come, I stay not; But who art thou that hast become so squalid?" "Thou seest that I am one who weeps," he answered. And I to him: "With weeping and with wailing, Thou spirit maledict, do thou remain; For thee I know, though thou art all defiled." Then stretched he both his hands unto the boat; Whereat my wary Master thrust him back, Saying, "Away there with the other dogs!" Thereafter with his arms he clasped my neck; He kissed my face, and said: "Disdainful soul, Blessed be she who bore thee in her bosom. That was an arrogant person in the world; Goodness is none, that decks his memory; So likewise here his shade is furious. How many are esteemed great kings up there, Who here shall be like unto swine in mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraises!" And I: "My Master, much should I be pleased, If I could see him soused into this broth, Before we issue forth out of the lake." And he to me: "Ere unto thee the shore Reveal itself, thou shalt be satisfied; Such a desire 'tis meet thou shouldst enjoy." A little after that, I saw such havoc Made of him by the people of the mire, That still I praise and thank my God for it. They all were shouting, "At Philippo Argenti!" And that exasperate spirit Florentine Turned round upon himself with his own teeth. We left him there, and more of him I tell not; But on mine ears there smote a lamentation, Whence forward I intent unbar mine eyes. And the good Master said: "Even now, my Son, The city draweth near whose name is Dis, With the grave citizens, with the great throng." And I: "Its mosques already, Master, clearly Within there in the valley I discern Vermilion, as if issuing from the fire They were." And he to me: "The fire eternal That kindles them within makes them look red, As thou beholdest in this nether Hell." Then we arrived within the moats profound, That circumvallate that disconsolate city; The walls appeared to me to be of iron. Not without making first a circuit wide, We came unto a place where loud the pilot Cried out to us, "Debark, here is the entrance." More than a thousand at the gates I saw Out of the Heavens rained down, who angrily Were saying, "Who is this that without death Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?" And my sagacious Master made a sign Of wishing secretly to speak with them. A little then they quelled their great disdain, And said: "Come thou alone, and he begone Who has so boldly entered these dominions. Let him return alone by his mad road; Try, if he can; for thou shalt here remain, Who hast escorted him through such dark regions." Think, Reader, if I was discomforted At utterance of the accursed words; For never to return here I believed. "O my dear Guide, who more than seven times Hast rendered me security, and drawn me From imminent peril that before me stood, Do not desert me," said I, "thus undone; And if the going farther be denied us, Let us retrace our steps together swiftly." And that Lord, who had led me thitherward, Said unto me: "Fear not; because our passage None can take from us, it by Such is given. But here await me, and thy weary spirit Comfort and nourish with a better hope; For in this nether world I will not leave thee." So onward goes and there abandons me My Father sweet, and I remain in doubt, For No and Yes within my head contend. I could not hear what he proposed to them; But with them there he did not linger long, Ere each within in rivalry ran back. They closed the portals, those our adversaries, On my Lord's breast, who had remained without And turned to me with footsteps far between. His eyes cast down, his forehead shorn had he Of all its boldness, and he said, with sighs, "Who has denied to me the dolesome houses?" And unto me: "Thou, because I am angry, Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial, Whatever for defence within be planned. This arrogance of theirs is nothing new; For once they used it at less secret gate, Which finds itself without a fastening still. O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription; And now this side of it descends the steep, Passing across the circles without escort, One by whose means the city shall be opened." Inferno: Canto IX That hue which cowardice brought out on me, Beholding my Conductor backward turn, Sooner repressed within him his new colour. He stopped attentive, like a man who listens, Because the eye could not conduct him far Through the black air, and through the heavy fog. "Still it behoveth us to win the fight," Began he; "Else. . .Such offered us herself. . . O how I long that some one here arrive!" Well I perceived, as soon as the beginning He covered up with what came afterward, That they were words quite different from the first; But none the less his saying gave me fear, Because I carried out the broken phrase, Perhaps to a worse meaning than he had. "Into this bottom of the doleful conch Doth any e'er descend from the first grade, Which for its pain has only hope cut off?" This question put I; and he answered me: "Seldom it comes to pass that one of us Maketh the journey upon which I go. True is it, once before I here below Was conjured by that pitiless Erictho, Who summoned back the shades unto their bodies. Naked of me short while the flesh had been, Before within that wall she made me enter, To bring a spirit from the circle of Judas; That is the lowest region and the darkest, And farthest from the heaven which circles all. Well know I the way; therefore be reassured. This fen, which a prodigious stench exhales, Encompasses about the city dolent, Where now we cannot enter without anger." And more he said, but not in mind I have it; Because mine eye had altogether drawn me Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit, Where in a moment saw I swift uprisen The three infernal Furies stained with blood, Who had the limbs of women and their mien, And with the greenest hydras were begirt; Small serpents and cerastes were their tresses, Wherewith their horrid temples were entwined. And he who well the handmaids of the Queen Of everlasting lamentation knew, Said unto me: "Behold the fierce Erinnys. This is Megaera, on the left-hand side; She who is weeping on the right, Alecto; Tisiphone is between;" and then was silent. Each one her breast was rending with her nails; They beat them with their palms, and cried so loud, That I for dread pressed close unto the Poet. "Medusa come, so we to stone will change him!" All shouted looking down; "in evil hour Avenged we not on Theseus his assault!" "Turn thyself round, and keep thine eyes close shut, For if the Gorgon appear, and thou shouldst see it, No more returning upward would there be." Thus said the Master; and he turned me round Himself, and trusted not unto my hands So far as not to blind me with his own. O ye who have undistempered intellects, Observe the doctrine that conceals itself Beneath the veil of the mysterious verses! And now there came across the turbid waves The clangour of a sound with terror fraught, Because of which both of the margins trembled; Not otherwise it was than of a wind Impetuous on account of adverse heats, That smites the forest, and, without restraint, The branches rends, beats down, and bears away; Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb, And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds. Mine eyes he loosed, and said: "Direct the nerve Of vision now along that ancient foam, There yonder where that smoke is most intense." Even as the frogs before the hostile serpent Across the water scatter all abroad, Until each one is huddled in the earth. More than a thousand ruined souls I saw, Thus fleeing from before one who on foot Was passing o'er the Styx with soles unwet. From off his face he fanned that unctuous air, Waving his left hand oft in front of him, And only with that anguish seemed he weary. Well I perceived one sent from Heaven was he, And to the Master turned; and he made sign That I should quiet stand, and bow before him. Ah! how disdainful he appeared to me! He reached the gate, and with a little rod He opened it, for there was no resistance. "O banished out of Heaven, people despised!" Thus he began upon the horrid threshold; "Whence is this arrogance within you couched? Wherefore recalcitrate against that will, From which the end can never be cut off, And which has many times increased your pain? What helpeth it to butt against the fates? Your Cerberus, if you remember well, For that still bears his chin and gullet peeled." Then he returned along the miry road, And spake no word to us, but had the look Of one whom other care constrains and goads Than that of him who in his presence is; And we our feet directed tow'rds the city, After those holy words all confident. Within we entered without any contest; And I, who inclination had to see What the condition such a fortress holds, Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye, And see on every hand an ample plain, Full of distress and torment terrible. Even as at Arles, where stagnant grows the Rhone, Even as at Pola near to the Quarnaro, That shuts in Italy and bathes its borders, The sepulchres make all the place uneven; So likewise did they there on every side, Saving that there the manner was more bitter; For flames between the sepulchres were scattered, By which they so intensely heated were, That iron more so asks not any art. All of their coverings uplifted were, And from them issued forth such dire laments, Sooth seemed they of the wretched and tormented. And I: "My Master, what are all those people Who, having sepulture within those tombs, Make themselves audible by doleful sighs?" And he to me: "Here are the Heresiarchs, With their disciples of all sects, and much More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs. Here like together with its like is buried; And more and less the monuments are heated." And when he to the right had turned, we passed Between the torments and high parapets. Inferno: Canto X Now onward goes, along a narrow path Between the torments and the city wall, My Master, and I follow at his back. "O power supreme, that through these impious circles Turnest me," I began, "as pleases thee, Speak to me, and my longings satisfy; The people who are lying in these tombs, Might they be seen? already are uplifted The covers all, and no one keepeth guard." And he to me: "They all will be closed up When from Jehoshaphat they shall return Here with the bodies they have left above. Their cemetery have upon this side With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body mortal make the soul; But in the question thou dost put to me, Within here shalt thou soon be satisfied, And likewise in the wish thou keepest silent." And I: "Good Leader, I but keep concealed From thee my heart, that I may speak the less, Nor only now hast thou thereto disposed me." "O Tuscan, thou who through the city of fire Goest alive, thus speaking modestly, Be pleased to stay thy footsteps in this place. Thy mode of speaking makes thee manifest A native of that noble fatherland, To which perhaps I too molestful was." Upon a sudden issued forth this sound From out one of the tombs; wherefore I pressed, Fearing, a little nearer to my Leader. And unto me he said: "Turn thee; what dost thou? Behold there Farinata who has risen; From the waist upwards wholly shalt thou see him." I had already fixed mine eyes on his, And he uprose erect with breast and front E'en as if Hell he had in great despite. And with courageous hands and prompt my Leader Thrust me between the sepulchres towards him, Exclaiming, "Let thy words explicit be." As soon as I was at the foot of his tomb Somewhat he eyed me, and, as if disdainful, Then asked of me, "Who were thine ancestors?" I, who desirous of obeying was, Concealed it not, but all revealed to him; Whereat he raised his brows a little upward. Then said he: "Fiercely adverse have they been To me, and to my fathers, and my party; So that two several times I scattered them." "If they were banished, they returned on all sides," I answered him, "the first time and the second; But yours have not acquired that art aright." Then there uprose upon the sight, uncovered Down to the chin, a shadow at his side; I think that he had risen on his knees. Round me he gazed, as if solicitude He had to see if some one else were with me, But after his suspicion was all spent, Weeping, he said to me: "If through this blind Prison thou goest by loftiness of genius, Where is my son? and why is he not with thee?" And I to him: "I come not of myself; He who is waiting yonder leads me here, Whom in disdain perhaps your Guido had." His language and the mode of punishment Already unto me had read his name; On that account my answer was so full. Up starting suddenly, he cried out: "How Saidst thou,--he had? Is he not still alive? Does not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?" When he became aware of some delay, Which I before my answer made, supine He fell again, and forth appeared no more. But the other, magnanimous, at whose desire I had remained, did not his aspect change, Neither his neck he moved, nor bent his side. "And if," continuing his first discourse, "They have that art," he said, "not learned aright, That more tormenteth me, than doth this bed. But fifty times shall not rekindled be The countenance of the Lady who reigns here, Ere thou shalt know how heavy is that art; And as thou wouldst to the sweet world return, Say why that people is so pitiless Against my race in each one of its laws?" Whence I to him: "The slaughter and great carnage Which have with crimson stained the Arbia, cause Such orisons in our temple to be made." After his head he with a sigh had shaken, "There I was not alone," he said, "nor surely Without a cause had with the others moved. But there I was alone, where every one Consented to the laying waste of Florence, He who defended her with open face." "Ah! so hereafter may your seed repose," I him entreated, "solve for me that knot, Which has entangled my conceptions here. It seems that you can see, if I hear rightly, Beforehand whatsoe'er time brings with it, And in the present have another mode." "We see, like those who have imperfect sight, The things," he said, "that distant are from us; So much still shines on us the Sovereign Ruler. When they draw near, or are, is wholly vain Our intellect, and if none brings it to us, Not anything know we of your human state. Hence thou canst understand, that wholly dead Will be our knowledge from the moment when The portal of the future shall be closed." Then I, as if compunctious for my fault, Said: "Now, then, you will tell that fallen one, That still his son is with the living joined. And if just now, in answering, I was dumb, Tell him I did it because I was thinking Already of the error you have solved me." And now my Master was recalling me, Wherefore more eagerly I prayed the spirit That he would tell me who was with him there. He said: "With more than a thousand here I lie; Within here is the second Frederick, And the Cardinal, and of the rest I speak not." Thereon he hid himself; and I towards The ancient poet turned my steps, reflecting Upon that saying, which seemed hostile to me. He moved along; and afterward thus going, He said to me, "Why art thou so bewildered?" And I in his inquiry satisfied him. "Let memory preserve what thou hast heard Against thyself," that Sage commanded me, "And now attend here;" and he raised his finger. "When thou shalt be before the radiance sweet Of her whose beauteous eyes all things behold, From her thou'lt know the journey of thy life." Unto the left hand then he turned his feet; We left the wall, and went towards the middle, Along a path that strikes into a valley, Which even up there unpleasant made its stench. Inferno: Canto XI Upon the margin of a lofty bank Which great rocks broken in a circle made, We came upon a still more cruel throng; And there, by reason of the horrible Excess of stench the deep abyss throws out, We drew ourselves aside behind the cover Of a great tomb, whereon I saw a writing, Which said: "Pope Anastasius I hold, Whom out of the right way Photinus drew." "Slow it behoveth our descent to be, So that the sense be first a little used To the sad blast, and then we shall not heed it." The Master thus; and unto him I said, "Some compensation find, that the time pass not Idly;" and he: "Thou seest I think of that. My son, upon the inside of these rocks," Began he then to say, "are three small circles, From grade to grade, like those which thou art leaving. They all are full of spirits maledict; But that hereafter sight alone suffice thee, Hear how and wherefore they are in constraint. Of every malice that wins hate in Heaven, Injury is the end; and all such end Either by force or fraud afflicteth others. But because fraud is man's peculiar vice, More it displeases God; and so stand lowest The fraudulent, and greater dole assails them. All the first circle of the Violent is; But since force may be used against three persons, In three rounds 'tis divided and constructed. To God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour can we Use force; I say on them and on their things, As thou shalt hear with reason manifest. A death by violence, and painful wounds, Are to our neighbour given; and in his substance Ruin, and arson, and injurious levies; Whence homicides, and he who smites unjustly, Marauders, and freebooters, the first round Tormenteth all in companies diverse. Man may lay violent hands upon himself And his own goods; and therefore in the second Round must perforce without avail repent Whoever of your world deprives himself, Who games, and dissipates his property, And weepeth there, where he should jocund be. Violence can be done the Deity, In heart denying and blaspheming Him, And by disdaining Nature and her bounty. And for this reason doth the smallest round Seal with its signet Sodom and Cahors, And who, disdaining God, speaks from the heart. Fraud, wherewithal is every conscience stung, A man may practise upon him who trusts, And him who doth no confidence imburse. This latter mode, it would appear, dissevers Only the bond of love which Nature makes; Wherefore within the second circle nestle Hypocrisy, flattery, and who deals in magic, Falsification, theft, and simony, Panders, and barrators, and the like filth. By the other mode, forgotten is that love Which Nature makes, and what is after added, From which there is a special faith engendered. Hence in the smallest circle, where the point is Of the Universe, upon which Dis is seated, Whoe'er betrays for ever is consumed." And I: "My Master, clear enough proceeds Thy reasoning, and full well distinguishes This cavern and the people who possess it. But tell me, those within the fat lagoon, Whom the wind drives, and whom the rain doth beat, And who encounter with such bitter tongues, Wherefore are they inside of the red city Not punished, if God has them in his wrath, And if he has not, wherefore in such fashion?" And unto me he said: "Why wanders so Thine intellect from that which it is wont? Or, sooth, thy mind where is it elsewhere looking? Hast thou no recollection of those words With which thine Ethics thoroughly discusses The dispositions three, that Heaven abides not,-- Incontinence, and Malice, and insane Bestiality? and how Incontinence Less God offendeth, and less blame attracts? If thou regardest this conclusion well, And to thy mind recallest who they are That up outside are undergoing penance, Clearly wilt thou perceive why from these felons They separated are, and why less wroth Justice divine doth smite them with its hammer." "O Sun, that healest all distempered vision, Thou dost content me so, when thou resolvest, That doubting pleases me no less than knowing! Once more a little backward turn thee," said I, "There where thou sayest that usury offends Goodness divine, and disengage the knot." "Philosophy," he said, "to him who heeds it, Noteth, not only in one place alone, After what manner Nature takes her course From Intellect Divine, and from its art; And if thy Physics carefully thou notest, After not many pages shalt thou find, That this your art as far as possible Follows, as the disciple doth the master; So that your art is, as it were, God's grandchild. From these two, if thou bringest to thy mind Genesis at the beginning, it behoves Mankind to gain their life and to advance; And since the usurer takes another way, Nature herself and in her follower Disdains he, for elsewhere he puts his hope. But follow, now, as I would fain go on, For quivering are the Fishes on the horizon, And the Wain wholly over Caurus lies, And far beyond there we descend the crag." Inferno: Canto XII The place where to descend the bank we came Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover, Of such a kind that every eye would shun it. Such as that ruin is which in the flank Smote, on this side of Trent, the Adige, Either by earthquake or by failing stay, For from the mountain's top, from which it moved, Unto the plain the cliff is shattered so, Some path 'twould give to him who was above; Even such was the descent of that ravine, And on the border of the broken chasm The infamy of Crete was stretched along, Who was conceived in the fictitious cow; And when he us beheld, he bit himself, Even as one whom anger racks within. My Sage towards him shouted: "Peradventure Thou think'st that here may be the Duke of Athens, Who in the world above brought death to thee? Get thee gone, beast, for this one cometh not Instructed by thy sister, but he comes In order to behold your punishments." As is that bull who breaks loose at the moment In which he has received the mortal blow, Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there, The Minotaur beheld I do the like; And he, the wary, cried: "Run to the passage; While he wroth, 'tis well thou shouldst descend." Thus down we took our way o'er that discharge Of stones, which oftentimes did move themselves Beneath my feet, from the unwonted burden. Thoughtful I went; and he said: "Thou art thinking Perhaps upon this ruin, which is guarded By that brute anger which just now I quenched. Now will I have thee know, the other time I here descended to the nether Hell, This precipice had not yet fallen down. But truly, if I well discern, a little Before His coming who the mighty spoil Bore off from Dis, in the supernal circle, Upon all sides the deep and loathsome valley Trembled so, that I thought the Universe Was thrilled with love, by which there are who think The world ofttimes converted into chaos; And at that moment this primeval crag Both here and elsewhere made such overthrow. But fix thine eyes below; for draweth near The river of blood, within which boiling is Whoe'er by violence doth injure others." O blind cupidity, O wrath insane, That spurs us onward so in our short life, And in the eternal then so badly steeps us! I saw an ample moat bent like a bow, As one which all the plain encompasses, Conformable to what my Guide had said. And between this and the embankment's foot Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows, As in the world they used the chase to follow. Beholding us descend, each one stood still, And from the squadron three detached themselves, With bows and arrows in advance selected; And from afar one cried: "Unto what torment Come ye, who down the hillside are descending? Tell us from there; if not, I draw the bow." My Master said: "Our answer will we make To Chiron, near you there; in evil hour, That will of thine was evermore so hasty." Then touched he me, and said: "This one is Nessus, Who perished for the lovely Dejanira, And for himself, himself did vengeance take. And he in the midst, who at his breast is gazing, Is the great Chiron, who brought up Achilles; That other Pholus is, who was so wrathful. Thousands and thousands go about the moat Shooting with shafts whatever soul emerges Out of the blood, more than his crime allots." Near we approached unto those monsters fleet; Chiron an arrow took, and with the notch Backward upon his jaws he put his beard. After he had uncovered his great mouth, He said to his companions: "Are you ware That he behind moveth whate'er he touches? Thus are not wont to do the feet of dead men." And my good Guide, who now was at his breast, Where the two natures are together joined, Replied: "Indeed he lives, and thus alone Me it behoves to show him the dark valley; Necessity, and not delight, impels us. Some one withdrew from singing Halleluja, Who unto me committed this new office; No thief is he, nor I a thievish spirit. But by that virtue through which I am moving My steps along this savage thoroughfare, Give us some one of thine, to be with us, And who may show us where to pass the ford, And who may carry this one on his back; For 'tis no spirit that can walk the air." Upon his right breast Chiron wheeled about, And said to Nessus: "Turn and do thou guide them, And warn aside, if other band may meet you." We with our faithful escort onward moved Along the brink of the vermilion boiling, Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments. People I saw within up to the eyebrows, And the great Centaur said: "Tyrants are these, Who dealt in bloodshed and in pillaging. Here they lament their pitiless mischiefs; here Is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius Who upon Sicily brought dolorous years. That forehead there which has the hair so black Is Azzolin; and the other who is blond, Obizzo is of Esti, who, in truth, Up in the world was by his stepson slain." Then turned I to the Poet; and he said, "Now he be first to thee, and second I." A little farther on the Centaur stopped Above a folk, who far down as the throat Seemed from that boiling stream to issue forth. A shade he showed us on one side alone, Saying: "He cleft asunder in God's bosom The heart that still upon the Thames is honoured." Then people saw I, who from out the river Lifted their heads and also all the chest; And many among these I recognised. Thus ever more and more grew shallower That blood, so that the feet alone it covered; And there across the moat our passage was. "Even as thou here upon this side beholdest The boiling stream, that aye diminishes," The Centaur said, "I wish thee to believe That on this other more and more declines Its bed, until it reunites itself Where it behoveth tyranny to groan. Justice divine, upon this side, is goading That Attila, who was a scourge on earth, And Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and for ever milks The tears which with the boiling it unseals In Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo, Who made upon the highways so much war." Then back he turned, and passed again the ford. Inferno: Canto XIII Not yet had Nessus reached the other side, When we had put ourselves within a wood, That was not marked by any path whatever. Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour, Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled, Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison. Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense, Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold 'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places. There do the hideous Harpies make their nests, Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades, With sad announcement of impending doom; Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human, And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged; They make laments upon the wondrous trees. And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther, Know that thou art within the second round," Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till Thou comest out upon the horrible sand; Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see Things that will credence give unto my speech." I heard on all sides lamentations uttered, And person none beheld I who might make them, Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still. I think he thought that I perhaps might think So many voices issued through those trunks From people who concealed themselves from us; Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off Some little spray from any of these trees, The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain." Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward, And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn; And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?" After it had become embrowned with blood, It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me? Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever? Men once we were, and now are changed to trees; Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful, Even if the souls of serpents we had been." As out of a green brand, that is on fire At one of the ends, and from the other drips And hisses with the wind that is escaping; So from that splinter issued forth together Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid. "Had he been able sooner to believe," My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul, What only in my verses he has seen, Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand; Whereas the thing incredible has caused me To put him to an act which grieveth me. But tell him who thou wast, so that by way Of some amends thy fame he may refresh Up in the world, to which he can return." And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me, I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not, That I a little to discourse am tempted. I am the one who both keys had in keeping Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro So softly in unlocking and in locking, That from his secrets most men I withheld; Fidelity I bore the glorious office So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses. The courtesan who never from the dwelling Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes, Death universal and the vice of courts, Inflamed against me all the other minds, And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus, That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings. My spirit, in disdainful exultation, Thinking by dying to escape disdain, Made me unjust against myself, the just. I, by the roots unwonted of this wood, Do swear to you that never broke I faith Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour; And to the world if one of you return, Let him my memory comfort, which is lying Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it." Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent," The Poet said to me, "lose not the time, But speak, and question him, if more may please thee." Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me; For I cannot, such pity is in my heart." Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man Do for thee freely what thy speech implores, Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased To tell us in what way the soul is bound Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst, If any from such members e'er is freed." Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward The wind was into such a voice converted: "With brevity shall be replied to you. When the exasperated soul abandons The body whence it rent itself away, Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss. It falls into the forest, and no part Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it, There like a grain of spelt it germinates. It springs a sapling, and a forest tree; The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves, Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet. Like others for our spoils shall we return; But not that any one may them revest, For 'tis not just to have what one casts off. Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal Forest our bodies shall suspended be, Each to the thorn of his molested shade." We were attentive still unto the trunk, Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us, When by a tumult we were overtaken, In the same way as he is who perceives The boar and chase approaching to his stand, Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches; And two behold! upon our left-hand side, Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously, That of the forest, every fan they broke. He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!" And the other one, who seemed to lag too much, Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!" And then, perchance because his breath was failing, He grouped himself together with a bush. Behind them was the forest full of black She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain. On him who had crouched down they set their teeth, And him they lacerated piece by piece, Thereafter bore away those aching members. Thereat my Escort took me by the hand, And led me to the bush, that all in vain Was weeping from its bloody lacerations. "O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea, What helped it thee of me to make a screen? What blame have I in thy nefarious life?" When near him had the Master stayed his steps, He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?" And he to us: "O souls, that hither come To look upon the shameful massacre That has so rent away from me my leaves, Gather them up beneath the dismal bush; I of that city was which to the Baptist Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this Forever with his art will make it sad. And were it not that on the pass of Arno Some glimpses of him are remaining still, Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it Upon the ashes left by Attila, In vain had caused their labour to be done. Of my own house I made myself a gibbet." Inferno: Canto XIV Because the charity of my native place Constrained me, gathered I the scattered leaves, And gave them back to him, who now was hoarse. Then came we to the confine, where disparted The second round is from the third, and where A horrible form of Justice is beheld. Clearly to manifest these novel things, I say that we arrived upon a plain, Which from its bed rejecteth every plant; The dolorous forest is a garland to it All round about, as the sad moat to that; There close upon the edge we stayed our feet. The soil was of an arid and thick sand, Not of another fashion made than that Which by the feet of Cato once was pressed. Vengeance of God, O how much oughtest thou By each one to be dreaded, who doth read That which was manifest unto mine eyes! Of naked souls beheld I many herds, Who all were weeping very miserably, And over them seemed set a law diverse. Supine upon the ground some folk were lying; And some were sitting all drawn up together, And others went about continually. Those who were going round were far the more, And those were less who lay down to their torment, But had their tongues more loosed to lamentation. O'er all the sand-waste, with a gradual fall, Were raining down dilated flakes of fire, As of the snow on Alp without a wind. As Alexander, in those torrid parts Of India, beheld upon his host Flames fall unbroken till they reached the ground. Whence he provided with his phalanxes To trample down the soil, because the vapour Better extinguished was while it was single; Thus was descending the eternal heat, Whereby the sand was set on fire, like tinder Beneath the steel, for doubling of the dole. Without repose forever was the dance Of miserable hands, now there, now here, Shaking away from off them the fresh gleeds. "Master," began I, "thou who overcomest All things except the demons dire, that issued Against us at the entrance of the gate, Who is that mighty one who seems to heed not The fire, and lieth lowering and disdainful, So that the rain seems not to ripen him?" And he himself, who had become aware That I was questioning my Guide about him, Cried: "Such as I was living, am I, dead. If Jove should weary out his smith, from whom He seized in anger the sharp thunderbolt, Wherewith upon the last day I was smitten, And if he wearied out by turns the others In Mongibello at the swarthy forge, Vociferating, 'Help, good Vulcan, help!' Even as he did there at the fight of Phlegra, And shot his bolts at me with all his might, He would not have thereby a joyous vengeance." Then did my Leader speak with such great force, That I had never heard him speak so loud: "O Capaneus, in that is not extinguished Thine arrogance, thou punished art the more; Not any torment, saving thine own rage, Would be unto thy fury pain complete." Then he turned round to me with better lip, Saying: "One of the Seven Kings was he Who Thebes besieged, and held, and seems to hold God in disdain, and little seems to prize him; But, as I said to him, his own despites Are for his breast the fittest ornaments. Now follow me, and mind thou do not place As yet thy feet upon the burning sand, But always keep them close unto the wood." Speaking no word, we came to where there gushes Forth from the wood a little rivulet, Whose redness makes my hair still stand on end. As from the Bulicame springs the brooklet, The sinful women later share among them, So downward through the sand it went its way. The bottom of it, and both sloping banks, Were made of stone, and the margins at the side; Whence I perceived that there the passage was. "In all the rest which I have shown to thee Since we have entered in within the gate Whose threshold unto no one is denied, Nothing has been discovered by thine eyes So notable as is the present river, Which all the little flames above it quenches." These words were of my Leader; whence I prayed him That he would give me largess of the food, For which he had given me largess of desire. "In the mid-sea there sits a wasted land," Said he thereafterward, "whose name is Crete, Under whose king the world of old was chaste. There is a mountain there, that once was glad With waters and with leaves, which was called Ida; Now 'tis deserted, as a thing worn out. Rhea once chose it for the faithful cradle Of her own son; and to conceal him better, Whene'er he cried, she there had clamours made. A grand old man stands in the mount erect, Who holds his shoulders turned tow'rds Damietta, And looks at Rome as if it were his mirror. His head is fashioned of refined gold, And of pure silver are the arms and breast; Then he is brass as far down as the fork. From that point downward all is chosen iron, Save that the right foot is of kiln-baked clay, And more he stands on that than on the other. Each part, except the gold, is by a fissure Asunder cleft, that dripping is with tears, Which gathered together perforate that cavern. From rock to rock they fall into this valley; Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon they form; Then downward go along this narrow sluice Unto that point where is no more descending. They form Cocytus; what that pool may be Thou shalt behold, so here 'tis not narrated." And I to him: "If so the present runnel Doth take its rise in this way from our world, Why only on this verge appears it to us?" And he to me: "Thou knowest the place is round, And notwithstanding thou hast journeyed far, Still to the left descending to the bottom, Thou hast not yet through all the circle turned. Therefore if something new appear to us, It should not bring amazement to thy face." And I again: "Master, where shall be found Lethe and Phlegethon, for of one thou'rt silent, And sayest the other of this rain is made?" "In all thy questions truly thou dost please me," Replied he; "but the boiling of the red Water might well solve one of them thou makest. Thou shalt see Lethe, but outside this moat, There where the souls repair to lave themselves, When sin repented of has been removed." Then said he: "It is time now to abandon The wood; take heed that thou come after me; A way the margins make that are not burning, And over them all vapours are extinguished." Inferno: Canto XV Now bears us onward one of the hard margins, And so the brooklet's mist o'ershadows it, From fire it saves the water and the dikes. Even as the Flemings, 'twixt Cadsand and Bruges, Fearing the flood that tow'rds them hurls itself, Their bulwarks build to put the sea to flight; And as the Paduans along the Brenta, To guard their villas and their villages, Or ever Chiarentana feel the heat; In such similitude had those been made, Albeit not so lofty nor so thick, Whoever he might be, the master made them. Now were we from the forest so remote, I could not have discovered where it was, Even if backward I had turned myself, When we a company of souls encountered, Who came beside the dike, and every one Gazed at us, as at evening we are wont To eye each other under a new moon, And so towards us sharpened they their brows As an old tailor at the needle's eye. Thus scrutinised by such a family, By some one I was recognised, who seized My garment's hem, and cried out, "What a marvel!" And I, when he stretched forth his arm to me, On his baked aspect fastened so mine eyes, That the scorched countenance prevented not His recognition by my intellect; And bowing down my face unto his own, I made reply, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?" And he: "May't not displease thee, O my son, If a brief space with thee Brunetto Latini Backward return and let the trail go on." I said to him: "With all my power I ask it; And if you wish me to sit down with you, I will, if he please, for I go with him." "O son," he said, "whoever of this herd A moment stops, lies then a hundred years, Nor fans himself when smiteth him the fire. Therefore go on; I at thy skirts will come, And afterward will I rejoin my band, Which goes lamenting its eternal doom." I did not dare to go down from the road Level to walk with him; but my head bowed I held as one who goeth reverently. And he began: "What fortune or what fate Before the last day leadeth thee down here? And who is this that showeth thee the way?" "Up there above us in the life serene," I answered him, "I lost me in a valley, Or ever yet my age had been completed. But yestermorn I turned my back upon it; This one appeared to me, returning thither, And homeward leadeth me along this road." And he to me: "If thou thy star do follow, Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port, If well I judged in the life beautiful. And if I had not died so prematurely, Seeing Heaven thus benignant unto thee, I would have given thee comfort in the work. But that ungrateful and malignant people, Which of old time from Fesole descended, And smacks still of the mountain and the granite, Will make itself, for thy good deeds, thy foe; And it is right; for among crabbed sorbs It ill befits the sweet fig to bear fruit. Old rumour in the world proclaims them blind; A people avaricious, envious, proud; Take heed that of their customs thou do cleanse thee. Thy fortune so much honour doth reserve thee, One party and the other shall be hungry For thee; but far from goat shall be the grass. Their litter let the beasts of Fesole Make of themselves, nor let them touch the plant, If any still upon their dunghill rise, In which may yet revive the consecrated Seed of those Romans, who remained there when The nest of such great malice it became." "If my entreaty wholly were fulfilled," Replied I to him, "not yet would you be In banishment from human nature placed; For in my mind is fixed, and touches now My heart the dear and good paternal image Of you, when in the world from hour to hour You taught me how a man becomes eternal; And how much I am grateful, while I live Behoves that in my language be discerned. What you narrate of my career I write, And keep it to be glossed with other text By a Lady who can do it, if I reach her. This much will I have manifest to you; Provided that my conscience do not chide me, For whatsoever Fortune I am ready. Such handsel is not new unto mine ears; Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel around As it may please her, and the churl his mattock." My Master thereupon on his right cheek Did backward turn himself, and looked at me; Then said: "He listeneth well who noteth it." Nor speaking less on that account, I go With Ser Brunetto, and I ask who are His most known and most eminent companions. And he to me: "To know of some is well; Of others it were laudable to be silent, For short would be the time for so much speech. Know them in sum, that all of them were clerks, And men of letters great and of great fame, In the world tainted with the selfsame sin. Priscian goes yonder with that wretched crowd, And Francis of Accorso; and thou hadst seen there If thou hadst had a hankering for such scurf, That one, who by the Servant of the Servants From Arno was transferred to Bacchiglione, Where he has left his sin-excited nerves. More would I say, but coming and discoursing Can be no longer; for that I behold New smoke uprising yonder from the sand. A people comes with whom I may not be; Commended unto thee be my Tesoro, In which I still live, and no more I ask." Then he turned round, and seemed to be of those Who at Verona run for the Green Mantle Across the plain; and seemed to be among them The one who wins, and not the one who loses. Inferno: Canto XVI Now was I where was heard the reverberation Of water falling into the next round, Like to that humming which the beehives make, When shadows three together started forth, Running, from out a company that passed Beneath the rain of the sharp martyrdom. Towards us came they, and each one cried out: "Stop, thou; for by thy garb to us thou seemest To be some one of our depraved city." Ah me! what wounds I saw upon their limbs, Recent and ancient by the flames burnt in! It pains me still but to remember it. Unto their cries my Teacher paused attentive; He turned his face towards me, and "Now wait," He said; "to these we should be courteous. And if it were not for the fire that darts The nature of this region, I should say That haste were more becoming thee than them." As soon as we stood still, they recommenced The old refrain, and when they overtook us, Formed of themselves a wheel, all three of them. As champions stripped and oiled are wont to do, Watching for their advantage and their hold, Before they come to blows and thrusts between them, Thus, wheeling round, did every one his visage Direct to me, so that in opposite wise His neck and feet continual journey made. And, "If the misery of this soft place Bring in disdain ourselves and our entreaties," Began one, "and our aspect black and blistered, Let the renown of us thy mind incline To tell us who thou art, who thus securely Thy living feet dost move along through Hell. He in whose footprints thou dost see me treading, Naked and skinless though he now may go, Was of a greater rank than thou dost think; He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada; His name was Guidoguerra, and in life Much did he with his wisdom and his sword. The other, who close by me treads the sand, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi is, whose fame Above there in the world should welcome be. And I, who with them on the cross am placed, Jacopo Rusticucci was; and truly My savage wife, more than aught else, doth harm me." Could I have been protected from the fire, Below I should have thrown myself among them, And think the Teacher would have suffered it; But as I should have burned and baked myself, My terror overmastered my good will, Which made me greedy of embracing them. Then I began: "Sorrow and not disdain Did your condition fix within me so, That tardily it wholly is stripped off, As soon as this my Lord said unto me Words, on account of which I thought within me That people such as you are were approaching. I of your city am; and evermore Your labours and your honourable names I with affection have retraced and heard. I leave the gall, and go for the sweet fruits Promised to me by the veracious Leader; But to the centre first I needs must plunge." "So may the soul for a long while conduct Those limbs of thine," did he make answer then, "And so may thy renown shine after thee, Valour and courtesy, say if they dwell Within our city, as they used to do, Or if they wholly have gone out of it; For Guglielmo Borsier, who is in torment With us of late, and goes there with his comrades, Doth greatly mortify us with his words." "The new inhabitants and the sudden gains, Pride and extravagance have in thee engendered, Florence, so that thou weep'st thereat already!" In this wise I exclaimed with face uplifted; And the three, taking that for my reply, Looked at each other, as one looks at truth. "If other times so little it doth cost thee," Replied they all, "to satisfy another, Happy art thou, thus speaking at thy will! Therefore, if thou escape from these dark places, And come to rebehold the beauteous stars, When it shall pleasure thee to say, 'I was,' See that thou speak of us unto the people." Then they broke up the wheel, and in their flight It seemed as if their agile legs were wings. Not an Amen could possibly be said So rapidly as they had disappeared; Wherefore the Master deemed best to depart. I followed him, and little had we gone, Before the sound of water was so near us, That speaking we should hardly have been heard. Even as that stream which holdeth its own course The first from Monte Veso tow'rds the East, Upon the left-hand slope of Apennine, Which is above called Acquacheta, ere It down descendeth into its low bed, And at Forli is vacant of that name, Reverberates there above San Benedetto From Alps, by falling at a single leap, Where for a thousand there were room enough; Thus downward from a bank precipitate, We found resounding that dark-tinted water, So that it soon the ear would have offended. I had a cord around about me girt, And therewithal I whilom had designed To take the panther with the painted skin. After I this had all from me unloosed, As my Conductor had commanded me, I reached it to him, gathered up and coiled, Whereat he turned himself to the right side, And at a little distance from the verge, He cast it down into that deep abyss. "It must needs be some novelty respond," I said within myself, "to the new signal The Master with his eye is following so." Ah me! how very cautious men should be With those who not alone behold the act, But with their wisdom look into the thoughts! He said to me: "Soon there will upward come What I await; and what thy thought is dreaming Must soon reveal itself unto thy sight." Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood, A man should close his lips as far as may be, Because without his fault it causes shame; But here I cannot; and, Reader, by the notes Of this my Comedy to thee I swear, So may they not be void of lasting favour, Athwart that dense and darksome atmosphere I saw a figure swimming upward come, Marvellous unto every steadfast heart, Even as he returns who goeth down Sometimes to clear an anchor, which has grappled Reef, or aught else that in the sea is hidden, Who upward stretches, and draws in his feet. Inferno: Canto XVII "Behold the monster with the pointed tail, Who cleaves the hills, and breaketh walls and weapons, Behold him who infecteth all the world." Thus unto me my Guide began to say, And beckoned him that he should come to shore, Near to the confine of the trodden marble; And that uncleanly image of deceit Came up and thrust ashore its head and bust, But on the border did not drag its tail. The face was as the face of a just man, Its semblance outwardly was so benign, And of a serpent all the trunk beside. Two paws it had, hairy unto the armpits; The back, and breast, and both the sides it had Depicted o'er with nooses and with shields. With colours more, groundwork or broidery Never in cloth did Tartars make nor Turks, Nor were such tissues by Arachne laid. As sometimes wherries lie upon the shore, That part are in the water, part on land; And as among the guzzling Germans there, The beaver plants himself to wage his war; So that vile monster lay upon the border, Which is of stone, and shutteth in the sand. His tail was wholly quivering in the void, Contorting upwards the envenomed fork, That in the guise of scorpion armed its point. The Guide said: "Now perforce must turn aside Our way a little, even to that beast Malevolent, that yonder coucheth him." We therefore on the right side descended, And made ten steps upon the outer verge, Completely to avoid the sand and flame; And after we are come to him, I see A little farther off upon the sand A people sitting near the hollow place. Then said to me the Master: "So that full Experience of this round thou bear away, Now go and see what their condition is. There let thy conversation be concise; Till thou returnest I will speak with him, That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders." Thus farther still upon the outermost Head of that seventh circle all alone I went, where sat the melancholy folk. Out of their eyes was gushing forth their woe; This way, that way, they helped them with their hands Now from the flames and now from the hot soil. Not otherwise in summer do the dogs, Now with the foot, now with the muzzle, when By fleas, or flies, or gadflies, they are bitten. When I had turned mine eyes upon the faces Of some, on whom the dolorous fire is falling, Not one of them I knew; but I perceived That from the neck of each there hung a pouch, Which certain colour had, and certain blazon; And thereupon it seems their eyes are feeding. And as I gazing round me come among them, Upon a yellow pouch I azure saw That had the face and posture of a lion. Proceeding then the current of my sight, Another of them saw I, red as blood, Display a goose more white than butter is. And one, who with an azure sow and gravid Emblazoned had his little pouch of white, Said unto me: "What dost thou in this moat? Now get thee gone; and since thou'rt still alive, Know that a neighbour of mine, Vitaliano, Will have his seat here on my left-hand side. A Paduan am I with these Florentines; Full many a time they thunder in mine ears, Exclaiming, 'Come the sovereign cavalier, He who shall bring the satchel with three goats;'" Then twisted he his mouth, and forth he thrust His tongue, like to an ox that licks its nose. And fearing lest my longer stay might vex Him who had warned me not to tarry long, Backward I turned me from those weary souls. I found my Guide, who had already mounted Upon the back of that wild animal, And said to me: "Now be both strong and bold. Now we descend by stairways such as these; Mount thou in front, for I will be midway, So that the tail may have no power to harm thee." Such as he is who has so near the ague Of quartan that his nails are blue already, And trembles all, but looking at the shade; Even such became I at those proffered words; But shame in me his menaces produced, Which maketh servant strong before good master. I seated me upon those monstrous shoulders; I wished to say, and yet the voice came not As I believed, "Take heed that thou embrace me." But he, who other times had rescued me In other peril, soon as I had mounted, Within his arms encircled and sustained me, And said: "Now, Geryon, bestir thyself; The circles large, and the descent be little; Think of the novel burden which thou hast." Even as the little vessel shoves from shore, Backward, still backward, so he thence withdrew; And when he wholly felt himself afloat, There where his breast had been he turned his tail, And that extended like an eel he moved, And with his paws drew to himself the air. A greater fear I do not think there was What time abandoned Phaeton the reins, Whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched; Nor when the wretched Icarus his flanks Felt stripped of feathers by the melting wax, His father crying, "An ill way thou takest!" Than was my own, when I perceived myself On all sides in the air, and saw extinguished The sight of everything but of the monster. Onward he goeth, swimming slowly, slowly; Wheels and descends, but I perceive it only By wind upon my face and from below. I heard already on the right the whirlpool Making a horrible crashing under us; Whence I thrust out my head with eyes cast downward. Then was I still more fearful of the abyss; Because I fires beheld, and heard laments, Whereat I, trembling, all the closer cling. I saw then, for before I had not seen it, The turning and descending, by great horrors That were approaching upon divers sides. As falcon who has long been on the wing, Who, without seeing either lure or bird, Maketh the falconer say, "Ah me, thou stoopest," Descendeth weary, whence he started swiftly, Thorough a hundred circles, and alights Far from his master, sullen and disdainful; Even thus did Geryon place us on the bottom, Close to the bases of the rough-hewn rock, And being disencumbered of our persons, He sped away as arrow from the string. Inferno: Canto XVIII There is a place in Hell called Malebolge, Wholly of stone and of an iron colour, As is the circle that around it turns. Right in the middle of the field malign There yawns a well exceeding wide and deep, Of which its place the structure will recount. Round, then, is that enclosure which remains Between the well and foot of the high, hard bank, And has distinct in valleys ten its bottom. As where for the protection of the walls Many and many moats surround the castles, The part in which they are a figure forms, Just such an image those presented there; And as about such strongholds from their gates Unto the outer bank are little bridges, So from the precipice's base did crags Project, which intersected dikes and moats, Unto the well that truncates and collects them. Within this place, down shaken from the back Of Geryon, we found us; and the Poet Held to the left, and I moved on behind. Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish, New torments, and new wielders of the lash, Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete. Down at the bottom were the sinners naked; This side the middle came they facing us, Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps; Even as the Romans, for the mighty host, The year of Jubilee, upon the bridge, Have chosen a mode to pass the people over; For all upon one side towards the Castle Their faces have, and go unto St. Peter's; On the other side they go towards the Mountain. This side and that, along the livid stone Beheld I horned demons with great scourges, Who cruelly were beating them behind. Ah me! how they did make them lift their legs At the first blows! and sooth not any one The second waited for, nor for the third. While I was going on, mine eyes by one Encountered were; and straight I said: "Already With sight of this one I am not unfed." Therefore I stayed my feet to make him out, And with me the sweet Guide came to a stand, And to my going somewhat back assented; And he, the scourged one, thought to hide himself, Lowering his face, but little it availed him; For said I: "Thou that castest down thine eyes, If false are not the features which thou bearest, Thou art Venedico Caccianimico; But what doth bring thee to such pungent sauces?" And he to me: "Unwillingly I tell it; But forces me thine utterance distinct, Which makes me recollect the ancient world. I was the one who the fair Ghisola Induced to grant the wishes of the Marquis, Howe'er the shameless story may be told. Not the sole Bolognese am I who weeps here; Nay, rather is this place so full of them, That not so many tongues to-day are taught 'Twixt Reno and Savena to say 'sipa;' And if thereof thou wishest pledge or proof, Bring to thy mind our avaricious heart." While speaking in this manner, with his scourge A demon smote him, and said: "Get thee gone Pander, there are no women here for coin." I joined myself again unto mine Escort; Thereafterward with footsteps few we came To where a crag projected from the bank. This very easily did we ascend, And turning to the right along its ridge, From those eternal circles we departed. When we were there, where it is hollowed out Beneath, to give a passage to the scourged, The Guide said: "Wait, and see that on thee strike The vision of those others evil-born, Of whom thou hast not yet beheld the faces, Because together with us they have gone." From the old bridge we looked upon the train Which tow'rds us came upon the other border, And which the scourges in like manner smite. And the good Master, without my inquiring, Said to me: "See that tall one who is coming, And for his pain seems not to shed a tear; Still what a royal aspect he retains! That Jason is, who by his heart and cunning The Colchians of the Ram made destitute. He by the isle of Lemnos passed along After the daring women pitiless Had unto death devoted all their males. There with his tokens and with ornate words Did he deceive Hypsipyle, the maiden Who first, herself, had all the rest deceived. There did he leave her pregnant and forlorn; Such sin unto such punishment condemns him, And also for Medea is vengeance done. With him go those who in such wise deceive; And this sufficient be of the first valley To know, and those that in its jaws it holds." We were already where the narrow path Crosses athwart the second dike, and forms Of that a buttress for another arch. Thence we heard people, who are making moan In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles, And with their palms beating upon themselves The margins were incrusted with a mould By exhalation from below, that sticks there, And with the eyes and nostrils wages war. The bottom is so deep, no place suffices To give us sight of it, without ascending The arch's back, where most the crag impends. Thither we came, and thence down in the moat I saw a people smothered in a filth That out of human privies seemed to flow; And whilst below there with mine eye I search, I saw one with his head so foul with ordure, It was not clear if he were clerk or layman. He screamed to me: "Wherefore art thou so eager To look at me more than the other foul ones?" And I to him: "Because, if I remember, I have already seen thee with dry hair, And thou'rt Alessio Interminei of Lucca; Therefore I eye thee more than all the others." And he thereon, belabouring his pumpkin: "The flatteries have submerged me here below, Wherewith my tongue was never surfeited." Then said to me the Guide: "See that thou thrust Thy visage somewhat farther in advance, That with thine eyes thou well the face attain Of that uncleanly and dishevelled drab, Who there doth scratch herself with filthy nails, And crouches now, and now on foot is standing. Thais the harlot is it, who replied Unto her paramour, when he said, 'Have I Great gratitude from thee?'--'Nay, marvellous;' And herewith let our sight be satisfied." Inferno: Canto XIX O Simon Magus, O forlorn disciples, Ye who the things of God, which ought to be The brides of holiness, rapaciously For silver and for gold do prostitute, Now it behoves for you the trumpet sound, Because in this third Bolgia ye abide. We had already on the following tomb Ascended to that portion of the crag Which o'er the middle of the moat hangs plumb. Wisdom supreme, O how great art thou showest In heaven, in earth, and in the evil world, And with what justice doth thy power distribute! I saw upon the sides and on the bottom The livid stone with perforations filled, All of one size, and every one was round. To me less ample seemed they not, nor greater Than those that in my beautiful Saint John Are fashioned for the place of the baptisers, And one of which, not many years ago, I broke for some one, who was drowning in it; Be this a seal all men to undeceive. Out of the mouth of each one there protruded The feet of a transgressor, and the legs Up to the calf, the rest within remained. In all of them the soles were both on fire; Wherefore the joints so violently quivered, They would have snapped asunder withes and bands. Even as the flame of unctuous things is wont To move upon the outer surface only, So likewise was it there from heel to point. "Master, who is that one who writhes himself, More than his other comrades quivering," I said, "and whom a redder flame is sucking?" And he to me: "If thou wilt have me bear thee Down there along that bank which lowest lies, From him thou'lt know his errors and himself." And I: "What pleases thee, to me is pleasing; Thou art my Lord, and knowest that I depart not From thy desire, and knowest what is not spoken." Straightway upon the fourth dike we arrived; We turned, and on the left-hand side descended Down to the bottom full of holes and narrow. And the good Master yet from off his haunch Deposed me not, till to the hole he brought me Of him who so lamented with his shanks. "Whoe'er thou art, that standest upside down, O doleful soul, implanted like a stake," To say began I, "if thou canst, speak out." I stood even as the friar who is confessing The false assassin, who, when he is fixed, Recalls him, so that death may be delayed. And he cried out: "Dost thou stand there already, Dost thou stand there already, Boniface? By many years the record lied to me. Art thou so early satiate with that wealth, For which thou didst not fear to take by fraud The beautiful Lady, and then work her woe?" Such I became, as people are who stand, Not comprehending what is answered them, As if bemocked, and know not how to answer. Then said Virgilius: "Say to him straightway, 'I am not he, I am not he thou thinkest.'" And I replied as was imposed on me. Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet, Then, sighing, with a voice of lamentation Said to me: "Then what wantest thou of me? If who I am thou carest so much to know, That thou on that account hast crossed the bank, Know that I vested was with the great mantle; And truly was I son of the She-bear, So eager to advance the cubs, that wealth Above, and here myself, I pocketed. Beneath my head the others are dragged down Who have preceded me in simony, Flattened along the fissure of the rock. Below there I shall likewise fall, whenever That one shall come who I believed thou wast, What time the sudden question I proposed. But longer I my feet already toast, And here have been in this way upside down, Than he will planted stay with reddened feet; For after him shall come of fouler deed From tow'rds the west a Pastor without law, Such as befits to cover him and me. New Jason will he be, of whom we read In Maccabees; and as his king was pliant, So he who governs France shall be to this one." I do not know if I were here too bold, That him I answered only in this metre: "I pray thee tell me now how great a treasure Our Lord demanded of Saint Peter first, Before he put the keys into his keeping? Truly he nothing asked but 'Follow me.' Nor Peter nor the rest asked of Matthias Silver or gold, when he by lot was chosen Unto the place the guilty soul had lost. Therefore stay here, for thou art justly punished, And keep safe guard o'er the ill-gotten money, Which caused thee to be valiant against Charles. And were it not that still forbids it me The reverence for the keys superlative Thou hadst in keeping in the gladsome life, I would make use of words more grievous still; Because your avarice afflicts the world, Trampling the good and lifting the depraved. The Evangelist you Pastors had in mind, When she who sitteth upon many waters To fornicate with kings by him was seen; The same who with the seven heads was born, And power and strength from the ten horns received, So long as virtue to her spouse was pleasing. Ye have made yourselves a god of gold and silver; And from the idolater how differ ye, Save that he one, and ye a hundred worship? Ah, Constantine! of how much ill was mother, Not thy conversion, but that marriage dower Which the first wealthy Father took from thee!" And while I sang to him such notes as these, Either that anger or that conscience stung him, He struggled violently with both his feet. I think in sooth that it my Leader pleased, With such contented lip he listened ever Unto the sound of the true words expressed. Therefore with both his arms he took me up, And when he had me all upon his breast, Remounted by the way where he descended. Nor did he tire to have me clasped to him; But bore me to the summit of the arch Which from the fourth dike to the fifth is passage. There tenderly he laid his burden down, Tenderly on the crag uneven and steep, That would have been hard passage for the goats: Thence was unveiled to me another valley. Inferno: Canto XX Of a new pain behoves me to make verses And give material to the twentieth canto Of the first song, which is of the submerged. I was already thoroughly disposed To peer down into the uncovered depth, Which bathed itself with tears of agony; And people saw I through the circular valley, Silent and weeping, coming at the pace Which in this world the Litanies assume. As lower down my sight descended on them, Wondrously each one seemed to be distorted From chin to the beginning of the chest; For tow'rds the reins the countenance was turned, And backward it behoved them to advance, As to look forward had been taken from them. Perchance indeed by violence of palsy Some one has been thus wholly turned awry; But I ne'er saw it, nor believe it can be. As God may let thee, Reader, gather fruit From this thy reading, think now for thyself How I could ever keep my face unmoistened, When our own image near me I beheld Distorted so, the weeping of the eyes Along the fissure bathed the hinder parts. Truly I wept, leaning upon a peak Of the hard crag, so that my Escort said To me: "Art thou, too, of the other fools? Here pity lives when it is wholly dead; Who is a greater reprobate than he Who feels compassion at the doom divine? Lift up, lift up thy head, and see for whom Opened the earth before the Thebans' eyes; Wherefore they all cried: 'Whither rushest thou, Amphiaraus? Why dost leave the war?' And downward ceased he not to fall amain As far as Minos, who lays hold on all. See, he has made a bosom of his shoulders! Because he wished to see too far before him Behind he looks, and backward goes his way: Behold Tiresias, who his semblance changed, When from a male a female he became, His members being all of them transformed; And afterwards was forced to strike once more The two entangled serpents with his rod, Ere he could have again his manly plumes. That Aruns is, who backs the other's belly, Who in the hills of Luni, there where grubs The Carrarese who houses underneath, Among the marbles white a cavern had For his abode; whence to behold the stars And sea, the view was not cut off from him. And she there, who is covering up her breasts, Which thou beholdest not, with loosened tresses, And on that side has all the hairy skin, Was Manto, who made quest through many lands, Afterwards tarried there where I was born; Whereof I would thou list to me a little. After her father had from life departed, And the city of Bacchus had become enslaved, She a long season wandered through the world. Above in beauteous Italy lies a lake At the Alp's foot that shuts in Germany Over Tyrol, and has the name Benaco. By a thousand springs, I think, and more, is bathed, 'Twixt Garda and Val Camonica, Pennino, With water that grows stagnant in that lake. Midway a place is where the Trentine Pastor, And he of Brescia, and the Veronese Might give his blessing, if he passed that way. Sitteth Peschiera, fortress fair and strong, To front the Brescians and the Bergamasks, Where round about the bank descendeth lowest. There of necessity must fall whatever In bosom of Benaco cannot stay, And grows a river down through verdant pastures. Soon as the water doth begin to run, No more Benaco is it called, but Mincio, Far as Governo, where it falls in Po. Not far it runs before it finds a plain In which it spreads itself, and makes it marshy, And oft 'tis wont in summer to be sickly. Passing that way the virgin pitiless Land in the middle of the fen descried, Untilled and naked of inhabitants; There to escape all human intercourse, She with her servants stayed, her arts to practise And lived, and left her empty body there. The men, thereafter, who were scattered round, Collected in that place, which was made strong By the lagoon it had on every side; They built their city over those dead bones, And, after her who first the place selected, Mantua named it, without other omen. Its people once within more crowded were, Ere the stupidity of Casalodi From Pinamonte had received deceit. Therefore I caution thee, if e'er thou hearest Originate my city otherwise, No falsehood may the verity defraud." And I: "My Master, thy discourses are To me so certain, and so take my faith, That unto me the rest would be spent coals. But tell me of the people who are passing, If any one note-worthy thou beholdest, For only unto that my mind reverts." Then said he to me: "He who from the cheek Thrusts out his beard upon his swarthy shoulders Was, at the time when Greece was void of males, So that there scarce remained one in the cradle, An augur, and with Calchas gave the moment, In Aulis, when to sever the first cable. Eryphylus his name was, and so sings My lofty Tragedy in some part or other; That knowest thou well, who knowest the whole of it. The next, who is so slender in the flanks, Was Michael Scott, who of a verity Of magical illusions knew the game. Behold Guido Bonatti, behold Asdente, Who now unto his leather and his thread Would fain have stuck, but he too late repents. Behold the wretched ones, who left the needle, The spool and rock, and made them fortune-tellers; They wrought their magic spells with herb and image. But come now, for already holds the confines Of both the hemispheres, and under Seville Touches the ocean-wave, Cain and the thorns, And yesternight the moon was round already; Thou shouldst remember well it did not harm thee From time to time within the forest deep." Thus spake he to me, and we walked the while. Inferno: Canto XXI From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things Of which my Comedy cares not to sing, We came along, and held the summit, when We halted to behold another fissure Of Malebolge and other vain laments; And I beheld it marvellously dark. As in the Arsenal of the Venetians Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch To smear their unsound vessels o'er again, For sail they cannot; and instead thereof One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks The ribs of that which many a voyage has made; One hammers at the prow, one at the stern, This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists, Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen; Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine, Was boiling down below there a dense pitch Which upon every side the bank belimed. I saw it, but I did not see within it Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised, And all swell up and resubside compressed. The while below there fixedly I gazed, My Leader, crying out: "Beware, beware!" Drew me unto himself from where I stood. Then I turned round, as one who is impatient To see what it behoves him to escape, And whom a sudden terror doth unman, Who, while he looks, delays not his departure; And I beheld behind us a black devil, Running along upon the crag, approach. Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect! And how he seemed to me in action ruthless, With open wings and light upon his feet! His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high, A sinner did encumber with both haunches, And he held clutched the sinews of the feet. From off our bridge, he said: "O Malebranche, Behold one of the elders of Saint Zita; Plunge him beneath, for I return for others Unto that town, which is well furnished with them. All there are barrators, except Bonturo; No into Yes for money there is changed." He hurled him down, and over the hard crag Turned round, and never was a mastiff loosened In so much hurry to pursue a thief. The other sank, and rose again face downward; But the demons, under cover of the bridge, Cried: "Here the Santo Volto has no place! Here swims one otherwise than in the Serchio; Therefore, if for our gaffs thou wishest not, Do not uplift thyself above the pitch." They seized him then with more than a hundred rakes; They said: "It here behoves thee to dance covered, That, if thou canst, thou secretly mayest pilfer." Not otherwise the cooks their scullions make Immerse into the middle of the caldron The meat with hooks, so that it may not float. Said the good Master to me: "That it be not Apparent thou art here, crouch thyself down Behind a jag, that thou mayest have some screen; And for no outrage that is done to me Be thou afraid, because these things I know, For once before was I in such a scuffle." Then he passed on beyond the bridge's head, And as upon the sixth bank he arrived, Need was for him to have a steadfast front. With the same fury, and the same uproar, As dogs leap out upon a mendicant, Who on a sudden begs, where'er he stops, They issued from beneath the little bridge, And turned against him all their grappling-irons; But he cried out: "Be none of you malignant! Before those hooks of yours lay hold of me, Let one of you step forward, who may hear me, And then take counsel as to grappling me." They all cried out: "Let Malacoda go;" Whereat one started, and the rest stood still, And he came to him, saying: "What avails it?" "Thinkest thou, Malacoda, to behold me Advanced into this place," my Master said, "Safe hitherto from all your skill of fence, Without the will divine, and fate auspicious? Let me go on, for it in Heaven is willed That I another show this savage road." Then was his arrogance so humbled in him, That he let fall his grapnel at his feet, And to the others said: "Now strike him not." And unto me my Guide: "O thou, who sittest Among the splinters of the bridge crouched down, Securely now return to me again." Wherefore I started and came swiftly to him; And all the devils forward thrust themselves, So that I feared they would not keep their compact. And thus beheld I once afraid the soldiers Who issued under safeguard from Caprona, Seeing themselves among so many foes. Close did I press myself with all my person Beside my Leader, and turned not mine eyes From off their countenance, which was not good. They lowered their rakes, and "Wilt thou have me hit him," They said to one another, "on the rump?" And answered: "Yes; see that thou nick him with it." But the same demon who was holding parley With my Conductor turned him very quickly, And said: "Be quiet, be quiet, Scarmiglione;" Then said to us: "You can no farther go Forward upon this crag, because is lying All shattered, at the bottom, the sixth arch. And if it still doth please you to go onward, Pursue your way along upon this rock; Near is another crag that yields a path. Yesterday, five hours later than this hour, One thousand and two hundred sixty-six Years were complete, that here the way was broken. I send in that direction some of mine To see if any one doth air himself; Go ye with them; for they will not be vicious. Step forward, Alichino and Calcabrina," Began he to cry out, "and thou, Cagnazzo; And Barbariccia, do thou guide the ten. Come forward, Libicocco and Draghignazzo, And tusked Ciriatto and Graffiacane, And Farfarello and mad Rubicante; Search ye all round about the boiling pitch; Let these be safe as far as the next crag, That all unbroken passes o'er the dens." "O me! what is it, Master, that I see? Pray let us go," I said, "without an escort, If thou knowest how, since for myself I ask none. If thou art as observant as thy wont is, Dost thou not see that they do gnash their teeth, And with their brows are threatening woe to us?" And he to me: "I will not have thee fear; Let them gnash on, according to their fancy, Because they do it for those boiling wretches." Along the left-hand dike they wheeled about; But first had each one thrust his tongue between His teeth towards their leader for a signal; And he had made a trumpet of his rump. Inferno: Canto XXII I have erewhile seen horsemen moving camp, Begin the storming, and their muster make, And sometimes starting off for their escape; Vaunt-couriers have I seen upon your land, O Aretines, and foragers go forth, Tournaments stricken, and the joustings run, Sometimes with trumpets and sometimes with bells, With kettle-drums, and signals of the castles, And with our own, and with outlandish things, But never yet with bagpipe so uncouth Did I see horsemen move, nor infantry, Nor ship by any sign of land or star. We went upon our way with the ten demons; Ah, savage company! but in the church With saints, and in the tavern with the gluttons! Ever upon the pitch was my intent, To see the whole condition of that Bolgia, And of the people who therein were burned. Even as the dolphins, when they make a sign To mariners by arching of the back, That they should counsel take to save their vessel, Thus sometimes, to alleviate his pain, One of the sinners would display his back, And in less time conceal it than it lightens. As on the brink of water in a ditch The frogs stand only with their muzzles out, So that they hide their feet and other bulk, So upon every side the sinners stood; But ever as Barbariccia near them came, Thus underneath the boiling they withdrew. I saw, and still my heart doth shudder at it, One waiting thus, even as it comes to pass One frog remains, and down another dives; And Graffiacan, who most confronted him, Grappled him by his tresses smeared with pitch, And drew him up, so that he seemed an otter. I knew, before, the names of all of them, So had I noted them when they were chosen, And when they called each other, listened how. "O Rubicante, see that thou do lay Thy claws upon him, so that thou mayst flay him," Cried all together the accursed ones. And I: "My Master, see to it, if thou canst, That thou mayst know who is the luckless wight, Thus come into his adversaries' hands." Near to the side of him my Leader drew, Asked of him whence he was; and he replied: "I in the kingdom of Navarre was born; My mother placed me servant to a lord, For she had borne me to a ribald knave, Destroyer of himself and of his things. Then I domestic was of good King Thibault; I set me there to practise barratry, For which I pay the reckoning in this heat." And Ciriatto, from whose mouth projected, On either side, a tusk, as in a boar, Caused him to feel how one of them could rip. Among malicious cats the mouse had come; But Barbariccia clasped him in his arms, And said: "Stand ye aside, while I enfork him." And to my Master he turned round his head; "Ask him again," he said, "if more thou wish To know from him, before some one destroy him." The Guide: "Now tell then of the other culprits; Knowest thou any one who is a Latian, Under the pitch?" And he: "I separated Lately from one who was a neighbour to it; Would that I still were covered up with him, For I should fear not either claw nor hook!" And Libicocco: "We have borne too much;" And with his grapnel seized him by the arm, So that, by rending, he tore off a tendon. Eke Draghignazzo wished to pounce upon him Down at the legs; whence their Decurion Turned round and round about with evil look. When they again somewhat were pacified, Of him, who still was looking at his wound, Demanded my Conductor without stay: "Who was that one, from whom a luckless parting Thou sayest thou hast made, to come ashore?" And he replied: "It was the Friar Gomita, He of Gallura, vessel of all fraud, Who had the enemies of his Lord in hand, And dealt so with them each exults thereat; Money he took, and let them smoothly off, As he says; and in other offices A barrator was he, not mean but sovereign. Foregathers with him one Don Michael Zanche Of Logodoro; and of Sardinia To gossip never do their tongues feel tired. O me! see that one, how he grinds his teeth; Still farther would I speak, but am afraid Lest he to scratch my itch be making ready." And the grand Provost, turned to Farfarello, Who rolled his eyes about as if to strike, Said: "Stand aside there, thou malicious bird." "If you desire either to see or hear," The terror-stricken recommenced thereon, "Tuscans or Lombards, I will make them come. But let the Malebranche cease a little, So that these may not their revenges fear, And I, down sitting in this very place, For one that I am will make seven come, When I shall whistle, as our custom is To do whenever one of us comes out." Cagnazzo at these words his muzzle lifted, Shaking his head, and said: "Just hear the trick Which he has thought of, down to throw himself!" Whence he, who snares in great abundance had, Responded: "I by far too cunning am, When I procure for mine a greater sadness." Alichin held not in, but running counter Unto the rest, said to him: "If thou dive, I will not follow thee upon the gallop, But I will beat my wings above the pitch; The height be left, and be the bank a shield To see if thou alone dost countervail us." O thou who readest, thou shalt hear new sport! Each to the other side his eyes averted; He first, who most reluctant was to do it. The Navarrese selected well his time; Planted his feet on land, and in a moment Leaped, and released himself from their design. Whereat each one was suddenly stung with shame, But he most who was cause of the defeat; Therefore he moved, and cried: "Thou art o'ertakern." But little it availed, for wings could not Outstrip the fear; the other one went under, And, flying, upward he his breast directed; Not otherwise the duck upon a sudden Dives under, when the falcon is approaching, And upward he returneth cross and weary. Infuriate at the mockery, Calcabrina Flying behind him followed close, desirous The other should escape, to have a quarrel. And when the barrator had disappeared, He turned his talons upon his companion, And grappled with him right above the moat. But sooth the other was a doughty sparhawk To clapperclaw him well; and both of them Fell in the middle of the boiling pond. A sudden intercessor was the heat; But ne'ertheless of rising there was naught, To such degree they had their wings belimed. Lamenting with the others, Barbariccia Made four of them fly to the other side With all their gaffs, and very speedily This side and that they to their posts descended; They stretched their hooks towards the pitch-ensnared, Who were already baked within the crust, And in this manner busied did we leave them. Inferno: Canto XXIII Silent, alone, and without company We went, the one in front, the other after, As go the Minor Friars along their way. Upon the fable of Aesop was directed My thought, by reason of the present quarrel, Where he has spoken of the frog and mouse; For 'mo' and 'issa' are not more alike Than this one is to that, if well we couple End and beginning with a steadfast mind. And even as one thought from another springs, So afterward from that was born another, Which the first fear within me double made. Thus did I ponder: "These on our account Are laughed to scorn, with injury and scoff So great, that much I think it must annoy them. If anger be engrafted on ill-will, They will come after us more merciless Than dog upon the leveret which he seizes," I felt my hair stand all on end already With terror, and stood backwardly intent, When said I: "Master, if thou hidest not Thyself and me forthwith, of Malebranche I am in dread; we have them now behind us; I so imagine them, I already feel them." And he: "If I were made of leaded glass, Thine outward image I should not attract Sooner to me than I imprint the inner. Just now thy thoughts came in among my own, With similar attitude and similar face, So that of both one counsel sole I made. If peradventure the right bank so slope That we to the next Bolgia can descend, We shall escape from the imagined chase." Not yet he finished rendering such opinion, When I beheld them come with outstretched wings, Not far remote, with will to seize upon us. My Leader on a sudden seized me up, Even as a mother who by noise is wakened, And close beside her sees the enkindled flames, Who takes her son, and flies, and does not stop, Having more care of him than of herself, So that she clothes her only with a shift; And downward from the top of the hard bank Supine he gave him to the pendent rock, That one side of the other Bolgia walls. Ne'er ran so swiftly water through a sluice To turn the wheel of any land-built mill, When nearest to the paddles it approaches, As did my Master down along that border, Bearing me with him on his breast away, As his own son, and not as a companion. Hardly the bed of the ravine below His feet had reached, ere they had reached the hill Right over us; but he was not afraid; For the high Providence, which had ordained To place them ministers of the fifth moat, The power of thence departing took from all. A painted people there below we found, Who went about with footsteps very slow, Weeping and in their semblance tired and vanquished. They had on mantles with the hoods low down Before their eyes, and fashioned of the cut That in Cologne they for the monks are made. Without, they gilded are so that it dazzles; But inwardly all leaden and so heavy That Frederick used to put them on of straw. O everlastingly fatiguing mantle! Again we turned us, still to the left hand Along with them, intent on their sad plaint; But owing to the weight, that weary folk Came on so tardily, that we were new In company at each motion of the haunch. Whence I unto my Leader: "See thou find Some one who may by deed or name be known, And thus in going move thine eye about." And one, who understood the Tuscan speech, Cried to us from behind: "Stay ye your feet, Ye, who so run athwart the dusky air! Perhaps thou'lt have from me what thou demandest." Whereat the Leader turned him, and said: "Wait, And then according to his pace proceed." I stopped, and two beheld I show great haste Of spirit, in their faces, to be with me; But the burden and the narrow way delayed them. When they came up, long with an eye askance They scanned me without uttering a word. Then to each other turned, and said together: "He by the action of his throat seems living; And if they dead are, by what privilege Go they uncovered by the heavy stole?" Then said to me: "Tuscan, who to the college Of miserable hypocrites art come, Do not disdain to tell us who thou art." And I to them: "Born was I, and grew up In the great town on the fair river of Arno, And with the body am I've always had. But who are ye, in whom there trickles down Along your cheeks such grief as I behold? And what pain is upon you, that so sparkles?" And one replied to me: "These orange cloaks Are made of lead so heavy, that the weights Cause in this way their balances to creak. Frati Gaudenti were we, and Bolognese; I Catalano, and he Loderingo Named, and together taken by thy city, As the wont is to take one man alone, For maintenance of its peace; and we were such That still it is apparent round Gardingo." "O Friars," began I, "your iniquitous. . ." But said no more; for to mine eyes there rushed One crucified with three stakes on the ground. When me he saw, he writhed himself all over, Blowing into his beard with suspirations; And the Friar Catalan, who noticed this, Said to me: "This transfixed one, whom thou seest, Counselled the Pharisees that it was meet To put one man to torture for the people. Crosswise and naked is he on the path, As thou perceivest; and he needs must feel, Whoever passes, first how much he weighs; And in like mode his father-in-law is punished Within this moat, and the others of the council, Which for the Jews was a malignant seed." And thereupon I saw Virgilius marvel O'er him who was extended on the cross So vilely in eternal banishment. Then he directed to the Friar this voice: "Be not displeased, if granted thee, to tell us If to the right hand any pass slope down By which we two may issue forth from here, Without constraining some of the black angels To come and extricate us from this deep." Then he made answer: "Nearer than thou hopest There is a rock, that forth from the great circle Proceeds, and crosses all the cruel valleys, Save that at this 'tis broken, and does not bridge it; You will be able to mount up the ruin, That sidelong slopes and at the bottom rises." The Leader stood awhile with head bowed down; Then said: "The business badly he recounted Who grapples with his hook the sinners yonder." And the Friar: "Many of the Devil's vices Once heard I at Bologna, and among them, That he's a liar and the father of lies." Thereat my Leader with great strides went on, Somewhat disturbed with anger in his looks; Whence from the heavy-laden I departed After the prints of his beloved feet. Inferno: Canto XXIV In that part of the youthful year wherein The Sun his locks beneath Aquarius tempers, And now the nights draw near to half the day, What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground The outward semblance of her sister white, But little lasts the temper of her pen, The husbandman, whose forage faileth him, Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank, Returns in doors, and up and down laments, Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do; Then he returns and hope revives again, Seeing the world has changed its countenance In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook, And forth the little lambs to pasture drives. Thus did the Master fill me with alarm, When I beheld his forehead so disturbed, And to the ailment came as soon the plaster. For as we came unto the ruined bridge, The Leader turned to me with that sweet look Which at the mountain's foot I first beheld. His arms he opened, after some advisement Within himself elected, looking first Well at the ruin, and laid hold of me. And even as he who acts and meditates, For aye it seems that he provides beforehand, So upward lifting me towards the summit Of a huge rock, he scanned another crag, Saying: "To that one grapple afterwards, But try first if 'tis such that it will hold thee." This was no way for one clothed with a cloak; For hardly we, he light, and I pushed upward, Were able to ascend from jag to jag. And had it not been, that upon that precinct Shorter was the ascent than on the other, He I know not, but I had been dead beat. But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth Of the profoundest well is all inclining, The structure of each valley doth import That one bank rises and the other sinks. Still we arrived at length upon the point Wherefrom the last stone breaks itself asunder. The breath was from my lungs so milked away, When I was up, that I could go no farther, Nay, I sat down upon my first arrival. "Now it behoves thee thus to put off sloth," My Master said; "for sitting upon down, Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame, Withouten which whoso his life consumes Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth, As smoke in air or in the water foam. And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish With spirit that o'ercometh every battle, If with its heavy body it sink not. A longer stairway it behoves thee mount; 'Tis not enough from these to have departed; Let it avail thee, if thou understand me." Then I uprose, showing myself provided Better with breath than I did feel myself, And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold." Upward we took our way along the crag, Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult, And more precipitous far than that before. Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted; Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth, Not well adapted to articulate words. I know not what it said, though o'er the back I now was of the arch that passes there; But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking. I was bent downward, but my living eyes Could not attain the bottom, for the dark; Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive At the next round, and let us descend the wall; For as from hence I hear and understand not, So I look down and nothing I distinguish." "Other response," he said, "I make thee not, Except the doing; for the modest asking Ought to be followed by the deed in silence." We from the bridge descended at its head, Where it connects itself with the eighth bank, And then was manifest to me the Bolgia; And I beheld therein a terrible throng Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind, That the remembrance still congeals my blood Let Libya boast no longer with her sand; For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena, Neither so many plagues nor so malignant E'er showed she with all Ethiopia, Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is! Among this cruel and most dismal throng People were running naked and affrighted. Without the hope of hole or heliotrope. They had their hands with serpents bound behind them; These riveted upon their reins the tail And head, and were in front of them entwined. And lo! at one who was upon our side There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders. Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written, As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly Behoved it that in falling he became. And when he on the ground was thus destroyed, The ashes drew together, and of themselves Into himself they instantly returned. Even thus by the great sages 'tis confessed The phoenix dies, and then is born again, When it approaches its five-hundredth year; On herb or grain it feeds not in its life, But only on tears of incense and amomum, And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet. And as he is who falls, and knows not how, By force of demons who to earth down drag him, Or other oppilation that binds man, When he arises and around him looks, Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs; Such was that sinner after he had risen. Justice of God! O how severe it is, That blows like these in vengeance poureth down! The Guide thereafter asked him who he was; Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany A short time since into this cruel gorge. A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me, Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci, Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den." And I unto the Guide: "Tell him to stir not, And ask what crime has thrust him here below, For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him." And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not, But unto me directed mind and face, And with a melancholy shame was painted. Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me Amid this misery where thou seest me, Than when I from the other life was taken. What thou demandest I cannot deny; So low am I put down because I robbed The sacristy of the fair ornaments, And falsely once 'twas laid upon another; But that thou mayst not such a sight enjoy, If thou shalt e'er be out of the dark places, Thine ears to my announcement ope and hear: Pistoia first of Neri groweth meagre; Then Florence doth renew her men and manners; Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra, Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round, And with impetuous and bitter tempest Over Campo Picen shall be the battle; When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder, So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten. And this I've said that it may give thee pain." Inferno: Canto XXV At the conclusion of his words, the thief Lifted his hands aloft with both the figs, Crying: "Take that, God, for at thee I aim them." From that time forth the serpents were my friends; For one entwined itself about his neck As if it said: "I will not thou speak more;" And round his arms another, and rebound him, Clinching itself together so in front, That with them he could not a motion make. Pistoia, ah, Pistoia! why resolve not To burn thyself to ashes and so perish, Since in ill-doing thou thy seed excellest? Through all the sombre circles of this Hell, Spirit I saw not against God so proud, Not he who fell at Thebes down from the walls! He fled away, and spake no further word; And I beheld a Centaur full of rage Come crying out: "Where is, where is the scoffer?" I do not think Maremma has so many Serpents as he had all along his back, As far as where our countenance begins. Upon the shoulders, just behind the nape, With wings wide open was a dragon lying, And he sets fire to all that he encounters. My Master said: "That one is Cacus, who Beneath the rock upon Mount Aventine Created oftentimes a lake of blood. He goes not on the same road with his brothers, By reason of the fraudulent theft he made Of the great herd, which he had near to him; Whereat his tortuous actions ceased beneath The mace of Hercules, who peradventure Gave him a hundred, and he felt not ten." While he was speaking thus, he had passed by, And spirits three had underneath us come, Of which nor I aware was, nor my Leader, Until what time they shouted: "Who are you?" On which account our story made a halt, And then we were intent on them alone. I did not know them; but it came to pass, As it is wont to happen by some chance, That one to name the other was compelled, Exclaiming: "Where can Cianfa have remained?" Whence I, so that the Leader might attend, Upward from chin to nose my finger laid. If thou art, Reader, slow now to believe What I shall say, it will no marvel be, For I who saw it hardly can admit it. As I was holding raised on them my brows, Behold! a serpent with six feet darts forth In front of one, and fastens wholly on him. With middle feet it bound him round the paunch, And with the forward ones his arms it seized; Then thrust its teeth through one cheek and the other; The hindermost it stretched upon his thighs, And put its tail through in between the two, And up behind along the reins outspread it. Ivy was never fastened by its barbs Unto a tree so, as this horrible reptile Upon the other's limbs entwined its own. Then they stuck close, as if of heated wax They had been made, and intermixed their colour; Nor one nor other seemed now what he was; E'en as proceedeth on before the flame Upward along the paper a brown colour, Which is not black as yet, and the white dies. The other two looked on, and each of them Cried out: "O me, Agnello, how thou changest! Behold, thou now art neither two nor one." Already the two heads had one become, When there appeared to us two figures mingled Into one face, wherein the two were lost. Of the four lists were fashioned the two arms, The thighs and legs, the belly and the chest Members became that never yet were seen. Every original aspect there was cancelled; Two and yet none did the perverted image Appear, and such departed with slow pace. Even as a lizard, under the great scourge Of days canicular, exchanging hedge, Lightning appeareth if the road it cross; Thus did appear, coming towards the bellies Of the two others, a small fiery serpent, Livid and black as is a peppercorn. And in that part whereat is first received Our aliment, it one of them transfixed; Then downward fell in front of him extended. The one transfixed looked at it, but said naught; Nay, rather with feet motionless he yawned, Just as if sleep or fever had assailed him. He at the serpent gazed, and it at him; One through the wound, the other through the mouth Smoked violently, and the smoke commingled. Henceforth be silent Lucan, where he mentions Wretched Sabellus and Nassidius, And wait to hear what now shall be shot forth. Be silent Ovid, of Cadmus and Arethusa; For if him to a snake, her to fountain, Converts he fabling, that I grudge him not; Because two natures never front to front Has he transmuted, so that both the forms To interchange their matter ready were. Together they responded in such wise, That to a fork the serpent cleft his tail, And eke the wounded drew his feet together. The legs together with the thighs themselves Adhered so, that in little time the juncture No sign whatever made that was apparent. He with the cloven tail assumed the figure The other one was losing, and his skin Became elastic, and the other's hard. I saw the arms draw inward at the armpits, And both feet of the reptile, that were short, Lengthen as much as those contracted were. Thereafter the hind feet, together twisted, Became the member that a man conceals, And of his own the wretch had two created. While both of them the exhalation veils With a new colour, and engenders hair On one of them and depilates the other, The one uprose and down the other fell, Though turning not away their impious lamps, Underneath which each one his muzzle changed. He who was standing drew it tow'rds the temples, And from excess of matter, which came thither, Issued the ears from out the hollow cheeks; What did not backward run and was retained Of that excess made to the face a nose, And the lips thickened far as was befitting. He who lay prostrate thrusts his muzzle forward, And backward draws the ears into his head, In the same manner as the snail its horns; And so the tongue, which was entire and apt For speech before, is cleft, and the bi-forked In the other closes up, and the smoke ceases. The soul, which to a reptile had been changed, Along the valley hissing takes to flight, And after him the other speaking sputters. Then did he turn upon him his new shoulders, And said to the other: "I'll have Buoso run, Crawling as I have done, along this road." In this way I beheld the seventh ballast Shift and reshift, and here be my excuse The novelty, if aught my pen transgress. And notwithstanding that mine eyes might be Somewhat bewildered, and my mind dismayed, They could not flee away so secretly But that I plainly saw Puccio Sciancato; And he it was who sole of three companions, Which came in the beginning, was not changed; The other was he whom thou, Gaville, weepest. Inferno: Canto XXVI Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great, That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings, And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad! Among the thieves five citizens of thine Like these I found, whence shame comes unto me, And thou thereby to no great honour risest. But if when morn is near our dreams are true, Feel shalt thou in a little time from now What Prato, if none other, craves for thee. And if it now were, it were not too soon; Would that it were, seeing it needs must be, For 'twill aggrieve me more the more I age. We went our way, and up along the stairs The bourns had made us to descend before, Remounted my Conductor and drew me. And following the solitary path Among the rocks and ridges of the crag, The foot without the hand sped not at all. Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again, When I direct my mind to what I saw, And more my genius curb than I am wont, That it may run not unless virtue guide it; So that if some good star, or better thing, Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it. As many as the hind (who on the hill Rests at the time when he who lights the world His countenance keeps least concealed from us, While as the fly gives place unto the gnat) Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley, Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage; With flames as manifold resplendent all Was the eighth Bolgia, as I grew aware As soon as I was where the depth appeared. And such as he who with the bears avenged him Beheld Elijah's chariot at departing, What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose, For with his eye he could not follow it So as to see aught else than flame alone, Even as a little cloud ascending upward, Thus each along the gorge of the intrenchment Was moving; for not one reveals the theft, And every flame a sinner steals away. I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see, So that, if I had seized not on a rock, Down had I fallen without being pushed. And the Leader, who beheld me so attent, Exclaimed: "Within the fires the spirits are; Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns." "My Master," I replied, "by hearing thee I am more sure; but I surmised already It might be so, and already wished to ask thee Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft At top, it seems uprising from the pyre Where was Eteocles with his brother placed." He answered me: "Within there are tormented Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together They unto vengeance run as unto wrath. And there within their flame do they lament The ambush of the horse, which made the door Whence issued forth the Romans' gentle seed; Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead Deidamia still deplores Achilles, And pain for the Palladium there is borne." "If they within those sparks possess the power To speak," I said, "thee, Master, much I pray, And re-pray, that the prayer be worth a thousand, That thou make no denial of awaiting Until the horned flame shall hither come; Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it." And he to me: "Worthy is thy entreaty Of much applause, and therefore I accept it; But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself. Leave me to speak, because I have conceived That which thou wishest; for they might disdain Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine." When now the flame had come unto that point, Where to my Leader it seemed time and place, After this fashion did I hear him speak: "O ye, who are twofold within one fire, If I deserved of you, while I was living, If I deserved of you or much or little When in the world I wrote the lofty verses, Do not move on, but one of you declare Whither, being lost, he went away to die." Then of the antique flame the greater horn, Murmuring, began to wave itself about Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues. Thereafterward, the summit to and fro Moving as if it were the tongue that spake, It uttered forth a voice, and said: "When I From Circe had departed, who concealed me More than a year there near unto Gaeta, Or ever yet Aeneas named it so, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence For my old father, nor the due affection Which joyous should have made Penelope, Could overcome within me the desire I had to be experienced of the world, And of the vice and virtue of mankind; But I put forth on the high open sea With one sole ship, and that small company By which I never had deserted been. Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain, Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes, And the others which that sea bathes round about. I and my company were old and slow When at that narrow passage we arrived Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals, That man no farther onward should adventure. On the right hand behind me left I Seville, And on the other already had left Ceuta. 'O brothers, who amid a hundred thousand Perils,' I said, 'have come unto the West, To this so inconsiderable vigil Which is remaining of your senses still Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge, Following the sun, of the unpeopled world. Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang; Ye were not made to live like unto brutes, But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.' So eager did I render my companions, With this brief exhortation, for the voyage, That then I hardly could have held them back. And having turned our stern unto the morning, We of the oars made wings for our mad flight, Evermore gaining on the larboard side. Already all the stars of the other pole The night beheld, and ours so very low It did not rise above the ocean floor. Five times rekindled and as many quenched Had been the splendour underneath the moon, Since we had entered into the deep pass, When there appeared to us a mountain, dim From distance, and it seemed to me so high As I had never any one beheld. Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping; For out of the new land a whirlwind rose, And smote upon the fore part of the ship. Three times it made her whirl with all the waters, At the fourth time it made the stern uplift, And the prow downward go, as pleased Another, Until the sea above us closed again." Inferno: Canto XXVII Already was the flame erect and quiet, To speak no more, and now departed from us With the permission of the gentle Poet; When yet another, which behind it came, Caused us to turn our eyes upon its top By a confused sound that issued from it. As the Sicilian bull (that bellowed first With the lament of him, and that was right, Who with his file had modulated it) Bellowed so with the voice of the afflicted, That, notwithstanding it was made of brass, Still it appeared with agony transfixed; Thus, by not having any way or issue At first from out the fire, to its own language Converted were the melancholy words. But afterwards, when they had gathered way Up through the point, giving it that vibration The tongue had given them in their passage out, We heard it said: "O thou, at whom I aim My voice, and who but now wast speaking Lombard, Saying, 'Now go thy way, no more I urge thee,' Because I come perchance a little late, To stay and speak with me let it not irk thee; Thou seest it irks not me, and I am burning. If thou but lately into this blind world Hast fallen down from that sweet Latian land, Wherefrom I bring the whole of my transgression, Say, if the Romagnuols have peace or war, For I was from the mountains there between Urbino and the yoke whence Tiber bursts." I still was downward bent and listening, When my Conductor touched me on the side, Saying: "Speak thou: this one a Latian is." And I, who had beforehand my reply In readiness, forthwith began to speak: "O soul, that down below there art concealed, Romagna thine is not and never has been Without war in the bosom of its tyrants; But open war I none have left there now. Ravenna stands as it long years has stood; The Eagle of Polenta there is brooding, So that she covers Cervia with her vans. The city which once made the long resistance, And of the French a sanguinary heap, Beneath the Green Paws finds itself again; Verrucchio's ancient Mastiff and the new, Who made such bad disposal of Montagna, Where they are wont make wimbles of their teeth. The cities of Lamone and Santerno Governs the Lioncel of the white lair, Who changes sides 'twixt summer-time and winter; And that of which the Savio bathes the flank, Even as it lies between the plain and mountain, Lives between tyranny and a free state. Now I entreat thee tell us who thou art; Be not more stubborn than the rest have been, So may thy name hold front there in the world." After the fire a little more had roared In its own fashion, the sharp point it moved This way and that, and then gave forth such breath: "If I believed that my reply were made To one who to the world would e'er return, This flame without more flickering would stand still; But inasmuch as never from this depth Did any one return, if I hear true, Without the fear of infamy I answer, I was a man of arms, then Cordelier, Believing thus begirt to make amends; And truly my belief had been fulfilled But for the High Priest, whom may ill betide, Who put me back into my former sins; And how and wherefore I will have thee hear. While I was still the form of bone and pulp My mother gave to me, the deeds I did Were not those of a lion, but a fox. The machinations and the covert ways I knew them all, and practised so their craft, That to the ends of earth the sound went forth. When now unto that portion of mine age I saw myself arrived, when each one ought To lower the sails, and coil away the ropes, That which before had pleased me then displeased me; And penitent and confessing I surrendered, Ah woe is me! and it would have bestead me; The Leader of the modern Pharisees Having a war near unto Lateran, And not with Saracens nor with the Jews, For each one of his enemies was Christian, And none of them had been to conquer Acre, Nor merchandising in the Sultan's land, Nor the high office, nor the sacred orders, In him regarded, nor in me that cord Which used to make those girt with it more meagre; But even as Constantine sought out Sylvester To cure his leprosy, within Soracte, So this one sought me out as an adept To cure him of the fever of his pride. Counsel he asked of me, and I was silent, Because his words appeared inebriate. And then he said: 'Be not thy heart afraid; Henceforth I thee absolve; and thou instruct me How to raze Palestrina to the ground. Heaven have I power to lock and to unlock, As thou dost know; therefore the keys are two, The which my predecessor held not dear.' Then urged me on his weighty arguments There, where my silence was the worst advice; And said I: 'Father, since thou washest me Of that sin into which I now must fall, The promise long with the fulfilment short Will make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.' Francis came afterward, when I was dead, For me; but one of the black Cherubim Said to him: 'Take him not; do me no wrong; He must come down among my servitors, Because he gave the fraudulent advice From which time forth I have been at his hair; For who repents not cannot be absolved, Nor can one both repent and will at once, Because of the contradiction which consents not.' O miserable me! how I did shudder When he seized on me, saying: 'Peradventure Thou didst not think that I was a logician!' He bore me unto Minos, who entwined Eight times his tail about his stubborn back, And after he had bitten it in great rage, Said: 'Of the thievish fire a culprit this;' Wherefore, here where thou seest, am I lost, And vested thus in going I bemoan me." When it had thus completed its recital, The flame departed uttering lamentations, Writhing and flapping its sharp-pointed horn. Onward we passed, both I and my Conductor, Up o'er the crag above another arch, Which the moat covers, where is paid the fee By those who, sowing discord, win their burden. Inferno: Canto XXVIII Who ever could, e'en with untrammelled words, Tell of the blood and of the wounds in full Which now I saw, by many times narrating? Each tongue would for a certainty fall short By reason of our speech and memory, That have small room to comprehend so much. If were again assembled all the people Which formerly upon the fateful land Of Puglia were lamenting for their blood Shed by the Romans and the lingering war That of the rings made such illustrious spoils, As Livy has recorded, who errs not, With those who felt the agony of blows By making counterstand to Robert Guiscard, And all the rest, whose bones are gathered still At Ceperano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, and at Tagliacozzo, Where without arms the old Alardo conquered, And one his limb transpierced, and one lopped off, Should show, it would be nothing to compare With the disgusting mode of the ninth Bolgia. A cask by losing centre-piece or cant Was never shattered so, as I saw one Rent from the chin to where one breaketh wind. Between his legs were hanging down his entrails; His heart was visible, and the dismal sack That maketh excrement of what is eaten. While I was all absorbed in seeing him, He looked at me, and opened with his hands His bosom, saying: "See now how I rend me; How mutilated, see, is Mahomet; In front of me doth Ali weeping go, Cleft in the face from forelock unto chin; And all the others whom thou here beholdest, Disseminators of scandal and of schism While living were, and therefore are cleft thus. A devil is behind here, who doth cleave us Thus cruelly, unto the falchion's edge Putting again each one of all this ream, When we have gone around the doleful road; By reason that our wounds are closed again Ere any one in front of him repass. But who art thou, that musest on the crag, Perchance to postpone going to the pain That is adjudged upon thine accusations?" "Nor death hath reached him yet, nor guilt doth bring him," My Master made reply, "to be tormented; But to procure him full experience, Me, who am dead, behoves it to conduct him Down here through Hell, from circle unto circle; And this is true as that I speak to thee." More than a hundred were there when they heard him, Who in the moat stood still to look at me, Through wonderment oblivious of their torture. "Now say to Fra Dolcino, then, to arm him, Thou, who perhaps wilt shortly see the sun, If soon he wish not here to follow me, So with provisions, that no stress of snow May give the victory to the Novarese, Which otherwise to gain would not be easy." After one foot to go away he lifted, This word did Mahomet say unto me, Then to depart upon the ground he stretched it. Another one, who had his throat pierced through, And nose cut off close underneath the brows, And had no longer but a single ear, Staying to look in wonder with the others, Before the others did his gullet open, Which outwardly was red in every part, And said: "O thou, whom guilt doth not condemn, And whom I once saw up in Latian land, Unless too great similitude deceive me, Call to remembrance Pier da Medicina, If e'er thou see again the lovely plain That from Vercelli slopes to Marcabo, And make it known to the best two of Fano, To Messer Guido and Angiolello likewise, That if foreseeing here be not in vain, Cast over from their vessel shall they be, And drowned near unto the Cattolica, By the betrayal of a tyrant fell. Between the isles of Cyprus and Majorca Neptune ne'er yet beheld so great a crime, Neither of pirates nor Argolic people. That traitor, who sees only with one eye, And holds the land, which some one here with me Would fain be fasting from the vision of, Will make them come unto a parley with him; Then will do so, that to Focara's wind They will not stand in need of vow or prayer." And I to him: "Show to me and declare, If thou wouldst have me bear up news of thee, Who is this person of the bitter vision." Then did he lay his hand upon the jaw Of one of his companions, and his mouth Oped, crying: "This is he, and he speaks not. This one, being banished, every doubt submerged In Caesar by affirming the forearmed Always with detriment allowed delay." O how bewildered unto me appeared, With tongue asunder in his windpipe slit, Curio, who in speaking was so bold! And one, who both his hands dissevered had, The stumps uplifting through the murky air, So that the blood made horrible his face, Cried out: "Thou shalt remember Mosca also, Who said, alas! 'A thing done has an end!' Which was an ill seed for the Tuscan people." "And death unto thy race," thereto I added; Whence he, accumulating woe on woe, Departed, like a person sad and crazed. But I remained to look upon the crowd; And saw a thing which I should be afraid, Without some further proof, even to recount, If it were not that conscience reassures me, That good companion which emboldens man Beneath the hauberk of its feeling pure. I truly saw, and still I seem to see it, A trunk without a head walk in like manner As walked the others of the mournful herd. And by the hair it held the head dissevered, Hung from the hand in fashion of a lantern, And that upon us gazed and said: "O me!" It of itself made to itself a lamp, And they were two in one, and one in two; How that can be, He knows who so ordains it. When it was come close to the bridge's foot, It lifted high its arm with all the head, To bring more closely unto us its words, Which were: "Behold now the sore penalty, Thou, who dost breathing go the dead beholding; Behold if any be as great as this. And so that thou may carry news of me, Know that Bertram de Born am I, the same Who gave to the Young King the evil comfort. I made the father and the son rebellious; Achitophel not more with Absalom And David did with his accursed goadings. Because I parted persons so united, Parted do I now bear my brain, alas! From its beginning, which is in this trunk. Thus is observed in me the counterpoise." Inferno: Canto XXIX The many people and the divers wounds These eyes of mine had so inebriated, That they were wishful to stand still and weep; But said Virgilius: "What dost thou still gaze at? Why is thy sight still riveted down there Among the mournful, mutilated shades? Thou hast not done so at the other Bolge; Consider, if to count them thou believest, That two-and-twenty miles the valley winds, And now the moon is underneath our feet; Henceforth the time allotted us is brief, And more is to be seen than what thou seest." "If thou hadst," I made answer thereupon, "Attended to the cause for which I looked, Perhaps a longer stay thou wouldst have pardoned." Meanwhile my Guide departed, and behind him I went, already making my reply, And superadding: "In that cavern where I held mine eyes with such attention fixed, I think a spirit of my blood laments The sin which down below there costs so much." Then said the Master: "Be no longer broken Thy thought from this time forward upon him; Attend elsewhere, and there let him remain; For him I saw below the little bridge, Pointing at thee, and threatening with his finger Fiercely, and heard him called Geri del Bello. So wholly at that time wast thou impeded By him who formerly held Altaforte, Thou didst not look that way; so he departed." "O my Conductor, his own violent death, Which is not yet avenged for him," I said, "By any who is sharer in the shame, Made him disdainful; whence he went away, As I imagine, without speaking to me, And thereby made me pity him the more." Thus did we speak as far as the first place Upon the crag, which the next valley shows Down to the bottom, if there were more light. When we were now right over the last cloister Of Malebolge, so that its lay-brothers Could manifest themselves unto our sight, Divers lamentings pierced me through and through, Which with compassion had their arrows barbed, Whereat mine ears I covered with my hands. What pain would be, if from the hospitals Of Valdichiana, 'twixt July and September, And of Maremma and Sardinia All the diseases in one moat were gathered, Such was it here, and such a stench came from it As from putrescent limbs is wont to issue. We had descended on the furthest bank From the long crag, upon the left hand still, And then more vivid was my power of sight Down tow'rds the bottom, where the ministress Of the high Lord, Justice infallible, Punishes forgers, which she here records. I do not think a sadder sight to see Was in Aegina the whole people sick, (When was the air so full of pestilence, The animals, down to the little worm, All fell, and afterwards the ancient people, According as the poets have affirmed, Were from the seed of ants restored again,) Than was it to behold through that dark valley The spirits languishing in divers heaps. This on the belly, that upon the back One of the other lay, and others crawling Shifted themselves along the dismal road. We step by step went onward without speech, Gazing upon and listening to the sick Who had not strength enough to lift their bodies. I saw two sitting leaned against each other, As leans in heating platter against platter, From head to foot bespotted o'er with scabs; And never saw I plied a currycomb By stable-boy for whom his master waits, Or him who keeps awake unwillingly, As every one was plying fast the bite Of nails upon himself, for the great rage Of itching which no other succour had. And the nails downward with them dragged the scab, In fashion as a knife the scales of bream, Or any other fish that has them largest. "O thou, that with thy fingers dost dismail thee," Began my Leader unto one of them, "And makest of them pincers now and then, Tell me if any Latian is with those Who are herein; so may thy nails suffice thee To all eternity unto this work." "Latians are we, whom thou so wasted seest, Both of us here," one weeping made reply; "But who art thou, that questionest about us?" And said the Guide: "One am I who descends Down with this living man from cliff to cliff, And I intend to show Hell unto him." Then broken was their mutual support, And trembling each one turned himself to me, With others who had heard him by rebound. Wholly to me did the good Master gather, Saying: "Say unto them whate'er thou wishest." And I began, since he would have it so: "So may your memory not steal away In the first world from out the minds of men, But so may it survive 'neath many suns, Say to me who ye are, and of what people; Let not your foul and loathsome punishment Make you afraid to show yourselves to me." "I of Arezzo was," one made reply, "And Albert of Siena had me burned; But what I died for does not bring me here. 'Tis true I said to him, speaking in jest, That I could rise by flight into the air, And he who had conceit, but little wit, Would have me show to him the art; and only Because no Daedalus I made him, made me Be burned by one who held him as his son. But unto the last Bolgia of the ten, For alchemy, which in the world I practised, Minos, who cannot err, has me condemned." And to the Poet said I: "Now was ever So vain a people as the Sienese? Not for a certainty the French by far." Whereat the other leper, who had heard me, Replied unto my speech: "Taking out Stricca, Who knew the art of moderate expenses, And Niccolo, who the luxurious use Of cloves discovered earliest of all Within that garden where such seed takes root; And taking out the band, among whom squandered Caccia d'Ascian his vineyards and vast woods, And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered! But, that thou know who thus doth second thee Against the Sienese, make sharp thine eye Tow'rds me, so that my face well answer thee, And thou shalt see I am Capocchio's shade, Who metals falsified by alchemy; Thou must remember, if I well descry thee, How I a skilful ape of nature was." Inferno: Canto XXX 'Twas at the time when Juno was enraged, For Semele, against the Theban blood, As she already more than once had shown, So reft of reason Athamas became, That, seeing his own wife with children twain Walking encumbered upon either hand, He cried: "Spread out the nets, that I may take The lioness and her whelps upon the passage;" And then extended his unpitying claws, Seizing the first, who had the name Learchus, And whirled him round, and dashed him on a rock; And she, with the other burthen, drowned herself;-- And at the time when fortune downward hurled The Trojan's arrogance, that all things dared, So that the king was with his kingdom crushed, Hecuba sad, disconsolate, and captive, When lifeless she beheld Polyxena, And of her Polydorus on the shore Of ocean was the dolorous one aware, Out of her senses like a dog she barked, So much the anguish had her mind distorted; But not of Thebes the furies nor the Trojan Were ever seen in any one so cruel In goading beasts, and much more human members, As I beheld two shadows pale and naked, Who, biting, in the manner ran along That a boar does, when from the sty turned loose. One to Capocchio came, and by the nape Seized with its teeth his neck, so that in dragging It made his belly grate the solid bottom. And the Aretine, who trembling had remained, Said to me: "That mad sprite is Gianni Schicchi, And raving goes thus harrying other people." "O," said I to him, "so may not the other Set teeth on thee, let it not weary thee To tell us who it is, ere it dart hence." And he to me: "That is the ancient ghost Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became Beyond all rightful love her father's lover. She came to sin with him after this manner, By counterfeiting of another's form; As he who goeth yonder undertook, That he might gain the lady of the herd, To counterfeit in himself Buoso Donati, Making a will and giving it due form." And after the two maniacs had passed On whom I held mine eye, I turned it back To look upon the other evil-born. I saw one made in fashion of a lute, If he had only had the groin cut off Just at the point at which a man is forked. The heavy dropsy, that so disproportions The limbs with humours, which it ill concocts, That the face corresponds not to the belly, Compelled him so to hold his lips apart As does the hectic, who because of thirst One tow'rds the chin, the other upward turns. "O ye, who without any torment are, And why I know not, in the world of woe," He said to us, "behold, and be attentive Unto the misery of Master Adam; I had while living much of what I wished, And now, alas! a drop of water crave. The rivulets, that from the verdant hills Of Cassentin descend down into Arno, Making their channels to be cold and moist, Ever before me stand, and not in vain; For far more doth their image dry me up Than the disease which strips my face of flesh. The rigid justice that chastises me Draweth occasion from the place in which I sinned, to put the more my sighs in flight. There is Romena, where I counterfeited The currency imprinted with the Baptist, For which I left my body burned above. But if I here could see the tristful soul Of Guido, or Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's fount I would not give the sight. One is within already, if the raving Shades that are going round about speak truth; But what avails it me, whose limbs are tied? If I were only still so light, that in A hundred years I could advance one inch, I had already started on the way, Seeking him out among this squalid folk, Although the circuit be eleven miles, And be not less than half a mile across. For them am I in such a family; They did induce me into coining florins, Which had three carats of impurity." And I to him: "Who are the two poor wretches That smoke like unto a wet hand in winter, Lying there close upon thy right-hand confines?" "I found them here," replied he, "when I rained Into this chasm, and since they have not turned, Nor do I think they will for evermore. One the false woman is who accused Joseph, The other the false Sinon, Greek of Troy; From acute fever they send forth such reek." And one of them, who felt himself annoyed At being, peradventure, named so darkly, Smote with the fist upon his hardened paunch. It gave a sound, as if it were a drum; And Master Adam smote him in the face, With arm that did not seem to be less hard, Saying to him: "Although be taken from me All motion, for my limbs that heavy are, I have an arm unfettered for such need." Whereat he answer made: "When thou didst go Unto the fire, thou hadst it not so ready: But hadst it so and more when thou wast coining." The dropsical: "Thou sayest true in that; But thou wast not so true a witness there, Where thou wast questioned of the truth at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsifiedst the coin," Said Sinon; "and for one fault I am here, And thou for more than any other demon." "Remember, perjurer, about the horse," He made reply who had the swollen belly, "And rueful be it thee the whole world knows it." "Rueful to thee the thirst be wherewith cracks Thy tongue," the Greek said, "and the putrid water That hedges so thy paunch before thine eyes." Then the false-coiner: "So is gaping wide Thy mouth for speaking evil, as 'tis wont; Because if I have thirst, and humour stuff me Thou hast the burning and the head that aches, And to lick up the mirror of Narcissus Thou wouldst not want words many to invite thee." In listening to them was I wholly fixed, When said the Master to me: "Now just look, For little wants it that I quarrel with thee." When him I heard in anger speak to me, I turned me round towards him with such shame That still it eddies through my memory. And as he is who dreams of his own harm, Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream, So that he craves what is, as if it were not; Such I became, not having power to speak, For to excuse myself I wished, and still Excused myself, and did not think I did it. "Less shame doth wash away a greater fault," The Master said, "than this of thine has been; Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness, And make account that I am aye beside thee, If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee Where there are people in a like dispute; For a base wish it is to wish to hear it." Inferno: Canto XXXI One and the selfsame tongue first wounded me, So that it tinged the one cheek and the other, And then held out to me the medicine; Thus do I hear that once Achilles' spear, His and his father's, used to be the cause First of a sad and then a gracious boon. We turned our backs upon the wretched valley, Upon the bank that girds it round about, Going across it without any speech. There it was less than night, and less than day, So that my sight went little in advance; But I could hear the blare of a loud horn, So loud it would have made each thunder faint, Which, counter to it following its way, Mine eyes directed wholly to one place. After the dolorous discomfiture When Charlemagne the holy emprise lost, So terribly Orlando sounded not. Short while my head turned thitherward I held When many lofty towers I seemed to see, Whereat I: "Master, say, what town is this?" And he to me: "Because thou peerest forth Athwart the darkness at too great a distance, It happens that thou errest in thy fancy. Well shalt thou see, if thou arrivest there, How much the sense deceives itself by distance; Therefore a little faster spur thee on." Then tenderly he took me by the hand, And said: "Before we farther have advanced, That the reality may seem to thee Less strange, know that these are not towers, but giants, And they are in the well, around the bank, From navel downward, one and all of them." As, when the fog is vanishing away, Little by little doth the sight refigure Whate'er the mist that crowds the air conceals, So, piercing through the dense and darksome air, More and more near approaching tow'rd the verge, My error fled, and fear came over me; Because as on its circular parapets Montereggione crowns itself with towers, E'en thus the margin which surrounds the well With one half of their bodies turreted The horrible giants, whom Jove menaces E'en now from out the heavens when he thunders. And I of one already saw the face, Shoulders, and breast, and great part of the belly, And down along his sides both of the arms. Certainly Nature, when she left the making Of animals like these, did well indeed, By taking such executors from Mars; And if of elephants and whales she doth not Repent her, whosoever looketh subtly More just and more discreet will hold her for it; For where the argument of intellect Is added unto evil will and power, No rampart can the people make against it. His face appeared to me as long and large As is at Rome the pine-cone of Saint Peter's, And in proportion were the other bones; So that the margin, which an apron was Down from the middle, showed so much of him Above it, that to reach up to his hair Three Frieslanders in vain had vaunted them; For I beheld thirty great palms of him Down from the place where man his mantle buckles. "Raphael mai amech izabi almi," Began to clamour the ferocious mouth, To which were not befitting sweeter psalms. And unto him my Guide: "Soul idiotic, Keep to thy horn, and vent thyself with that, When wrath or other passion touches thee. Search round thy neck, and thou wilt find the belt Which keeps it fastened, O bewildered soul, And see it, where it bars thy mighty breast." Then said to me: "He doth himself accuse; This one is Nimrod, by whose evil thought One language in the world is not still used. Here let us leave him and not speak in vain; For even such to him is every language As his to others, which to none is known." Therefore a longer journey did we make, Turned to the left, and a crossbow-shot oft We found another far more fierce and large. In binding him, who might the master be I cannot say; but he had pinioned close Behind the right arm, and in front the other, With chains, that held him so begirt about From the neck down, that on the part uncovered It wound itself as far as the fifth gyre. "This proud one wished to make experiment Of his own power against the Supreme Jove," My Leader said, "whence he has such a guerdon. Ephialtes is his name; he showed great prowess. What time the giants terrified the gods; The arms he wielded never more he moves." And I to him: "If possible, I should wish That of the measureless Briareus These eyes of mine might have experience." Whence he replied: "Thou shalt behold Antaeus Close by here, who can speak and is unbound, Who at the bottom of all crime shall place us. Much farther yon is he whom thou wouldst see, And he is bound, and fashioned like to this one, Save that he seems in aspect more ferocious." There never was an earthquake of such might That it could shake a tower so violently, As Ephialtes suddenly shook himself. Then was I more afraid of death than ever, For nothing more was needful than the fear, If I had not beheld the manacles. Then we proceeded farther in advance, And to Antaeus came, who, full five ells Without the head, forth issued from the cavern. "O thou, who in the valley fortunate, Which Scipio the heir of glory made, When Hannibal turned back with all his hosts, Once brought'st a thousand lions for thy prey, And who, hadst thou been at the mighty war Among thy brothers, some it seems still think The sons of Earth the victory would have gained: Place us below, nor be disdainful of it, There where the cold doth lock Cocytus up. Make us not go to Tityus nor Typhoeus; This one can give of that which here is longed for; Therefore stoop down, and do not curl thy lip. Still in the world can he restore thy fame; Because he lives, and still expects long life, If to itself Grace call him not untimely." So said the Master; and in haste the other His hands extended and took up my Guide,-- Hands whose great pressure Hercules once felt. Virgilius, when he felt himself embraced, Said unto me: "Draw nigh, that I may take thee;" Then of himself and me one bundle made. As seems the Carisenda, to behold Beneath the leaning side, when goes a cloud Above it so that opposite it hangs; Such did Antaeus seem to me, who stood Watching to see him stoop, and then it was I could have wished to go some other way. But lightly in the abyss, which swallows up Judas with Lucifer, he put us down; Nor thus bowed downward made he there delay, But, as a mast does in a ship, uprose. Inferno: Canto XXXII If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous, As were appropriate to the dismal hole Down upon which thrust all the other rocks, I would press out the juice of my conception More fully; but because I have them not, Not without fear I bring myself to speak; For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest, To sketch the bottom of all the universe, Nor for a tongue that cries Mamma and Babbo. But may those Ladies help this verse of mine, Who helped Amphion in enclosing Thebes, That from the fact the word be not diverse. O rabble ill-begotten above all, Who're in the place to speak of which is hard, 'Twere better ye had here been sheep or goats! When we were down within the darksome well, Beneath the giant's feet, but lower far, And I was scanning still the lofty wall, I heard it said to me: "Look how thou steppest! Take heed thou do not trample with thy feet The heads of the tired, miserable brothers!" Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me And underfoot a lake, that from the frost The semblance had of glass, and not of water. So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current In winter-time Danube in Austria, Nor there beneath the frigid sky the Don, As there was here; so that if Tambernich Had fallen upon it, or Pietrapana, E'en at the edge 'twould not have given a creak. And as to croak the frog doth place himself With muzzle out of water,--when is dreaming Of gleaning oftentimes the peasant-girl,-- Livid, as far down as where shame appears, Were the disconsolate shades within the ice, Setting their teeth unto the note of storks. Each one his countenance held downward bent; From mouth the cold, from eyes the doleful heart Among them witness of itself procures. When round about me somewhat I had looked, I downward turned me, and saw two so close, The hair upon their heads together mingled. "Ye who so strain your breasts together, tell me," I said, "who are you;" and they bent their necks, And when to me their faces they had lifted, Their eyes, which first were only moist within, Gushed o'er the eyelids, and the frost congealed The tears between, and locked them up again. Clamp never bound together wood with wood So strongly; whereat they, like two he-goats, Butted together, so much wrath o'ercame them. And one, who had by reason of the cold Lost both his ears, still with his visage downward, Said: "Why dost thou so mirror thyself in us? If thou desire to know who these two are, The valley whence Bisenzio descends Belonged to them and to their father Albert. They from one body came, and all Caina Thou shalt search through, and shalt not find a shade More worthy to be fixed in gelatine; Not he in whom were broken breast and shadow At one and the same blow by Arthur's hand; Focaccia not; not he who me encumbers So with his head I see no farther forward, And bore the name of Sassol Mascheroni; Well knowest thou who he was, if thou art Tuscan. And that thou put me not to further speech, Know that I Camicion de' Pazzi was, And wait Carlino to exonerate me." Then I beheld a thousand faces, made Purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder, And evermore will come, at frozen ponds. And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle, Where everything of weight unites together, And I was shivering in the eternal shade, Whether 'twere will, or destiny, or chance, I know not; but in walking 'mong the heads I struck my foot hard in the face of one. Weeping he growled: "Why dost thou trample me? Unless thou comest to increase the vengeance of Montaperti, why dost thou molest me?" And I: "My Master, now wait here for me, That I through him may issue from a doubt; Then thou mayst hurry me, as thou shalt wish." The Leader stopped; and to that one I said Who was blaspheming vehemently still: "Who art thou, that thus reprehendest others?" "Now who art thou, that goest through Antenora Smiting," replied he, "other people's cheeks, So that, if thou wert living, 'twere too much?" "Living I am, and dear to thee it may be," Was my response, "if thou demandest fame, That 'mid the other notes thy name I place." And he to me: "For the reverse I long; Take thyself hence, and give me no more trouble; For ill thou knowest to flatter in this hollow." Then by the scalp behind I seized upon him, And said: "It must needs be thou name thyself, Or not a hair remain upon thee here." Whence he to me: "Though thou strip off my hair, I will not tell thee who I am, nor show thee, If on my head a thousand times thou fall." I had his hair in hand already twisted, And more than one shock of it had pulled out, He barking, with his eyes held firmly down, When cried another: "What doth ail thee, Bocca? Is't not enough to clatter with thy jaws, But thou must bark? what devil touches thee?" "Now," said I, "I care not to have thee speak, Accursed traitor; for unto thy shame I will report of thee veracious news." "Begone," replied he, "and tell what thou wilt, But be not silent, if thou issue hence, Of him who had just now his tongue so prompt; He weepeth here the silver of the French; 'I saw,' thus canst thou phrase it, 'him of Duera There where the sinners stand out in the cold.' If thou shouldst questioned be who else was there, Thou hast beside thee him of Beccaria, Of whom the gorget Florence slit asunder; Gianni del Soldanier, I think, may be Yonder with Ganellon, and Tebaldello Who oped Faenza when the people slep." Already we had gone away from him, When I beheld two frozen in one hole, So that one head a hood was to the other; And even as bread through hunger is devoured, The uppermost on the other set his teeth, There where the brain is to the nape united. Not in another fashion Tydeus gnawed The temples of Menalippus in disdain, Than that one did the skull and the other things. "O thou, who showest by such bestial sign Thy hatred against him whom thou art eating, Tell me the wherefore," said I, "with this compact, That if thou rightfully of him complain, In knowing who ye are, and his transgression, I in the world above repay thee for it, If that wherewith I speak be not dried up." Inferno: Canto XXXIII His mouth uplifted from his grim repast, That sinner, wiping it upon the hair Of the same head that he behind had wasted. Then he began: "Thou wilt that I renew The desperate grief, which wrings my heart already To think of only, ere I speak of it; But if my words be seed that may bear fruit Of infamy to the traitor whom I gnaw, Speaking and weeping shalt thou see together. I know not who thou art, nor by what mode Thou hast come down here; but a Florentine Thou seemest to me truly, when I hear thee. Thou hast to know I was Count Ugolino, And this one was Ruggieri the Archbishop; Now I will tell thee why I am such a neighbour. That, by effect of his malicious thoughts, Trusting in him I was made prisoner, And after put to death, I need not say; But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard, That is to say, how cruel was my death, Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me. A narrow perforation in the mew, Which bears because of me the title of Famine, And in which others still must be locked up, Had shown me through its opening many moons Already, when I dreamed the evil dream Which of the future rent for me the veil. This one appeared to me as lord and master, Hunting the wolf and whelps upon the mountain For which the Pisans cannot Lucca see. With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained, Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi He had sent out before him to the front. After brief course seemed unto me forespent The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open. When I before the morrow was awake, Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons Who with me were, and asking after bread. Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not, Thinking of what my heart foreboded me, And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at? They were awake now, and the hour drew nigh At which our food used to be brought to us, And through his dream was each one apprehensive; And I heard locking up the under door Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word I gazed into the faces of my sons. I wept not, I within so turned to stone; They wept; and darling little Anselm mine Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?' Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter, Until another sun rose on the world. As now a little glimmer made its way Into the dolorous prison, and I saw Upon four faces my own very aspect, Both of my hands in agony I bit; And, thinking that I did it from desire Of eating, on a sudden they uprose, And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.' I calmed me then, not to make them more sad. That day we all were silent, and the next. Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open? When we had come unto the fourth day, Gaddo Threw himself down outstretched before my feet, Saying, 'My father, why dost thou not help me?' And there he died; and, as thou seest me, I saw the three fall, one by one, between The fifth day and the sixth; whence I betook me, Already blind, to groping over each, And three days called them after they were dead; Then hunger did what sorrow could not do." When he had said this, with his eyes distorted, The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth, Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong. Ah! Pisa, thou opprobrium of the people Of the fair land there where the 'Si' doth sound, Since slow to punish thee thy neighbours are, Let the Capraia and Gorgona move, And make a hedge across the mouth of Arno That every person in thee it may drown! For if Count Ugolino had the fame Of having in thy castles thee betrayed, Thou shouldst not on such cross have put his sons. Guiltless of any crime, thou modern Thebes! Their youth made Uguccione and Brigata, And the other two my song doth name above! We passed still farther onward, where the ice Another people ruggedly enswathes, Not downward turned, but all of them reversed. Weeping itself there does not let them weep, And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes Turns itself inward to increase the anguish; Because the earliest tears a cluster form, And, in the manner of a crystal visor, Fill all the cup beneath the eyebrow full. And notwithstanding that, as in a callus, Because of cold all sensibility Its station had abandoned in my face, Still it appeared to me I felt some wind; Whence I: "My Master, who sets this in motion? Is not below here every vapour quenched?" Whence he to me: "Full soon shalt thou be where Thine eye shall answer make to thee of this, Seeing the cause which raineth down the blast." And one of the wretches of the frozen crust Cried out to us: "O souls so merciless That the last post is given unto you, Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart A little, e'er the weeping recongeal." Whence I to him: "If thou wouldst have me help thee Say who thou wast; and if I free thee not, May I go to the bottom of the ice." Then he replied: "I am Friar Alberigo; He am I of the fruit of the bad garden, Who here a date am getting for my fig." "O," said I to him, "now art thou, too, dead?" And he to me: "How may my body fare Up in the world, no knowledge I possess. Such an advantage has this Ptolomaea, That oftentimes the soul descendeth here Sooner than Atropos in motion sets it. And, that thou mayest more willingly remove From off my countenance these glassy tears, Know that as soon as any soul betrays As I have done, his body by a demon Is taken from him, who thereafter rules it, Until his time has wholly been revolved. Itself down rushes into such a cistern; And still perchance above appears the body Of yonder shade, that winters here behind me. This thou shouldst know, if thou hast just come down; It is Ser Branca d' Oria, and many years Have passed away since he was thus locked up." "I think," said I to him, "thou dost deceive me; For Branca d' Oria is not dead as yet, And eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes." "In moat above," said he, "of Malebranche, There where is boiling the tenacious pitch, As yet had Michel Zanche not arrived, When this one left a devil in his stead In his own body and one near of kin, Who made together with him the betrayal. But hitherward stretch out thy hand forthwith, Open mine eyes;"--and open them I did not, And to be rude to him was courtesy. Ah, Genoese! ye men at variance With every virtue, full of every vice Wherefore are ye not scattered from the world? For with the vilest spirit of Romagna I found of you one such, who for his deeds In soul already in Cocytus bathes, And still above in body seems alive! Inferno: Canto XXXIV "'Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni' Towards us; therefore look in front of thee," My Master said, "if thou discernest him." As, when there breathes a heavy fog, or when Our hemisphere is darkening into night, Appears far off a mill the wind is turning, Methought that such a building then I saw; And, for the wind, I drew myself behind My Guide, because there was no other shelter. Now was I, and with fear in verse I put it, There where the shades were wholly covered up, And glimmered through like unto straws in glass. Some prone are lying, others stand erect, This with the head, and that one with the soles; Another, bow-like, face to feet inverts. When in advance so far we had proceeded, That it my Master pleased to show to me The creature who once had the beauteous semblance, He from before me moved and made me stop, Saying: "Behold Dis, and behold the place Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself." How frozen I became and powerless then, Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not, Because all language would be insufficient. I did not die, and I alive remained not; Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit, What I became, being of both deprived. The Emperor of the kingdom dolorous From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice; And better with a giant I compare Than do the giants with those arms of his; Consider now how great must be that whole, Which unto such a part conforms itself. Were he as fair once, as he now is foul, And lifted up his brow against his Maker, Well may proceed from him all tribulation. O, what a marvel it appeared to me, When I beheld three faces on his head! The one in front, and that vermilion was; Two were the others, that were joined with this Above the middle part of either shoulder, And they were joined together at the crest; And the right-hand one seemed 'twixt white and yellow; The left was such to look upon as those Who come from where the Nile falls valley-ward. Underneath each came forth two mighty wings, Such as befitting were so great a bird; Sails of the sea I never saw so large. No feathers had they, but as of a bat Their fashion was; and he was waving them, So that three winds proceeded forth therefrom. Thereby Cocytus wholly was congealed. With six eyes did he weep, and down three chins Trickled the tear-drops and the bloody drivel. At every mouth he with his teeth was crunching A sinner, in the manner of a brake, So that he three of them tormented thus. To him in front the biting was as naught Unto the clawing, for sometimes the spine Utterly stripped of all the skin remained. "That soul up there which has the greatest pain," The Master said, "is Judas Iscariot; With head inside, he plies his legs without. Of the two others, who head downward are, The one who hangs from the black jowl is Brutus; See how he writhes himself, and speaks no word. And the other, who so stalwart seems, is Cassius. But night is reascending, and 'tis time That we depart, for we have seen the whole." As seemed him good, I clasped him round the neck, And he the vantage seized of time and place, And when the wings were opened wide apart, He laid fast hold upon the shaggy sides; From fell to fell descended downward then Between the thick hair and the frozen crust. When we were come to where the thigh revolves Exactly on the thickness of the haunch, The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath, Turned round his head where he had had his legs, And grappled to the hair, as one who mounts, So that to Hell I thought we were returning. "Keep fast thy hold, for by such stairs as these," The Master said, panting as one fatigued, "Must we perforce depart from so much evil." Then through the opening of a rock he issued, And down upon the margin seated me; Then tow'rds me he outstretched his wary step. I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see Lucifer in the same way I had left him; And I beheld him upward hold his legs. And if I then became disquieted, Let stolid people think who do not see What the point is beyond which I had passed. "Rise up," the Master said, "upon thy feet; The way is long, and difficult the road, And now the sun to middle-tierce returns." It was not any palace corridor There where we were, but dungeon natural, With floor uneven and unease of light. "Ere from the abyss I tear myself away, My Master," said I when I had arisen, "To draw me from an error speak a little; Where is the ice? and how is this one fixed Thus upside down? and how in such short time From eve to morn has the sun made his transit?" And he to me: "Thou still imaginest Thou art beyond the centre, where I grasped The hair of the fell worm, who mines the world. That side thou wast, so long as I descended; When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point To which things heavy draw from every side, And now beneath the hemisphere art come Opposite that which overhangs the vast Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death The Man who without sin was born and lived. Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere Which makes the other face of the Judecca. Here it is morn when it is evening there; And he who with his hair a stairway made us Still fixed remaineth as he was before. Upon this side he fell down out of heaven; And all the land, that whilom here emerged, For fear of him made of the sea a veil, And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure To flee from him, what on this side appears Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled." A place there is below, from Beelzebub As far receding as the tomb extends, Which not by sight is known, but by the sound Of a small rivulet, that there descendeth Through chasm within the stone, which it has gnawed With course that winds about and slightly falls. The Guide and I into that hidden road Now entered, to return to the bright world; And without care of having any rest We mounted up, he first and I the second, Till I beheld through a round aperture Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear; Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars. 
1995	----	None 
1005	----	HELL OR THE INFERNO FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Cantos 1 - 34 CANTO I IN the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood, astray Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell It were no easy task, how savage wild That forest, how robust and rough its growth, Which to remember only, my dismay Renews, in bitterness not far from death. Yet to discourse of what there good befell, All else will I relate discover'd there. How first I enter'd it I scarce can say, Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd My senses down, when the true path I left, But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread, I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad Already vested with that planet's beam, Who leads all wanderers safe through every way. Then was a little respite to the fear, That in my heart's recesses deep had lain, All of that night, so pitifully pass'd: And as a man, with difficult short breath, Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore, Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits, That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame After short pause recomforted, again I journey'd on over that lonely steep, The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light, And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd, Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove To check my onward going; that ofttimes With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd. The hour was morning's prime, and on his way Aloft the sun ascended with those stars, That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin Of that swift animal, the matin dawn And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd, And by new dread succeeded, when in view A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd, With his head held aloft and hunger-mad, That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd Full of all wants, and many a land hath made Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd, That of the height all hope I lost. As one, Who with his gain elated, sees the time When all unwares is gone, he inwardly Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I, Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace, Who coming o'er against me, by degrees Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests. While to the lower space with backward step I fell, my ken discern'd the form one of one, Whose voice seem'd faint through long disuse of speech. When him in that great desert I espied, "Have mercy on me!" cried I out aloud, "Spirit! or living man! what e'er thou be!" He answer'd: "Now not man, man once I was, And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both By country, when the power of Julius yet Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time Of fabled deities and false. A bard Was I, and made Anchises' upright son The subject of my song, who came from Troy, When the flames prey'd on Ilium's haughty towers. But thou, say wherefore to such perils past Return'st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?" "And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring, From which such copious floods of eloquence Have issued?" I with front abash'd replied. "Glory and light of all the tuneful train! May it avail me that I long with zeal Have sought thy volume, and with love immense Have conn'd it o'er. My master thou and guide! Thou he from whom alone I have deriv'd That style, which for its beauty into fame Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled. O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!" "For every vein and pulse throughout my frame She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw That I was weeping, answer'd, "Thou must needs Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape From out that savage wilderness. This beast, At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death: So bad and so accursed in her kind, That never sated is her ravenous will, Still after food more craving than before. To many an animal in wedlock vile She fastens, and shall yet to many more, Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy Her with sharp pain. He will not life support By earth nor its base metals, but by love, Wisdom, and virtue, and his land shall be The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might Shall safety to Italia's plains arise, For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure, Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell. He with incessant chase through every town Shall worry, until he to hell at length Restore her, thence by envy first let loose. I for thy profit pond'ring now devise, That thou mayst follow me, and I thy guide Will lead thee hence through an eternal space, Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see Spirits of old tormented, who invoke A second death; and those next view, who dwell Content in fire, for that they hope to come, Whene'er the time may be, among the blest, Into whose regions if thou then desire T' ascend, a spirit worthier then I Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart, Thou shalt be left: for that Almighty King, Who reigns above, a rebel to his law, Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed, That to his city none through me should come. He in all parts hath sway; there rules, there holds His citadel and throne. O happy those, Whom there he chooses!" I to him in few: "Bard! by that God, whom thou didst not adore, I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse I may escape) to lead me, where thou saidst, That I Saint Peter's gate may view, and those Who as thou tell'st, are in such dismal plight." Onward he mov'd, I close his steps pursu'd. CANTO II NOW was the day departing, and the air, Imbrown'd with shadows, from their toils releas'd All animals on earth; and I alone Prepar'd myself the conflict to sustain, Both of sad pity, and that perilous road, Which my unerring memory shall retrace. O Muses! O high genius! now vouchsafe Your aid! O mind! that all I saw hast kept Safe in a written record, here thy worth And eminent endowments come to proof. I thus began: "Bard! thou who art my guide, Consider well, if virtue be in me Sufficient, ere to this high enterprise Thou trust me. Thou hast told that Silvius' sire, Yet cloth'd in corruptible flesh, among Th' immortal tribes had entrance, and was there Sensible present. Yet if heaven's great Lord, Almighty foe to ill, such favour shew'd, In contemplation of the high effect, Both what and who from him should issue forth, It seems in reason's judgment well deserv'd: Sith he of Rome, and of Rome's empire wide, In heaven's empyreal height was chosen sire: Both which, if truth be spoken, were ordain'd And 'stablish'd for the holy place, where sits Who to great Peter's sacred chair succeeds. He from this journey, in thy song renown'd, Learn'd things, that to his victory gave rise And to the papal robe. In after-times The chosen vessel also travel'd there, To bring us back assurance in that faith, Which is the entrance to salvation's way. But I, why should I there presume? or who Permits it? not, Aeneas I nor Paul. Myself I deem not worthy, and none else Will deem me. I, if on this voyage then I venture, fear it will in folly end. Thou, who art wise, better my meaning know'st, Than I can speak." As one, who unresolves What he hath late resolv'd, and with new thoughts Changes his purpose, from his first intent Remov'd; e'en such was I on that dun coast, Wasting in thought my enterprise, at first So eagerly embrac'd. "If right thy words I scan," replied that shade magnanimous, "Thy soul is by vile fear assail'd, which oft So overcasts a man, that he recoils From noblest resolution, like a beast At some false semblance in the twilight gloom. That from this terror thou mayst free thyself, I will instruct thee why I came, and what I heard in that same instant, when for thee Grief touch'd me first. I was among the tribe, Who rest suspended, when a dame, so blest And lovely, I besought her to command, Call'd me; her eyes were brighter than the star Of day; and she with gentle voice and soft Angelically tun'd her speech address'd: "O courteous shade of Mantua! thou whose fame Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts! A friend, not of my fortune but myself, On the wide desert in his road has met Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turn'd. Now much I dread lest he past help have stray'd, And I be ris'n too late for his relief, From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now, And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue, And by all means for his deliverance meet, Assist him. So to me will comfort spring. I who now bid thee on this errand forth Am Beatrice; from a place I come (Note: Beatrice. I use this word, as it is pronounced in the Italian, as consisting of four syllables, of which the third is a long one.) Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence, Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell." She then was silent, and I thus began: "O Lady! by whose influence alone, Mankind excels whatever is contain'd Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb, So thy command delights me, that to obey, If it were done already, would seem late. No need hast thou farther to speak thy will; Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth To leave that ample space, where to return Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath." She then: "Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire, I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone Are to be fear'd, whence evil may proceed, None else, for none are terrible beside. I am so fram'd by God, thanks to his grace! That any suff'rance of your misery Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief That hindrance, which I send thee to remove, That God's stern judgment to her will inclines." To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake: "Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid And I commend him to thee." At her word Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe, And coming to the place, where I abode Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days, She thus address'd me: "Thou true praise of God! Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent To him, who so much lov'd thee, as to leave For thy sake all the multitude admires? Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail, Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood, Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?" "Ne'er among men did any with such speed Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, As when these words were spoken, I came here, Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all Who well have mark'd it, into honour brings." "When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes Tearful she turn'd aside; whereat I felt Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she will'd, Thus am I come: I sav'd thee from the beast, Who thy near way across the goodly mount Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee then? Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast Harbour vile fear? why hast not courage there And noble daring? Since three maids so blest Thy safety plan, e'en in the court of heaven; And so much certain good my words forebode." As florets, by the frosty air of night Bent down and clos'd, when day has blanch'd their leaves, Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems; So was my fainting vigour new restor'd, And to my heart such kindly courage ran, That I as one undaunted soon replied: "O full of pity she, who undertook My succour! and thou kind who didst perform So soon her true behest! With such desire Thou hast dispos'd me to renew my voyage, That my first purpose fully is resum'd. Lead on: one only will is in us both. Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord." So spake I; and when he had onward mov'd, I enter'd on the deep and woody way. CANTO III "THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. "All hope abandon ye who enter here." Such characters in colour dim I mark'd Over a portal's lofty arch inscrib'd: Whereat I thus: "Master, these words import Hard meaning." He as one prepar'd replied: "Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave; Here be vile fear extinguish'd. We are come Where I have told thee we shall see the souls To misery doom'd, who intellectual good Have lost." And when his hand he had stretch'd forth To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheer'd, Into that secret place he led me on. Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans Resounded through the air pierc'd by no star, That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, Horrible languages, outcries of woe, Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds, Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd, Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. I then, with error yet encompass'd, cried: "O master! What is this I hear? What race Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?" He thus to me: "This miserable fate Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv'd Without or praise or blame, with that ill band Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious prov'd Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe Should glory thence with exultation vain." I then: "Master! what doth aggrieve them thus, That they lament so loud?" He straight replied: "That will I tell thee briefly. These of death No hope may entertain: and their blind life So meanly passes, that all other lots They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, Which whirling ran around so rapidly, That it no pause obtain'd: and following came Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er Have thought, that death so many had despoil'd. When some of these I recogniz'd, I saw And knew the shade of him, who to base fear Yielding, abjur'd his high estate. Forthwith I understood for certain this the tribe Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their cheeks With blood, that mix'd with tears dropp'd to their feet, And by disgustful worms was gather'd there. Then looking farther onwards I beheld A throng upon the shore of a great stream: Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem So eager to pass o'er, as I discern Through the blear light?" He thus to me in few: "This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive Beside the woeful tide of Acheron." Then with eyes downward cast and fill'd with shame, Fearing my words offensive to his ear, Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech Abstain'd. And lo! toward us in a bark Comes on an old man hoary white with eld, Crying, "Woe to you wicked spirits! hope not Ever to see the sky again. I come To take you to the other shore across, Into eternal darkness, there to dwell In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave These who are dead." But soon as he beheld I left them not, "By other way," said he, "By other haven shalt thou come to shore, Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat Must carry." Then to him thus spake my guide: "Charon! thyself torment not: so 't is will'd, Where will and power are one: ask thou no more." Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, Around whose eyes glar'd wheeling flames. Meanwhile Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang'd, And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words They heard. God and their parents they blasphem'd, The human kind, the place, the time, and seed That did engender them and give them birth. Then all together sorely wailing drew To the curs'd strand, that every man must pass Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, Beck'ning, and each, that lingers, with his oar Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, One still another following, till the bough Strews all its honours on the earth beneath; E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood Cast themselves one by one down from the shore, Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. Thus go they over through the umber'd wave, And ever they on the opposing bank Be landed, on this side another throng Still gathers. "Son," thus spake the courteous guide, "Those, who die subject to the wrath of God, All here together come from every clime, And to o'erpass the river are not loth: For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath past Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, Now mayst thou know the import of his words." This said, the gloomy region trembling shook So terribly, that yet with clammy dews Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast, That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame, Which all my senses conquer'd quite, and I Down dropp'd, as one with sudden slumber seiz'd. CANTO IV BROKE the deep slumber in my brain a crash Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself, As one by main force rous'd. Risen upright, My rested eyes I mov'd around, and search'd With fixed ken to know what place it was, Wherein I stood. For certain on the brink I found me of the lamentable vale, The dread abyss, that joins a thund'rous sound Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep, And thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain Explor'd its bottom, nor could aught discern. "Now let us to the blind world there beneath Descend;" the bard began all pale of look: "I go the first, and thou shalt follow next." Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus: "How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread, Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?" He then: "The anguish of that race below With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way Urges to haste." Onward, this said, he mov'd; And ent'ring led me with him on the bounds Of the first circle, that surrounds th' abyss. Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard Except of sighs, that made th' eternal air Tremble, not caus'd by tortures, but from grief Felt by those multitudes, many and vast, Of men, women, and infants. Then to me The gentle guide: "Inquir'st thou not what spirits Are these, which thou beholdest? Ere thou pass Farther, I would thou know, that these of sin Were blameless; and if aught they merited, It profits not, since baptism was not theirs, The portal to thy faith. If they before The Gospel liv'd, they serv'd not God aright; And among such am I. For these defects, And for no other evil, we are lost;" "Only so far afflicted, that we live Desiring without hope." So grief assail'd My heart at hearing this, for well I knew Suspended in that Limbo many a soul Of mighty worth. "O tell me, sire rever'd! Tell me, my master!" I began through wish Of full assurance in that holy faith, Which vanquishes all error; "say, did e'er Any, or through his own or other's merit, Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?" Piercing the secret purport of my speech, He answer'd: "I was new to that estate, When I beheld a puissant one arrive Amongst us, with victorious trophy crown'd. He forth the shade of our first parent drew, Abel his child, and Noah righteous man, Of Moses lawgiver for faith approv'd, Of patriarch Abraham, and David king, Israel with his sire and with his sons, Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won, And others many more, whom he to bliss Exalted. Before these, be thou assur'd, No spirit of human kind was ever sav'd." We, while he spake, ceas'd not our onward road, Still passing through the wood; for so I name Those spirits thick beset. We were not far On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere Prevailing shin'd. Yet we a little space Were distant, not so far but I in part Discover'd, that a tribe in honour high That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art And science valu'st! who are these, that boast Such honour, separate from all the rest?" He answer'd: "The renown of their great names That echoes through your world above, acquires Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanc'd." Meantime a voice I heard: "Honour the bard Sublime! his shade returns that left us late!" No sooner ceas'd the sound, than I beheld Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps, Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad. When thus my master kind began: "Mark him, Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen, The other three preceding, as their lord. This is that Homer, of all bards supreme: Flaccus the next in satire's vein excelling; The third is Naso; Lucan is the last. Because they all that appellation own, With which the voice singly accosted me, Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge." So I beheld united the bright school Of him the monarch of sublimest song, That o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together short discourse had held, They turn'd to me, with salutation kind Beck'ning me; at the which my master smil'd: Nor was this all; but greater honour still They gave me, for they made me of their tribe; And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band. Far as the luminous beacon on we pass'd Speaking of matters, then befitting well To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot Of a magnificent castle we arriv'd, Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this As o'er dry land we pass'd. Next through seven gates I with those sages enter'd, and we came Into a mead with lively verdure fresh. There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around Majestically mov'd, and in their port Bore eminent authority; they spake Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet. We to one side retir'd, into a place Open and bright and lofty, whence each one Stood manifest to view. Incontinent There on the green enamel of the plain Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight I am exalted in my own esteem. Electra there I saw accompanied By many, among whom Hector I knew, Anchises' pious son, and with hawk's eye Caesar all arm'd, and by Camilla there Penthesilea. On the other side Old King Latinus, seated by his child Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld, Who Tarquin chas'd, Lucretia, Cato's wife Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there; And sole apart retir'd, the Soldan fierce. Then when a little more I rais'd my brow, I spied the master of the sapient throng, Seated amid the philosophic train. Him all admire, all pay him rev'rence due. There Socrates and Plato both I mark'd, Nearest to him in rank; Democritus, Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes, With Heraclitus, and Empedocles, And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage, Zeno, and Dioscorides well read In nature's secret lore. Orpheus I mark'd And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca, Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Galenus, Avicen, and him who made That commentary vast, Averroes. Of all to speak at full were vain attempt; For my wide theme so urges, that ofttimes My words fall short of what bechanc'd. In two The six associates part. Another way My sage guide leads me, from that air serene, Into a climate ever vex'd with storms: And to a part I come where no light shines. CANTO V FROM the first circle I descended thus Down to the second, which, a lesser space Embracing, so much more of grief contains Provoking bitter moans. There, Minos stands Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all Who enter, strict examining the crimes, Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath, According as he foldeth him around: For when before him comes th' ill fated soul, It all confesses; and that judge severe Of sins, considering what place in hell Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft Himself encircles, as degrees beneath He dooms it to descend. Before him stand Always a num'rous throng; and in his turn Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl'd. "O thou! who to this residence of woe Approachest?" when he saw me coming, cried Minos, relinquishing his dread employ, "Look how thou enter here; beware in whom Thou place thy trust; let not the entrance broad Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide: "Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way By destiny appointed; so 'tis will'd Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more." Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. Now am I come where many a plaining voice Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd A noise as of a sea in tempest torn By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell With restless fury drives the spirits on Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy. When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans, And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. I understood that to this torment sad The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom Reason by lust is sway'd. As in large troops And multitudinous, when winter reigns, The starlings on their wings are borne abroad; So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls. On this side and on that, above, below, It drives them: hope of rest to solace them Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, Chanting their dol'rous notes, traverse the sky, Stretch'd out in long array: so I beheld Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on By their dire doom. Then I: "Instructor! who Are these, by the black air so scourg'd?"--"The first 'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he replied, "O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice Of luxury was so shameless, that she made Liking be lawful by promulg'd decree, To clear the blame she had herself incurr'd. This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ, That she succeeded Ninus her espous'd; And held the land, which now the Soldan rules. The next in amorous fury slew herself, And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith: Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen." There mark'd I Helen, for whose sake so long The time was fraught with evil; there the great Achilles, who with love fought to the end. Paris I saw, and Tristan; and beside A thousand more he show'd me, and by name Pointed them out, whom love bereav'd of life. When I had heard my sage instructor name Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpower'd By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly I would address those two together coming, Which seem so light before the wind." He thus: "Note thou, when nearer they to us approach." "Then by that love which carries them along, Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind Sway'd them toward us, I thus fram'd my speech: "O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves By fond desire invited, on wide wings And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, Cleave the air, wafted by their will along; Thus issu'd from that troop, where Dido ranks, They through the ill air speeding; with such force My cry prevail'd by strong affection urg'd. "O gracious creature and benign! who go'st Visiting, through this element obscure, Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru'd; If for a friend the King of all we own'd, Our pray'r to him should for thy peace arise, Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. ()f whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth, Is situate on the coast, where Po descends To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. "Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, Entangled him by that fair form, from me Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: Love, that denial takes from none belov'd, Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not. "Love brought us to one death: Caina waits The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their words; At hearing which downward I bent my looks, And held them there so long, that the bard cried: "What art thou pond'ring?" I in answer thus: "Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!" Then turning, I to them my speech address'd. And thus began: "Francesca! your sad fate Even to tears my grief and pity moves. But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs, By what, and how love granted, that ye knew Your yet uncertain wishes?" She replied: "No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand! That kens Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do, As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wished smile, rapturously kiss'd By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, The other wail'd so sorely, that heartstruck I through compassion fainting, seem'd not far From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground. CANTO VI MY sense reviving, that erewhile had droop'd With pity for the kindred shades, whence grief O'ercame me wholly, straight around I see New torments, new tormented souls, which way Soe'er I move, or turn, or bend my sight. In the third circle I arrive, of show'rs Ceaseless, accursed, heavy, and cold, unchang'd For ever, both in kind and in degree. Large hail, discolour'd water, sleety flaw Through the dun midnight air stream'd down amain: Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell. Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange, Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog Over the multitude immers'd beneath. His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard, His belly large, and claw'd the hands, with which He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs, Under the rainy deluge, with one side The other screening, oft they roll them round, A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm Descried us, savage Cerberus, he op'd His jaws, and the fangs show'd us; not a limb Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth Rais'd them, and cast it in his ravenous maw. E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall His fury, bent alone with eager haste To swallow it; so dropp'd the loathsome cheeks Of demon Cerberus, who thund'ring stuns The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain. We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet Upon their emptiness, that substance seem'd. They all along the earth extended lay Save one, that sudden rais'd himself to sit, Soon as that way he saw us pass. "O thou!" He cried, "who through the infernal shades art led, Own, if again thou know'st me. Thou wast fram'd Or ere my frame was broken." I replied: "The anguish thou endur'st perchance so takes Thy form from my remembrance, that it seems As if I saw thee never. But inform Me who thou art, that in a place so sad Art set, and in such torment, that although Other be greater, more disgustful none Can be imagin'd." He in answer thus: "Thy city heap'd with envy to the brim, Ay that the measure overflows its bounds, Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin Of glutt'ny, damned vice, beneath this rain, E'en as thou see'st, I with fatigue am worn; Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these Have by like crime incurr'd like punishment." No more he said, and I my speech resum'd: "Ciacco! thy dire affliction grieves me much, Even to tears. But tell me, if thou know'st, What shall at length befall the citizens Of the divided city; whether any just one Inhabit there: and tell me of the cause, Whence jarring discord hath assail'd it thus?" He then: "After long striving they will come To blood; and the wild party from the woods Will chase the other with much injury forth. Then it behoves, that this must fall, within Three solar circles; and the other rise By borrow'd force of one, who under shore Now rests. It shall a long space hold aloof Its forehead, keeping under heavy weight The other oppress'd, indignant at the load, And grieving sore. The just are two in number, But they neglected. Av'rice, envy, pride, Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all On fire." Here ceas'd the lamentable sound; And I continu'd thus: "Still would I learn More from thee, farther parley still entreat. Of Farinata and Tegghiaio say, They who so well deserv'd, of Giacopo, Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest, who bent Their minds on working good. Oh! tell me where They bide, and to their knowledge let me come. For I am press'd with keen desire to hear, If heaven's sweet cup or poisonous drug of hell Be to their lip assign'd." He answer'd straight: "These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss. If thou so far descendest, thou mayst see them. But to the pleasant world when thou return'st, Of me make mention, I entreat thee, there. No more I tell thee, answer thee no more." This said, his fixed eyes he turn'd askance, A little ey'd me, then bent down his head, And 'midst his blind companions with it fell. When thus my guide: "No more his bed he leaves, Ere the last angel-trumpet blow. The Power Adverse to these shall then in glory come, Each one forthwith to his sad tomb repair, Resume his fleshly vesture and his form, And hear the eternal doom re-echoing rend The vault." So pass'd we through that mixture foul Of spirits and rain, with tardy steps; meanwhile Touching, though slightly, on the life to come. For thus I question'd: "Shall these tortures, Sir! When the great sentence passes, be increas'd, Or mitigated, or as now severe?" He then: "Consult thy knowledge; that decides That as each thing to more perfection grows, It feels more sensibly both good and pain. Though ne'er to true perfection may arrive This race accurs'd, yet nearer then than now They shall approach it." Compassing that path Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse Much more than I relate between us pass'd: Till at the point, where the steps led below, Arriv'd, there Plutus, the great foe, we found. CANTO VII "AH me! O Satan! Satan!" loud exclaim'd Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm: And the kind sage, whom no event surpris'd, To comfort me thus spake: "Let not thy fear Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none To hinder down this rock thy safe descent." Then to that sworn lip turning, "Peace!" he cried, "Curs'd wolf! thy fury inward on thyself Prey, and consume thee! Through the dark profound Not without cause he passes. So 't is will'd On high, there where the great Archangel pour'd Heav'n's vengeance on the first adulterer proud." As sails full spread and bellying with the wind Drop suddenly collaps'd, if the mast split; So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend. Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge, Gain'd on the dismal shore, that all the woe Hems in of all the universe. Ah me! Almighty Justice! in what store thou heap'st New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld! Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this? E'en as a billow, on Charybdis rising, Against encounter'd billow dashing breaks; Such is the dance this wretched race must lead, Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found, From one side and the other, with loud voice, Both roll'd on weights by main forge of their breasts, Then smote together, and each one forthwith Roll'd them back voluble, turning again, Exclaiming these, "Why holdest thou so fast?" Those answering, "And why castest thou away?" So still repeating their despiteful song, They to the opposite point on either hand Travers'd the horrid circle: then arriv'd, Both turn'd them round, and through the middle space Conflicting met again. At sight whereof I, stung with grief, thus spake: "O say, my guide! What race is this? Were these, whose heads are shorn, On our left hand, all sep'rate to the church?" He straight replied: "In their first life these all In mind were so distorted, that they made, According to due measure, of their wealth, No use. This clearly from their words collect, Which they howl forth, at each extremity Arriving of the circle, where their crime Contrary' in kind disparts them. To the church Were separate those, that with no hairy cowls Are crown'd, both Popes and Cardinals, o'er whom Av'rice dominion absolute maintains." I then: "Mid such as these some needs must be, Whom I shall recognize, that with the blot Of these foul sins were stain'd." He answering thus: "Vain thought conceiv'st thou. That ignoble life, Which made them vile before, now makes them dark, And to all knowledge indiscernible. Forever they shall meet in this rude shock: These from the tomb with clenched grasp shall rise, Those with close-shaven locks. That ill they gave, And ill they kept, hath of the beauteous world Depriv'd, and set them at this strife, which needs No labour'd phrase of mine to set if off. Now may'st thou see, my son! how brief, how vain, The goods committed into fortune's hands, For which the human race keep such a coil! Not all the gold, that is beneath the moon, Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls Might purchase rest for one." I thus rejoin'd: "My guide! of thee this also would I learn; This fortune, that thou speak'st of, what it is, Whose talons grasp the blessings of the world?" He thus: "O beings blind! what ignorance Besets you? Now my judgment hear and mark. He, whose transcendent wisdom passes all, The heavens creating, gave them ruling powers To guide them, so that each part shines to each, Their light in equal distribution pour'd. By similar appointment he ordain'd Over the world's bright images to rule. Superintendence of a guiding hand And general minister, which at due time May change the empty vantages of life From race to race, from one to other's blood, Beyond prevention of man's wisest care: Wherefore one nation rises into sway, Another languishes, e'en as her will Decrees, from us conceal'd, as in the grass The serpent train. Against her nought avails Your utmost wisdom. She with foresight plans, Judges, and carries on her reign, as theirs The other powers divine. Her changes know Nore intermission: by necessity She is made swift, so frequent come who claim Succession in her favours. This is she, So execrated e'en by those, whose debt To her is rather praise; they wrongfully With blame requite her, and with evil word; But she is blessed, and for that recks not: Amidst the other primal beings glad Rolls on her sphere, and in her bliss exults. Now on our way pass we, to heavier woe Descending: for each star is falling now, That mounted at our entrance, and forbids Too long our tarrying." We the circle cross'd To the next steep, arriving at a well, That boiling pours itself down to a foss Sluic'd from its source. Far murkier was the wave Than sablest grain: and we in company Of the' inky waters, journeying by their side, Enter'd, though by a different track, beneath. Into a lake, the Stygian nam'd, expands The dismal stream, when it hath reach'd the foot Of the grey wither'd cliffs. Intent I stood To gaze, and in the marish sunk descried A miry tribe, all naked, and with looks Betok'ning rage. They with their hands alone Struck not, but with the head, the breast, the feet, Cutting each other piecemeal with their fangs. The good instructor spake; "Now seest thou, son! The souls of those, whom anger overcame. This too for certain know, that underneath The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs Into these bubbles make the surface heave, As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn." Fix'd in the slime they say: "Sad once were we In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, Carrying a foul and lazy mist within: Now in these murky settlings are we sad." Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats. But word distinct can utter none." Our route Thus compass'd we, a segment widely stretch'd Between the dry embankment, and the core Of the loath'd pool, turning meanwhile our eyes Downward on those who gulp'd its muddy lees; Nor stopp'd, till to a tower's low base we came. CANTO VIII MY theme pursuing, I relate that ere We reach'd the lofty turret's base, our eyes Its height ascended, where two cressets hung We mark'd, and from afar another light Return the signal, so remote, that scarce The eye could catch its beam. I turning round To the deep source of knowledge, thus inquir'd: "Say what this means? and what that other light In answer set? what agency doth this?" "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, If the marsh-gender'd fog conceal it not." Never was arrow from the cord dismiss'd, That ran its way so nimbly through the air, As a small bark, that through the waves I spied Toward us coming, under the sole sway Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud: "Art thou arriv'd, fell spirit?"--"Phlegyas, Phlegyas, This time thou criest in vain," my lord replied; "No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er The slimy pool we pass." As one who hears Of some great wrong he hath sustain'd, whereat Inly he pines; so Phlegyas inly pin'd In his fierce ire. My guide descending stepp'd Into the skiff, and bade me enter next Close at his side; nor till my entrance seem'd The vessel freighted. Soon as both embark'd, Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow, More deeply than with others it is wont. While we our course o'er the dead channel held. One drench'd in mire before me came, and said; "Who art thou, that thou comest ere thine hour?" I answer'd: "Though I come, I tarry not; But who art thou, that art become so foul?" "One, as thou seest, who mourn:" he straight replied. To which I thus: "In mourning and in woe, Curs'd spirit! tarry thou.g I know thee well, E'en thus in filth disguis'd." Then stretch'd he forth Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage Aware, thrusting him back: "Away! down there; "To the' other dogs!" then, with his arms my neck Encircling, kiss'd my cheek, and spake: "O soul Justly disdainful! blest was she in whom Thou was conceiv'd! He in the world was one For arrogance noted; to his memory No virtue lends its lustre; even so Here is his shadow furious. There above How many now hold themselves mighty kings Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraise!" I then: "Master! him fain would I behold Whelm'd in these dregs, before we quit the lake." He thus: "Or ever to thy view the shore Be offer'd, satisfied shall be that wish, Which well deserves completion." Scarce his words Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes Set on him with such violence, that yet For that render I thanks to God and praise "To Filippo Argenti:" cried they all: And on himself the moody Florentine Turn'd his avenging fangs. Him here we left, Nor speak I of him more. But on mine ear Sudden a sound of lamentation smote, Whereat mine eye unbarr'd I sent abroad. And thus the good instructor: "Now, my son! Draws near the city, that of Dis is nam'd, With its grave denizens, a mighty throng." I thus: "The minarets already, Sir! There certes in the valley I descry, Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire Had issu'd." He replied: "Eternal fire, That inward burns, shows them with ruddy flame Illum'd; as in this nether hell thou seest." We came within the fosses deep, that moat This region comfortless. The walls appear'd As they were fram'd of iron. We had made Wide circuit, ere a place we reach'd, where loud The mariner cried vehement: "Go forth! The' entrance is here!" Upon the gates I spied More than a thousand, who of old from heaven Were hurl'd. With ireful gestures, "Who is this," They cried, "that without death first felt, goes through The regions of the dead?" My sapient guide Made sign that he for secret parley wish'd; Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus They spake: "Come thou alone; and let him go Who hath so hardily enter'd this realm. Alone return he by his witless way; If well he know it, let him prove. For thee, Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark Hast been his escort." Now bethink thee, reader! What cheer was mine at sound of those curs'd words. I did believe I never should return. "O my lov'd guide! who more than seven times Security hast render'd me, and drawn From peril deep, whereto I stood expos'd, Desert me not," I cried, "in this extreme. And if our onward going be denied, Together trace we back our steps with speed." My liege, who thither had conducted me, Replied: "Fear not: for of our passage none Hath power to disappoint us, by such high Authority permitted. But do thou Expect me here; meanwhile thy wearied spirit Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assur'd I will not leave thee in this lower world." This said, departs the sire benevolent, And quits me. Hesitating I remain At war 'twixt will and will not in my thoughts. I could not hear what terms he offer'd them, But they conferr'd not long, for all at once To trial fled within. Clos'd were the gates By those our adversaries on the breast Of my liege lord: excluded he return'd To me with tardy steps. Upon the ground His eyes were bent, and from his brow eras'd All confidence, while thus with sighs he spake: "Who hath denied me these abodes of woe?" Then thus to me: "That I am anger'd, think No ground of terror: in this trial I Shall vanquish, use what arts they may within For hindrance. This their insolence, not new, Erewhile at gate less secret they display'd, Which still is without bolt; upon its arch Thou saw'st the deadly scroll: and even now On this side of its entrance, down the steep, Passing the circles, unescorted, comes One whose strong might can open us this land." CANTO IX THE hue, which coward dread on my pale cheeks Imprinted, when I saw my guide turn back, Chas'd that from his which newly they had worn, And inwardly restrain'd it. He, as one Who listens, stood attentive: for his eye Not far could lead him through the sable air, And the thick-gath'ring cloud. "It yet behooves We win this fight"--thus he began--"if not-- Such aid to us is offer'd.--Oh, how long Me seems it, ere the promis'd help arrive!" I noted, how the sequel of his words Clok'd their beginning; for the last he spake Agreed not with the first. But not the less My fear was at his saying; sith I drew To import worse perchance, than that he held, His mutilated speech. "Doth ever any Into this rueful concave's extreme depth Descend, out of the first degree, whose pain Is deprivation merely of sweet hope?" Thus I inquiring. "Rarely," he replied, "It chances, that among us any makes This journey, which I wend. Erewhile 'tis true Once came I here beneath, conjur'd by fell Erictho, sorceress, who compell'd the shades Back to their bodies. No long space my flesh Was naked of me, when within these walls She made me enter, to draw forth a spirit From out of Judas' circle. Lowest place Is that of all, obscurest, and remov'd Farthest from heav'n's all-circling orb. The road Full well I know: thou therefore rest secure. That lake, the noisome stench exhaling, round The city' of grief encompasses, which now We may not enter without rage." Yet more He added: but I hold it not in mind, For that mine eye toward the lofty tower Had drawn me wholly, to its burning top. Where in an instant I beheld uprisen At once three hellish furies stain'd with blood: In limb and motion feminine they seem'd; Around them greenest hydras twisting roll'd Their volumes; adders and cerastes crept Instead of hair, and their fierce temples bound. He knowing well the miserable hags Who tend the queen of endless woe, thus spake: "Mark thou each dire Erinnys. To the left This is Megaera; on the right hand she, Who wails, Alecto; and Tisiphone I' th' midst." This said, in silence he remain'd Their breast they each one clawing tore; themselves Smote with their palms, and such shrill clamour rais'd, That to the bard I clung, suspicion-bound. "Hasten Medusa: so to adamant Him shall we change;" all looking down exclaim'd. "E'en when by Theseus' might assail'd, we took No ill revenge." "Turn thyself round, and keep Thy count'nance hid; for if the Gorgon dire Be shown, and thou shouldst view it, thy return Upwards would be for ever lost." This said, Himself my gentle master turn'd me round, Nor trusted he my hands, but with his own He also hid me. Ye of intellect Sound and entire, mark well the lore conceal'd Under close texture of the mystic strain! And now there came o'er the perturbed waves Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made Either shore tremble, as if of a wind Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung, That 'gainst some forest driving all its might, Plucks off the branches, beats them down and hurls Afar; then onward passing proudly sweeps Its whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly. Mine eyes he loos'd, and spake: "And now direct Thy visual nerve along that ancient foam, There, thickest where the smoke ascends." As frogs Before their foe the serpent, through the wave Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits Destroy'd, so saw I fleeing before one Who pass'd with unwet feet the Stygian sound. He, from his face removing the gross air, Oft his left hand forth stretch'd, and seem'd alone By that annoyance wearied. I perceiv'd That he was sent from heav'n, and to my guide Turn'd me, who signal made that I should stand Quiet, and bend to him. Ah me! how full Of noble anger seem'd he! To the gate He came, and with his wand touch'd it, whereat Open without impediment it flew. "Outcasts of heav'n! O abject race and scorn'd!" Began he on the horrid grunsel standing, "Whence doth this wild excess of insolence Lodge in you? wherefore kick you 'gainst that will Ne'er frustrate of its end, and which so oft Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs? What profits at the fays to but the horn? Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence Bears still, peel'd of their hair, his throat and maw." This said, he turn'd back o'er the filthy way, And syllable to us spake none, but wore The semblance of a man by other care Beset, and keenly press'd, than thought of him Who in his presence stands. Then we our steps Toward that territory mov'd, secure After the hallow'd words. We unoppos'd There enter'd; and my mind eager to learn What state a fortress like to that might hold, I soon as enter'd throw mine eye around, And see on every part wide-stretching space Replete with bitter pain and torment ill. As where Rhone stagnates on the plains of Arles, Or as at Pola, near Quarnaro's gulf, That closes Italy and laves her bounds, The place is all thick spread with sepulchres; So was it here, save what in horror here Excell'd: for 'midst the graves were scattered flames, Wherewith intensely all throughout they burn'd, That iron for no craft there hotter needs. Their lids all hung suspended, and beneath From them forth issu'd lamentable moans, Such as the sad and tortur'd well might raise. I thus: "Master! say who are these, interr'd Within these vaults, of whom distinct we hear The dolorous sighs?" He answer thus return'd: "The arch-heretics are here, accompanied By every sect their followers; and much more, Than thou believest, tombs are freighted: like With like is buried; and the monuments Are different in degrees of heat." This said, He to the right hand turning, on we pass'd Betwixt the afflicted and the ramparts high. CANTO X NOW by a secret pathway we proceed, Between the walls, that hem the region round, And the tormented souls: my master first, I close behind his steps. "Virtue supreme!" I thus began; "who through these ample orbs In circuit lead'st me, even as thou will'st, Speak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those, Who lie within these sepulchres, be seen? Already all the lids are rais'd, and none O'er them keeps watch." He thus in answer spake "They shall be closed all, what-time they here From Josaphat return'd shall come, and bring Their bodies, which above they now have left. The cemetery on this part obtain With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body make the spirit die. Here therefore satisfaction shall be soon Both to the question ask'd, and to the wish, Which thou conceal'st in silence." I replied: "I keep not, guide belov'd! from thee my heart Secreted, but to shun vain length of words, A lesson erewhile taught me by thyself." "O Tuscan! thou who through the city of fire Alive art passing, so discreet of speech! Here please thee stay awhile. Thy utterance Declares the place of thy nativity To be that noble land, with which perchance I too severely dealt." Sudden that sound Forth issu'd from a vault, whereat in fear I somewhat closer to my leader's side Approaching, he thus spake: "What dost thou? Turn. Lo, Farinata, there! who hath himself Uplifted: from his girdle upwards all Expos'd behold him." On his face was mine Already fix'd; his breast and forehead there Erecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held E'en hell. Between the sepulchres to him My guide thrust me with fearless hands and prompt, This warning added: "See thy words be clear!" He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot, Ey'd me a space, then in disdainful mood Address'd me: "Say, what ancestors were thine?" I, willing to obey him, straight reveal'd The whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow Somewhat uplifting, cried: "Fiercely were they Adverse to me, my party, and the blood From whence I sprang: twice therefore I abroad Scatter'd them." "Though driv'n out, yet they each time From all parts," answer'd I, "return'd; an art Which yours have shown, they are not skill'd to learn." Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw, Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin, Leaning, methought, upon its knees uprais'd. It look'd around, as eager to explore If there were other with me; but perceiving That fond imagination quench'd, with tears Thus spake: "If thou through this blind prison go'st. Led by thy lofty genius and profound, Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?" I straight replied: "Not of myself I come, By him, who there expects me, through this clime Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son Had in contempt." Already had his words And mode of punishment read me his name, Whence I so fully answer'd. He at once Exclaim'd, up starting, "How! said'st thou he HAD? No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye The blessed daylight?" Then of some delay I made ere my reply aware, down fell Supine, not after forth appear'd he more. Meanwhile the other, great of soul, near whom I yet was station'd, chang'd not count'nance stern, Nor mov'd the neck, nor bent his ribbed side. "And if," continuing the first discourse, "They in this art," he cried, "small skill have shown, That doth torment me more e'en than this bed. But not yet fifty times shall be relum'd Her aspect, who reigns here Queen of this realm, Ere thou shalt know the full weight of that art. So to the pleasant world mayst thou return, As thou shalt tell me, why in all their laws, Against my kin this people is so fell?" "The slaughter and great havoc," I replied, "That colour'd Arbia's flood with crimson stain-- To these impute, that in our hallow'd dome Such orisons ascend." Sighing he shook The head, then thus resum'd: "In that affray I stood not singly, nor without just cause Assuredly should with the rest have stirr'd; But singly there I stood, when by consent Of all, Florence had to the ground been raz'd, The one who openly forbad the deed." "So may thy lineage find at last repose," I thus adjur'd him, "as thou solve this knot, Which now involves my mind. If right I hear, Ye seem to view beforehand, that which time Leads with him, of the present uninform'd." "We view, as one who hath an evil sight," He answer'd, "plainly, objects far remote: So much of his large spendour yet imparts The' Almighty Ruler; but when they approach Or actually exist, our intellect Then wholly fails, nor of your human state Except what others bring us know we aught. Hence therefore mayst thou understand, that all Our knowledge in that instant shall expire, When on futurity the portals close." Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse Smitten, I added thus: "Now shalt thou say To him there fallen, that his offspring still Is to the living join'd; and bid him know, That if from answer silent I abstain'd, 'Twas that my thought was occupied intent Upon that error, which thy help hath solv'd." But now my master summoning me back I heard, and with more eager haste besought The spirit to inform me, who with him Partook his lot. He answer thus return'd: "More than a thousand with me here are laid Within is Frederick, second of that name, And the Lord Cardinal, and of the rest I speak not." He, this said, from sight withdrew. But I my steps towards the ancient bard Reverting, ruminated on the words Betokening me such ill. Onward he mov'd, And thus in going question'd: "Whence the' amaze That holds thy senses wrapt?" I satisfied The' inquiry, and the sage enjoin'd me straight: "Let thy safe memory store what thou hast heard To thee importing harm; and note thou this," With his rais'd finger bidding me take heed, "When thou shalt stand before her gracious beam, Whose bright eye all surveys, she of thy life The future tenour will to thee unfold." Forthwith he to the left hand turn'd his feet: We left the wall, and tow'rds the middle space Went by a path, that to a valley strikes; Which e'en thus high exhal'd its noisome steam. CANTO XI UPON the utmost verge of a high bank, By craggy rocks environ'd round, we came, Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow'd: And here to shun the horrible excess Of fetid exhalation, upward cast From the profound abyss, behind the lid Of a great monument we stood retir'd, Whereon this scroll I mark'd: "I have in charge Pope Anastasius, whom Photinus drew From the right path.--Ere our descent behooves We make delay, that somewhat first the sense, To the dire breath accustom'd, afterward Regard it not." My master thus; to whom Answering I spake: "Some compensation find That the time past not wholly lost." He then: "Lo! how my thoughts e'en to thy wishes tend! My son! within these rocks," he thus began, "Are three close circles in gradation plac'd, As these which now thou leav'st. Each one is full Of spirits accurs'd; but that the sight alone Hereafter may suffice thee, listen how And for what cause in durance they abide. "Of all malicious act abhorr'd in heaven, The end is injury; and all such end Either by force or fraud works other's woe But fraud, because of man peculiar evil, To God is more displeasing; and beneath The fraudulent are therefore doom'd to' endure Severer pang. The violent occupy All the first circle; and because to force Three persons are obnoxious, in three rounds Hach within other sep'rate is it fram'd. To God, his neighbour, and himself, by man Force may be offer'd; to himself I say And his possessions, as thou soon shalt hear At full. Death, violent death, and painful wounds Upon his neighbour he inflicts; and wastes By devastation, pillage, and the flames, His substance. Slayers, and each one that smites In malice, plund'rers, and all robbers, hence The torment undergo of the first round In different herds. Man can do violence To himself and his own blessings: and for this He in the second round must aye deplore With unavailing penitence his crime, Whoe'er deprives himself of life and light, In reckless lavishment his talent wastes, And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy. To God may force be offer'd, in the heart Denying and blaspheming his high power, And nature with her kindly law contemning. And thence the inmost round marks with its seal Sodom and Cahors, and all such as speak Contemptuously' of the Godhead in their hearts. "Fraud, that in every conscience leaves a sting, May be by man employ'd on one, whose trust He wins, or on another who withholds Strict confidence. Seems as the latter way Broke but the bond of love which Nature makes. Whence in the second circle have their nest Dissimulation, witchcraft, flatteries, Theft, falsehood, simony, all who seduce To lust, or set their honesty at pawn, With such vile scum as these. The other way Forgets both Nature's general love, and that Which thereto added afterwards gives birth To special faith. Whence in the lesser circle, Point of the universe, dread seat of Dis, The traitor is eternally consum'd." I thus: "Instructor, clearly thy discourse Proceeds, distinguishing the hideous chasm And its inhabitants with skill exact. But tell me this: they of the dull, fat pool, Whom the rain beats, or whom the tempest drives, Or who with tongues so fierce conflicting meet, Wherefore within the city fire-illum'd Are not these punish'd, if God's wrath be on them? And if it be not, wherefore in such guise Are they condemned?" He answer thus return'd: "Wherefore in dotage wanders thus thy mind, Not so accustom'd? or what other thoughts Possess it? Dwell not in thy memory The words, wherein thy ethic page describes Three dispositions adverse to Heav'n's will, Incont'nence, malice, and mad brutishness, And how incontinence the least offends God, and least guilt incurs? If well thou note This judgment, and remember who they are, Without these walls to vain repentance doom'd, Thou shalt discern why they apart are plac'd From these fell spirits, and less wreakful pours Justice divine on them its vengeance down." "O Sun! who healest all imperfect sight, Thou so content'st me, when thou solv'st my doubt, That ignorance not less than knowledge charms. Yet somewhat turn thee back," I in these words Continu'd, "where thou saidst, that usury Offends celestial Goodness; and this knot Perplex'd unravel." He thus made reply: "Philosophy, to an attentive ear, Clearly points out, not in one part alone, How imitative nature takes her course From the celestial mind and from its art: And where her laws the Stagyrite unfolds, Not many leaves scann'd o'er, observing well Thou shalt discover, that your art on her Obsequious follows, as the learner treads In his instructor's step, so that your art Deserves the name of second in descent From God. These two, if thou recall to mind Creation's holy book, from the beginning Were the right source of life and excellence To human kind. But in another path The usurer walks; and Nature in herself And in her follower thus he sets at nought, Placing elsewhere his hope. But follow now My steps on forward journey bent; for now The Pisces play with undulating glance Along the' horizon, and the Wain lies all O'er the north-west; and onward there a space Is our steep passage down the rocky height." CANTO XII THE place where to descend the precipice We came, was rough as Alp, and on its verge Such object lay, as every eye would shun. As is that ruin, which Adice's stream On this side Trento struck, should'ring the wave, Or loos'd by earthquake or for lack of prop; For from the mountain's summit, whence it mov'd To the low level, so the headlong rock Is shiver'd, that some passage it might give To him who from above would pass; e'en such Into the chasm was that descent: and there At point of the disparted ridge lay stretch'd The infamy of Crete, detested brood Of the feign'd heifer: and at sight of us It gnaw'd itself, as one with rage distract. To him my guide exclaim'd: "Perchance thou deem'st The King of Athens here, who, in the world Above, thy death contriv'd. Monster! avaunt! He comes not tutor'd by thy sister's art, But to behold your torments is he come." Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow Hath struck him, but unable to proceed Plunges on either side; so saw I plunge The Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim'd: "Run to the passage! while he storms, 't is well That thou descend." Thus down our road we took Through those dilapidated crags, that oft Mov'd underneath my feet, to weight like theirs Unus'd. I pond'ring went, and thus he spake: "Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin'd steep, Guarded by the brute violence, which I Have vanquish'd now. Know then, that when I erst Hither descended to the nether hell, This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt (If well I mark) not long ere He arrived, Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoil Of the highest circle, then through all its bounds Such trembling seiz'd the deep concave and foul, I thought the universe was thrill'd with love, Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oft Been into chaos turn'd: and in that point, Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down. But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood Approaches, in the which all those are steep'd, Who have by violence injur'd." O blind lust! O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us on In the brief life, and in the eternal then Thus miserably o'erwhelm us. I beheld An ample foss, that in a bow was bent, As circling all the plain; for so my guide Had told. Between it and the rampart's base On trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm'd, As to the chase they on the earth were wont. At seeing us descend they each one stood; And issuing from the troop, three sped with bows And missile weapons chosen first; of whom One cried from far: "Say to what pain ye come Condemn'd, who down this steep have journied? Speak From whence ye stand, or else the bow I draw." To whom my guide: "Our answer shall be made To Chiron, there, when nearer him we come. Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash." Then me he touch'd, and spake: "Nessus is this, Who for the fair Deianira died, And wrought himself revenge for his own fate. He in the midst, that on his breast looks down, Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs'd; That other Pholus, prone to wrath." Around The foss these go by thousands, aiming shafts At whatsoever spirit dares emerge From out the blood, more than his guilt allows. We to those beasts, that rapid strode along, Drew near, when Chiron took an arrow forth, And with the notch push'd back his shaggy beard To the cheek-bone, then his great mouth to view Exposing, to his fellows thus exclaim'd: "Are ye aware, that he who comes behind Moves what he touches? The feet of the dead Are not so wont." My trusty guide, who now Stood near his breast, where the two natures join, Thus made reply: "He is indeed alive, And solitary so must needs by me Be shown the gloomy vale, thereto induc'd By strict necessity, not by delight. She left her joyful harpings in the sky, Who this new office to my care consign'd. He is no robber, no dark spirit I. But by that virtue, which empowers my step To treat so wild a path, grant us, I pray, One of thy band, whom we may trust secure, Who to the ford may lead us, and convey Across, him mounted on his back; for he Is not a spirit that may walk the air." Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thus To Nessus spake: "Return, and be their guide. And if ye chance to cross another troop, Command them keep aloof." Onward we mov'd, The faithful escort by our side, along The border of the crimson-seething flood, Whence from those steep'd within loud shrieks arose. Some there I mark'd, as high as to their brow Immers'd, of whom the mighty Centaur thus: "These are the souls of tyrants, who were given To blood and rapine. Here they wail aloud Their merciless wrongs. Here Alexander dwells, And Dionysius fell, who many a year Of woe wrought for fair Sicily. That brow Whereon the hair so jetty clust'ring hangs, Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locks Obizzo' of Este, in the world destroy'd By his foul step-son." To the bard rever'd I turned me round, and thus he spake; "Let him Be to thee now first leader, me but next To him in rank." Then farther on a space The Centaur paus'd, near some, who at the throat Were extant from the wave; and showing us A spirit by itself apart retir'd, Exclaim'd: "He in God's bosom smote the heart, Which yet is honour'd on the bank of Thames." A race I next espied, who held the head, And even all the bust above the stream. 'Midst these I many a face remember'd well. Thus shallow more and more the blood became, So that at last it but imbru'd the feet; And there our passage lay athwart the foss. "As ever on this side the boiling wave Thou seest diminishing," the Centaur said, "So on the other, be thou well assur'd, It lower still and lower sinks its bed, Till in that part it reuniting join, Where 't is the lot of tyranny to mourn. There Heav'n's stern justice lays chastising hand On Attila, who was the scourge of earth, On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts Tears ever by the seething flood unlock'd From the Rinieri, of Corneto this, Pazzo the other nam'd, who fill'd the ways With violence and war." This said, he turn'd, And quitting us, alone repass'd the ford. CANTO XIII ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank, We enter'd on a forest, where no track Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these, Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields, Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream. Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same Who from the Strophades the Trojan band Drove with dire boding of their future woe. Broad are their pennons, of the human form Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. The kind instructor in these words began: "Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now I' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou come Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold, As would my speech discredit." On all sides I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see From whom they might have issu'd. In amaze Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd, That I had thought so many voices came From some amid those thickets close conceal'd, And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop off A single twig from one of those ill plants, The thought thou hast conceiv'd shall vanish quite." Thereat a little stretching forth my hand, From a great wilding gather'd I a branch, And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?" Then as the dark blood trickled down its side, These words it added: "Wherefore tear'st me thus? Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast? Men once were we, that now are rooted here. Thy hand might well have spar'd us, had we been The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green, That burning at one end from the' other sends A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind That forces out its way, so burst at once, Forth from the broken splinter words and blood. I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as one Assail'd by terror, and the sage replied: "If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'd What he hath seen but in my verse describ'd, He never against thee had stretch'd his hand. But I, because the thing surpass'd belief, Prompted him to this deed, which even now Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast; That, for this wrong to do thee some amends, In the upper world (for thither to return Is granted him) thy fame he may revive." "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge A little longer, in the snare detain'd, Count it not grievous. I it was, who held Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards, Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, That besides me, into his inmost breast Scarce any other could admittance find. The faith I bore to my high charge was such, It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins. The harlot, who ne'er turn'd her gloating eyes From Caesar's household, common vice and pest Of courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all; And to Augustus they so spread the flame, That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes. My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, Just as I was, unjust toward myself. By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, That never faith I broke to my liege lord, Who merited such honour; and of you, If any to the world indeed return, Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words Were ended, then to me the bard began: "Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask, If more thou wish to learn." Whence I replied: "Question thou him again of whatsoe'er Will, as thou think'st, content me; for no power Have I to ask, such pity' is at my heart." He thus resum'd; "So may he do for thee Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet Be pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare, How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied; And whether any ever from such frame Be loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell." Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon Chang'd into sounds articulate like these; "Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs The fierce soul from the body, by itself Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls, No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, It rises to a sapling, growing thence A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come For our own spoils, yet not so that with them We may again be clad; for what a man Takes from himself it is not just he have. Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung, Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade." Attentive yet to listen to the trunk We stood, expecting farther speech, when us A noise surpris'd, as when a man perceives The wild boar and the hunt approach his place Of station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughs Loud rustling round him hears. And lo! there came Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, That they before them broke each fan o' th' wood. "Haste now," the foremost cried, "now haste thee death!" The' other, as seem'd, impatient of delay Exclaiming, "Lano! not so bent for speed Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field." And then, for that perchance no longer breath Suffic'd him, of himself and of a bush One group he made. Behind them was the wood Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet, As greyhounds that have newly slipp'd the leash. On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, And having rent him piecemeal bore away The tortur'd limbs. My guide then seiz'd my hand, And led me to the thicket, which in vain Mourn'd through its bleeding wounds: "O Giacomo Of Sant' Andrea! what avails it thee," It cried, "that of me thou hast made thy screen? For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?" When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?" He answer'd: "Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in time To spy the shameful havoc, that from me My leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up, And at the foot of their sad parent-tree Carefully lay them. In that city' I dwelt, Who for the Baptist her first patron chang'd, Whence he for this shall cease not with his art To work her woe: and if there still remain'd not On Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him, Those citizens, who rear'd once more her walls Upon the ashes left by Attila, Had labour'd without profit of their toil. I slung the fatal noose from my own roof." CANTO XIV SOON as the charity of native land Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leaves Collected, and to him restor'd, who now Was hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thence We came, which from the third the second round Divides, and where of justice is display'd Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next A plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bed Each plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves round Its garland on all sides, as round the wood Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge, Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wide Of arid sand and thick, resembling most The soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod. Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'd By all, who read what here my eyes beheld! Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, All weeping piteously, to different laws Subjected: for on the' earth some lay supine, Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd Incessantly around; the latter tribe, More numerous, those fewer who beneath The torment lay, but louder in their grief. O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd. As in the torrid Indian clime, the son Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band Descending, solid flames, that to the ground Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop To trample on the soil; for easier thus The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone; So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove The viands, doubly to augment the pain. Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began: "Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st, Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth To stop our entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?" Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd My guide of him, exclaim'd: "Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; "Help, help, good Mulciber!" as erst he cried In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'd Than I before had heard him: "Capaneus! Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy pride Lives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage, Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full." Next turning round to me with milder lip He spake: "This of the seven kings was one, Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held, As still he seems to hold, God in disdain, And sets his high omnipotence at nought. But, as I told him, his despiteful mood Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it. Follow me now; and look thou set not yet Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood Keep ever close." Silently on we pass'd To where there gushes from the forest's bound A little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet lifts My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs From Bulicame, to be portion'd out Among the sinful women; so ran this Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank Stone-built, and either margin at its side, Whereon I straight perceiv'd our passage lay. "Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate We enter'd first, whose threshold is to none Denied, nought else so worthy of regard, As is this river, has thine eye discern'd, O'er which the flaming volley all is quench'd." So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv'n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd. "In midst of ocean," forthwith he began, "A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam'd, Under whose monarch in old times the world Liv'd pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, Call'd Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, Deserted now like a forbidden thing. It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse, Chose for the secret cradle of her son; And better to conceal him, drown'd in shouts His infant cries. Within the mount, upright An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold His head is shap'd, pure silver are the breast And arms; thence to the middle is of brass. And downward all beneath well-temper'd steel, Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which Than on the other more erect he stands, Each part except the gold, is rent throughout; And from the fissure tears distil, which join'd Penetrate to that cave. They in their course Thus far precipitated down the rock Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon; Then by this straiten'd channel passing hence Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all, Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself Shall see it) I here give thee no account." Then I to him: "If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?" He straight replied: "The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass'd, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb. Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks." Then I again inquir'd: "Where flow the streams Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one Thou tell'st not, and the other of that shower, Thou say'st, is form'd." He answer thus return'd: "Doubtless thy questions all well pleas'd I hear. Yet the red seething wave might have resolv'd One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see, But not within this hollow, in the place, Whither to lave themselves the spirits go, Whose blame hath been by penitence remov'd." He added: "Time is now we quit the wood. Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames; For over them all vapour is extinct." CANTO XV One of the solid margins bears us now Envelop'd in the mist, that from the stream Arising, hovers o'er, and saves from fire Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear Their mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs Along the Brenta, to defend their towns And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt On Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds, So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to these Made equal, by the master, whosoe'er He was, that rais'd them here. We from the wood Were not so far remov'd, that turning round I might not have discern'd it, when we met A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier. They each one ey'd us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon, And toward us sharpen'd their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle's eye. Thus narrowly explor'd by all the tribe, I was agniz'd of one, who by the skirt Caught me, and cried, "What wonder have we here!" And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm, Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks, That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not But I remember'd him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer'd: "Sir! Brunetto! "And art thou here?" He thus to me: "My son! Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." I thus to him replied: "Much as I can, I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing, That I here seat me with thee, I consent; His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain'd." "O son!" said he, "whoever of this throng One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, No fan to ventilate him, when the fire Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin My troop, who go mourning their endless doom." I dar'd not from the path descend to tread On equal ground with him, but held my head Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise. "What chance or destiny," thus he began, "Ere the last day conducts thee here below? And who is this, that shows to thee the way?" "There up aloft," I answer'd, "in the life Serene, I wander'd in a valley lost, Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd. But yester-morn I left it: then once more Into that vale returning, him I met; And by this path homeward he leads me back." "If thou," he answer'd, "follow but thy star, Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: Unless in fairer days my judgment err'd. And if my fate so early had not chanc'd, Seeing the heav'ns thus bounteous to thee, I Had gladly giv'n thee comfort in thy work. But that ungrateful and malignant race, Who in old times came down from Fesole, Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint, Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity. Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour'd crabs It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. Old fame reports them in the world for blind, Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well: Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve, That thou by either party shalt be crav'd With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far From the goat's tooth. The herd of Fesole May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, If any such yet spring on their rank bed, In which the holy seed revives, transmitted From those true Romans, who still there remain'd, When it was made the nest of so much ill." "Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied, "Thou from the confines of man's nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity; And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive. This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd. Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course." Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake: "He listens to good purpose who takes note." I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe. "To know of some is well;" thus he replied, "But of the rest silence may best beseem. Time would not serve us for report so long. In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks, Men of great learning and no less renown, By one same sin polluted in the world. With them is Priscian, and Accorso's son Francesco herds among that wretched throng: And, if the wish of so impure a blotch Possess'd thee, him thou also might'st have seen, Who by the servants' servant was transferr'd From Arno's seat to Bacchiglione, where His ill-strain'd nerves he left. I more would add, But must from farther speech and onward way Alike desist, for yonder I behold A mist new-risen on the sandy plain. A company, with whom I may not sort, Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee, Wherein I yet survive; my sole request." This said he turn'd, and seem'd as one of those, Who o'er Verona's champain try their speed For the green mantle, and of them he seem'd, Not he who loses but who gains the prize. CANTO XVI NOW came I where the water's din was heard, As down it fell into the other round, Resounding like the hum of swarming bees: When forth together issu'd from a troop, That pass'd beneath the fierce tormenting storm, Three spirits, running swift. They towards us came, And each one cried aloud, "Oh do thou stay! Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem To be some inmate of our evil land." Ah me! what wounds I mark'd upon their limbs, Recent and old, inflicted by the flames! E'en the remembrance of them grieves me yet. Attentive to their cry my teacher paus'd, And turn'd to me his visage, and then spake; "Wait now! our courtesy these merit well: And were 't not for the nature of the place, Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, That haste had better suited thee than them." They, when we stopp'd, resum'd their ancient wail, And soon as they had reach'd us, all the three Whirl'd round together in one restless wheel. As naked champions, smear'd with slippery oil, Are wont intent to watch their place of hold And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet; Thus each one, as he wheel'd, his countenance At me directed, so that opposite The neck mov'd ever to the twinkling feet. "If misery of this drear wilderness," Thus one began, "added to our sad cheer And destitute, do call forth scorn on us And our entreaties, let our great renown Incline thee to inform us who thou art, That dost imprint with living feet unharm'd The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou see'st My steps pursuing, naked though he be And reft of all, was of more high estate Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste Gualdrada, him they Guidoguerra call'd, Who in his lifetime many a noble act Achiev'd, both by his wisdom and his sword. The other, next to me that beats the sand, Is Aldobrandi, name deserving well, In the' upper world, of honour; and myself Who in this torment do partake with them, Am Rusticucci, whom, past doubt, my wife Of savage temper, more than aught beside Hath to this evil brought." If from the fire I had been shelter'd, down amidst them straight I then had cast me, nor my guide, I deem, Would have restrain'd my going; but that fear Of the dire burning vanquish'd the desire, Which made me eager of their wish'd embrace. I then began: "Not scorn, but grief much more, Such as long time alone can cure, your doom Fix'd deep within me, soon as this my lord Spake words, whose tenour taught me to expect That such a race, as ye are, was at hand. I am a countryman of yours, who still Affectionate have utter'd, and have heard Your deeds and names renown'd. Leaving the gall For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide Hath promis'd to me. But behooves, that far As to the centre first I downward tend." "So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs," He answer straight return'd; "and so thy fame Shine bright, when thou art gone; as thou shalt tell, If courtesy and valour, as they wont, Dwell in our city, or have vanish'd clean? For one amidst us late condemn'd to wail, Borsiere, yonder walking with his peers, Grieves us no little by the news he brings." "An upstart multitude and sudden gains, Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee Engender'd, so that now in tears thou mourn'st!" Thus cried I with my face uprais'd, and they All three, who for an answer took my words, Look'd at each other, as men look when truth Comes to their ear. "If thou at other times," They all at once rejoin'd, "so easily Satisfy those, who question, happy thou, Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought! Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime, Returning to behold the radiant stars, When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past, See that of us thou speak among mankind." This said, they broke the circle, and so swift Fled, that as pinions seem'd their nimble feet. Not in so short a time might one have said "Amen," as they had vanish'd. Straight my guide Pursu'd his track. I follow'd; and small space Had we pass'd onward, when the water's sound Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce Heard one another's speech for the loud din. E'en as the river, that holds on its course Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo, On the left side of Apennine, toward The east, which Acquacheta higher up They call, ere it descend into the vale, At Forli by that name no longer known, Rebellows o'er Saint Benedict, roll'd on From the' Alpine summit down a precipice, Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads; Thus downward from a craggy steep we found, That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud, So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn'd. I had a cord that brac'd my girdle round, Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take The painted leopard. This when I had all Unloosen'd from me (so my master bade) I gather'd up, and stretch'd it forth to him. Then to the right he turn'd, and from the brink Standing few paces distant, cast it down Into the deep abyss. "And somewhat strange," Thus to myself I spake, "signal so strange Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye Thus follows." Ah! what caution must men use With those who look not at the deed alone, But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill! "Quickly shall come," he said, "what I expect, Thine eye discover quickly, that whereof Thy thought is dreaming." Ever to that truth, Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears, A man, if possible, should bar his lip; Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach. But silence here were vain; and by these notes Which now I sing, reader! I swear to thee, So may they favour find to latest times! That through the gross and murky air I spied A shape come swimming up, that might have quell'd The stoutest heart with wonder, in such guise As one returns, who hath been down to loose An anchor grappled fast against some rock, Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies, Who upward springing close draws in his feet. CANTO XVII "LO! the fell monster with the deadly sting! Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls And firm embattled spears, and with his filth Taints all the world!" Thus me my guide address'd, And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore, Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge. Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear'd, His head and upper part expos'd on land, But laid not on the shore his bestial train. His face the semblance of a just man's wore, So kind and gracious was its outward cheer; The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws Reach'd to the armpits, and the back and breast, And either side, were painted o'er with nodes And orbits. Colours variegated more Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state With interchangeable embroidery wove, Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom. As ofttimes a light skiff, moor'd to the shore, Stands part in water, part upon the land; Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor, The beaver settles watching for his prey; So on the rim, that fenc'd the sand with rock, Sat perch'd the fiend of evil. In the void Glancing, his tail upturn'd its venomous fork, With sting like scorpion's arm'd. Then thus my guide: "Now need our way must turn few steps apart, Far as to that ill beast, who couches there." Thereat toward the right our downward course We shap'd, and, better to escape the flame And burning marle, ten paces on the verge Proceeded. Soon as we to him arrive, A little further on mine eye beholds A tribe of spirits, seated on the sand Near the wide chasm. Forthwith my master spake: "That to the full thy knowledge may extend Of all this round contains, go now, and mark The mien these wear: but hold not long discourse. Till thou returnest, I with him meantime Will parley, that to us he may vouchsafe The aid of his strong shoulders." Thus alone Yet forward on the' extremity I pac'd Of that seventh circle, where the mournful tribe Were seated. At the eyes forth gush'd their pangs. Against the vapours and the torrid soil Alternately their shifting hands they plied. Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round. Noting the visages of some, who lay Beneath the pelting of that dolorous fire, One of them all I knew not; but perceiv'd, That pendent from his neck each bore a pouch With colours and with emblems various mark'd, On which it seem'd as if their eye did feed. And when amongst them looking round I came, A yellow purse I saw with azure wrought, That wore a lion's countenance and port. Then still my sight pursuing its career, Another I beheld, than blood more red. A goose display of whiter wing than curd. And one, who bore a fat and azure swine Pictur'd on his white scrip, addressed me thus: "What dost thou in this deep? Go now and know, Since yet thou livest, that my neighbour here Vitaliano on my left shall sit. A Paduan with these Florentines am I. Ofttimes they thunder in mine ears, exclaiming 'O haste that noble knight! he who the pouch With the three beaks will bring!'" This said, he writh'd The mouth, and loll'd the tongue out, like an ox That licks his nostrils. I, lest longer stay He ill might brook, who bade me stay not long, Backward my steps from those sad spirits turn'd. My guide already seated on the haunch Of the fierce animal I found; and thus He me encourag'd. "Be thou stout; be bold. Down such a steep flight must we now descend! Mount thou before: for that no power the tail May have to harm thee, I will be i' th' midst." As one, who hath an ague fit so near, His nails already are turn'd blue, and he Quivers all o'er, if he but eye the shade; Such was my cheer at hearing of his words. But shame soon interpos'd her threat, who makes The servant bold in presence of his lord. I settled me upon those shoulders huge, And would have said, but that the words to aid My purpose came not, "Look thou clasp me firm!" But he whose succour then not first I prov'd, Soon as I mounted, in his arms aloft, Embracing, held me up, and thus he spake: "Geryon! now move thee! be thy wheeling gyres Of ample circuit, easy thy descent. Think on th' unusual burden thou sustain'st." As a small vessel, back'ning out from land, Her station quits; so thence the monster loos'd, And when he felt himself at large, turn'd round There where the breast had been, his forked tail. Thus, like an eel, outstretch'd at length he steer'd, Gath'ring the air up with retractile claws. Not greater was the dread when Phaeton The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven, Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapt in flames; Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceiv'd, By liquefaction of the scalded wax, The trusted pennons loosen'd from his loins, His sire exclaiming loud, "Ill way thou keep'st!" Than was my dread, when round me on each part The air I view'd, and other object none Save the fell beast. He slowly sailing, wheels His downward motion, unobserv'd of me, But that the wind, arising to my face, Breathes on me from below. Now on our right I heard the cataract beneath us leap With hideous crash; whence bending down to' explore, New terror I conceiv'd at the steep plunge: For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear: So that all trembling close I crouch'd my limbs, And then distinguish'd, unperceiv'd before, By the dread torments that on every side Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound. As falcon, that hath long been on the wing, But lure nor bird hath seen, while in despair The falconer cries, "Ah me! thou stoop'st to earth!" Wearied descends, and swiftly down the sky In many an orbit wheels, then lighting sits At distance from his lord in angry mood; So Geryon lighting places us on foot Low down at base of the deep-furrow'd rock, And, of his burden there discharg'd, forthwith Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string. CANTO XVIII THERE is a place within the depths of hell Call'd Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain'd With hue ferruginous, e'en as the steep That round it circling winds. Right in the midst Of that abominable region, yawns A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains, Throughout its round, between the gulf and base Of the high craggy banks, successive forms Ten trenches, in its hollow bottom sunk. As where to guard the walls, full many a foss Begirds some stately castle, sure defence Affording to the space within, so here Were model'd these; and as like fortresses E'en from their threshold to the brink without, Are flank'd with bridges; from the rock's low base Thus flinty paths advanc'd, that 'cross the moles And dikes, struck onward far as to the gulf, That in one bound collected cuts them off. Such was the place, wherein we found ourselves From Geryon's back dislodg'd. The bard to left Held on his way, and I behind him mov'd. On our right hand new misery I saw, New pains, new executioners of wrath, That swarming peopled the first chasm. Below Were naked sinners. Hitherward they came, Meeting our faces from the middle point, With us beyond but with a larger stride. E'en thus the Romans, when the year returns Of Jubilee, with better speed to rid The thronging multitudes, their means devise For such as pass the bridge; that on one side All front toward the castle, and approach Saint Peter's fane, on th' other towards the mount. Each divers way along the grisly rock, Horn'd demons I beheld, with lashes huge, That on their back unmercifully smote. Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe! None for the second waited nor the third. Meantime as on I pass'd, one met my sight Whom soon as view'd; "Of him," cried I, "not yet Mine eye hath had his fill." With fixed gaze I therefore scann'd him. Straight the teacher kind Paus'd with me, and consented I should walk Backward a space, and the tormented spirit, Who thought to hide him, bent his visage down. But it avail'd him nought; for I exclaim'd: "Thou who dost cast thy eye upon the ground, Unless thy features do belie thee much, Venedico art thou. But what brings thee Into this bitter seas'ning?" He replied: "Unwillingly I answer to thy words. But thy clear speech, that to my mind recalls The world I once inhabited, constrains me. Know then 'twas I who led fair Ghisola To do the Marquis' will, however fame The shameful tale have bruited. Nor alone Bologna hither sendeth me to mourn Rather with us the place is so o'erthrong'd That not so many tongues this day are taught, Betwixt the Reno and Savena's stream, To answer SIPA in their country's phrase. And if of that securer proof thou need, Remember but our craving thirst for gold." Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong Struck, and exclaim'd, "Away! corrupter! here Women are none for sale." Forthwith I join'd My escort, and few paces thence we came To where a rock forth issued from the bank. That easily ascended, to the right Upon its splinter turning, we depart From those eternal barriers. When arriv'd, Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass The scourged souls: "Pause here," the teacher said, "And let these others miserable, now Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld, For that together they with us have walk'd." From the old bridge we ey'd the pack, who came From th' other side towards us, like the rest, Excoriate from the lash. My gentle guide, By me unquestion'd, thus his speech resum'd: "Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends, And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear. How yet the regal aspect he retains! Jason is he, whose skill and prowess won The ram from Colchos. To the Lemnian isle His passage thither led him, when those bold And pitiless women had slain all their males. There he with tokens and fair witching words Hypsipyle beguil'd, a virgin young, Who first had all the rest herself beguil'd. Impregnated he left her there forlorn. Such is the guilt condemns him to this pain. Here too Medea's inj'ries are avenged. All bear him company, who like deceit To his have practis'd. And thus much to know Of the first vale suffice thee, and of those Whom its keen torments urge." Now had we come Where, crossing the next pier, the straighten'd path Bestrides its shoulders to another arch. Hence in the second chasm we heard the ghosts, Who jibber in low melancholy sounds, With wide-stretch'd nostrils snort, and on themselves Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf From the foul steam condens'd, encrusting hung, That held sharp combat with the sight and smell. So hollow is the depth, that from no part, Save on the summit of the rocky span, Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came; And thence I saw, within the foss below, A crowd immers'd in ordure, that appear'd Draff of the human body. There beneath Searching with eye inquisitive, I mark'd One with his head so grim'd, 't were hard to deem, If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried: "Why greedily thus bendest more on me, Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken?" "Because if true my mem'ry," I replied, "I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks, And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung. Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." Then beating on his brain these words he spake: "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." My leader thus: "A little further stretch Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan, Who there doth rend her with defiled nails, Now crouching down, now risen on her feet. "Thais is this, the harlot, whose false lip Answer'd her doting paramour that ask'd, 'Thankest me much!'--'Say rather wondrously,' And seeing this here satiate be our view." CANTO XIX WOE to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you, His wretched followers! who the things of God, Which should be wedded unto goodness, them, Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute For gold and silver in adultery! Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours Is the third chasm. Upon the following vault We now had mounted, where the rock impends Directly o'er the centre of the foss. Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art, Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, And in the evil world, how just a meed Allotting by thy virtue unto all! I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides And in its bottom full of apertures, All equal in their width, and circular each, Nor ample less nor larger they appear'd Than in Saint John's fair dome of me belov'd Those fram'd to hold the pure baptismal streams, One of the which I brake, some few years past, To save a whelming infant; and be this A seal to undeceive whoever doubts The motive of my deed. From out the mouth Of every one, emerg'd a sinner's feet And of the legs high upward as the calf The rest beneath was hid. On either foot The soles were burning, whence the flexile joints Glanc'd with such violent motion, as had snapt Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame, Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along The surface, scarcely touching where it moves; So here, from heel to point, glided the flames. "Master! say who is he, than all the rest Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom A ruddier flame doth prey?" I thus inquir'd. "If thou be willing," he replied, "that I Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls, He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs." I then: "As pleases thee to me is best. Thou art my lord; and know'st that ne'er I quit Thy will: what silence hides that knowest thou." Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn'd, And on our left descended to the depth, A narrow strait and perforated close. Nor from his side my leader set me down, Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb Quiv'ring express'd his pang. "Whoe'er thou art, Sad spirit! thus revers'd, and as a stake Driv'n in the soil!" I in these words began, "If thou be able, utter forth thy voice." There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive A wretch for murder doom'd, who e'en when fix'd, Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. He shouted: "Ha! already standest there? Already standest there, O Boniface! By many a year the writing play'd me false. So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, For which thou fearedst not in guile to take The lovely lady, and then mangle her?" I felt as those who, piercing not the drift Of answer made them, stand as if expos'd In mockery, nor know what to reply, When Virgil thus admonish'd: "Tell him quick, I am not he, not he, whom thou believ'st." And I, as was enjoin'd me, straight replied. That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet, And sighing next in woeful accent spake: "What then of me requirest? If to know So much imports thee, who I am, that thou Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn That in the mighty mantle I was rob'd, And of a she-bear was indeed the son, So eager to advance my whelps, that there My having in my purse above I stow'd, And here myself. Under my head are dragg'd The rest, my predecessors in the guilt Of simony. Stretch'd at their length they lie Along an opening in the rock. 'Midst them I also low shall fall, soon as he comes, For whom I took thee, when so hastily I question'd. But already longer time Hath pass'd, since my souls kindled, and I thus Upturn'd have stood, than is his doom to stand Planted with fiery feet. For after him, One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive, From forth the west, a shepherd without law, Fated to cover both his form and mine. He a new Jason shall be call'd, of whom In Maccabees we read; and favour such As to that priest his king indulgent show'd, Shall be of France's monarch shown to him." I know not if I here too far presum'd, But in this strain I answer'd: "Tell me now, What treasures from St. Peter at the first Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys Into his charge? Surely he ask'd no more But, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the rest Or gold or silver of Matthias took, When lots were cast upon the forfeit place Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then; Thy punishment of right is merited: And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin, Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir'd. If reverence of the keys restrain'd me not, Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet Severer speech might use. Your avarice O'ercasts the world with mourning, under foot Treading the good, and raising bad men up. Of shepherds, like to you, th' Evangelist Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves, With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld, She who with seven heads tower'd at her birth, And from ten horns her proof of glory drew, Long as her spouse in virtue took delight. Of gold and silver ye have made your god, Diff'ring wherein from the idolater, But he that worships one, a hundred ye? Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth, Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower, Which the first wealthy Father gain'd from thee!" Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang Spinning on either sole. I do believe My teacher well was pleas'd, with so compos'd A lip, he listen'd ever to the sound Of the true words I utter'd. In both arms He caught, and to his bosom lifting me Upward retrac'd the way of his descent. Nor weary of his weight he press'd me close, Till to the summit of the rock we came, Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier. His cherish'd burden there gently he plac'd Upon the rugged rock and steep, a path Not easy for the clamb'ring goat to mount. Thence to my view another vale appear'd CANTO XX AND now the verse proceeds to torments new, Fit argument of this the twentieth strain Of the first song, whose awful theme records The spirits whelm'd in woe. Earnest I look'd Into the depth, that open'd to my view, Moisten'd with tears of anguish, and beheld A tribe, that came along the hollow vale, In silence weeping: such their step as walk Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth. As on them more direct mine eye descends, Each wondrously seem'd to be revers'd At the neck-bone, so that the countenance Was from the reins averted: and because None might before him look, they were compell'd To' advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos'd, But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so. Now, reader! think within thyself, so God Fruit of thy reading give thee! how I long Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld Near me our form distorted in such guise, That on the hinder parts fall'n from the face The tears down-streaming roll'd. Against a rock I leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim'd: "What, and art thou too witless as the rest? Here pity most doth show herself alive, When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his, Who with Heaven's judgment in his passion strives? Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man, Before whose eyes earth gap'd in Thebes, when all Cried out, 'Amphiaraus, whither rushest? 'Why leavest thou the war?' He not the less Fell ruining far as to Minos down, Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makes The breast his shoulders, and who once too far Before him wish'd to see, now backward looks, And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note, Who semblance chang'd, when woman he became Of male, through every limb transform'd, and then Once more behov'd him with his rod to strike The two entwining serpents, ere the plumes, That mark'd the better sex, might shoot again. "Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes. On Luni's mountains 'midst the marbles white, Where delves Carrara's hind, who wons beneath, A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars And main-sea wide in boundless view he held. "The next, whose loosen'd tresses overspread Her bosom, which thou seest not (for each hair On that side grows) was Manto, she who search'd Through many regions, and at length her seat Fix'd in my native land, whence a short space My words detain thy audience. When her sire From life departed, and in servitude The city dedicate to Bacchus mourn'd, Long time she went a wand'rer through the world. Aloft in Italy's delightful land A lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp, That o'er the Tyrol locks Germania in, Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills, Methinks, and more, water between the vale Camonica and Garda and the height Of Apennine remote. There is a spot At midway of that lake, where he who bears Of Trento's flock the past'ral staff, with him Of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each Passing that way his benediction give. A garrison of goodly site and strong Peschiera stands, to awe with front oppos'd The Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shore More slope each way descends. There, whatsoev'er Benacus' bosom holds not, tumbling o'er Down falls, and winds a river flood beneath Through the green pastures. Soon as in his course The steam makes head, Benacus then no more They call the name, but Mincius, till at last Reaching Governo into Po he falls. Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh It covers, pestilent in summer oft. Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw 'Midst of the fen a territory waste And naked of inhabitants. To shun All human converse, here she with her slaves Plying her arts remain'd, and liv'd, and left Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes, Who round were scatter'd, gath'ring to that place Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos'd On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones They rear'd themselves a city, for her sake, Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot, Nor ask'd another omen for the name, Wherein more numerous the people dwelt, Ere Casalodi's madness by deceit Was wrong'd of Pinamonte. If thou hear Henceforth another origin assign'd Of that my country, I forewarn thee now, That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth." I answer'd: "Teacher, I conclude thy words So certain, that all else shall be to me As embers lacking life. But now of these, Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see Any that merit more especial note. For thereon is my mind alone intent." He straight replied: "That spirit, from whose cheek The beard sweeps o'er his shoulders brown, what time Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce The cradles were supplied, the seer was he In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign When first to cut the cable. Him they nam'd Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain, In which majestic measure well thou know'st, Who know'st it all. That other, round the loins So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot, Practis'd in ev'ry slight of magic wile. "Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark, Who now were willing, he had tended still The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. "See next the wretches, who the needle left, The shuttle and the spindle, and became Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought With images and herbs. But onward now: For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well: For she good service did thee in the gloom Of the deep wood." This said, both onward mov'd. CANTO XXI THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk, The which my drama cares not to rehearse, Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood To view another gap, within the round Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs. Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place. In the Venetians' arsenal as boils Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear Their unsound vessels; for th' inclement time Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while His bark one builds anew, another stops The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage; One hammers at the prow, one at the poop; This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls, The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent So not by force of fire but art divine Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round Lim'd all the shore beneath. I that beheld, But therein nought distinguish'd, save the surge, Rais'd by the boiling, in one mighty swell Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there I fix'd my ken below, "Mark! mark!" my guide Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place, Wherein I stood. I turn'd myself as one, Impatient to behold that which beheld He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans, That he his flight delays not for the view. Behind me I discern'd a devil black, That running, up advanc'd along the rock. Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake! In act how bitter did he seem, with wings Buoyant outstretch'd and feet of nimblest tread! His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp Was with a sinner charg'd; by either haunch He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast. "Ye of our bridge!" he cried, "keen-talon'd fiends! Lo! one of Santa Zita's elders! Him Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more. That land hath store of such. All men are there, Except Bonturo, barterers: of 'no' For lucre there an 'aye' is quickly made." Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd, Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos'd Sped with like eager haste. That other sank And forthwith writing to the surface rose. But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge, Cried "Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave. Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not, Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch." This said, They grappled him with more than hundred hooks, And shouted: "Cover'd thou must sport thee here; So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch." E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms, To thrust the flesh into the caldron down With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. Me then my guide bespake: "Lest they descry, That thou art here, behind a craggy rock Bend low and screen thee; and whate'er of force Be offer'd me, or insult, fear thou not: For I am well advis'd, who have been erst In the like fray." Beyond the bridge's head Therewith he pass'd, and reaching the sixth pier, Behov'd him then a forehead terror-proof. With storm and fury, as when dogs rush forth Upon the poor man's back, who suddenly From whence he standeth makes his suit; so rush'd Those from beneath the arch, and against him Their weapons all they pointed. He aloud: "Be none of you outrageous: ere your time Dare seize me, come forth from amongst you one, "Who having heard my words, decide he then If he shall tear these limbs." They shouted loud, "Go, Malacoda!" Whereat one advanc'd, The others standing firm, and as he came, "What may this turn avail him?" he exclaim'd. "Believ'st thou, Malacoda! I had come Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," My teacher answered, "without will divine And destiny propitious? Pass we then For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I should lead Another through this savage wilderness." Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop The instrument of torture at his feet, And to the rest exclaim'd: "We have no power To strike him." Then to me my guide: "O thou! Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit Low crouching, safely now to me return." I rose, and towards him moved with speed: the fiends Meantime all forward drew: me terror seiz'd Lest they should break the compact they had made. Thus issuing from Caprona, once I saw Th' infantry dreading, lest his covenant The foe should break; so close he hemm'd them round. I to my leader's side adher'd, mine eyes With fixt and motionless observance bent On their unkindly visage. They their hooks Protruding, one the other thus bespake: "Wilt thou I touch him on the hip?" To whom Was answer'd: "Even so; nor miss thy aim." But he, who was in conf'rence with my guide, Turn'd rapid round, and thus the demon spake: "Stay, stay thee, Scarmiglione!" Then to us He added: "Further footing to your step This rock affords not, shiver'd to the base Of the sixth arch. But would you still proceed, Up by this cavern go: not distant far, Another rock will yield you passage safe. Yesterday, later by five hours than now, Twelve hundred threescore years and six had fill'd The circuit of their course, since here the way Was broken. Thitherward I straight dispatch Certain of these my scouts, who shall espy If any on the surface bask. With them Go ye: for ye shall find them nothing fell. Come Alichino forth," with that he cried, "And Calcabrina, and Cagnazzo thou! The troop of ten let Barbariccia lead. With Libicocco Draghinazzo haste, Fang'd Ciriatto, Grafflacane fierce, And Farfarello, and mad Rubicant. Search ye around the bubbling tar. For these, In safety lead them, where the other crag Uninterrupted traverses the dens." I then: "O master! what a sight is there! Ah! without escort, journey we alone, Which, if thou know the way, I covet not. Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl Threatens us present tortures?" He replied: "I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will, Gnarl on: 't is but in token of their spite Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep'd." To leftward o'er the pier they turn'd; but each Had first between his teeth prest close the tongue, Toward their leader for a signal looking, Which he with sound obscene triumphant gave. CANTO XXII IT hath been heretofore my chance to see Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, To onset sallying, or in muster rang'd, Or in retreat sometimes outstretch'd for flight; Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen, And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, And with inventions multiform, our own, Or introduc'd from foreign land; but ne'er To such a strange recorder I beheld, In evolution moving, horse nor foot, Nor ship, that tack'd by sign from land or star. With the ten demons on our way we went; Ah fearful company! but in the church With saints, with gluttons at the tavern's mess. Still earnest on the pitch I gaz'd, to mark All things whate'er the chasm contain'd, and those Who burn'd within. As dolphins, that, in sign To mariners, heave high their arched backs, That thence forewarn'd they may advise to save Their threaten'd vessels; so, at intervals, To ease the pain his back some sinner show'd, Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance. E'en as the frogs, that of a wat'ry moat Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out, Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed, Thus on each part the sinners stood, but soon As Barbariccia was at hand, so they Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus, As it befalls that oft one frog remains, While the next springs away: and Graffiacan, Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seiz'd His clotted locks, and dragg'd him sprawling up, That he appear'd to me an otter. Each Already by their names I knew, so well When they were chosen, I observ'd, and mark'd How one the other call'd. "O Rubicant! See that his hide thou with thy talons flay," Shouted together all the cursed crew. Then I: "Inform thee, master! if thou may, What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand His foes have laid." My leader to his side Approach'd, and whence he came inquir'd, to whom Was answer'd thus: "Born in Navarre's domain My mother plac'd me in a lord's retinue, For she had borne me to a losel vile, A spendthrift of his substance and himself. The good king Thibault after that I serv'd, To peculating here my thoughts were turn'd, Whereof I give account in this dire heat." Straight Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk Issued on either side, as from a boar, Ript him with one of these. 'Twixt evil claws The mouse had fall'n: but Barbariccia cried, Seizing him with both arms: "Stand thou apart, While I do fix him on my prong transpierc'd." Then added, turning to my guide his face, "Inquire of him, if more thou wish to learn, Ere he again be rent." My leader thus: "Then tell us of the partners in thy guilt; Knowest thou any sprung of Latian land Under the tar?"--"I parted," he replied, "But now from one, who sojourn'd not far thence; So were I under shelter now with him! Nor hook nor talon then should scare me more."--. "Too long we suffer," Libicocco cried, Then, darting forth a prong, seiz'd on his arm, And mangled bore away the sinewy part. Him Draghinazzo by his thighs beneath Would next have caught, whence angrily their chief, Turning on all sides round, with threat'ning brow Restrain'd them. When their strife a little ceas'd, Of him, who yet was gazing on his wound, My teacher thus without delay inquir'd: "Who was the spirit, from whom by evil hap Parting, as thou has told, thou cam'st to shore?"-- "It was the friar Gomita," he rejoin'd, "He of Gallura, vessel of all guile, Who had his master's enemies in hand, And us'd them so that they commend him well. Money he took, and them at large dismiss'd. So he reports: and in each other charge Committed to his keeping, play'd the part Of barterer to the height: with him doth herd The chief of Logodoro, Michel Zanche. Sardinia is a theme, whereof their tongue Is never weary. Out! alas! behold That other, how he grins! More would I say, But tremble lest he mean to maul me sore." Their captain then to Farfarello turning, Who roll'd his moony eyes in act to strike, Rebuk'd him thus: "Off! cursed bird! Avaunt!"-- "If ye desire to see or hear," he thus Quaking with dread resum'd, "or Tuscan spirits Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear. Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury, So that no vengeance they may fear from them, And I, remaining in this self-same place, Will for myself but one, make sev'n appear, When my shrill whistle shall be heard; for so Our custom is to call each other up." Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn'd, Then wagg'd the head and spake: "Hear his device, Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down." Whereto he thus, who fail'd not in rich store Of nice-wove toils; "Mischief forsooth extreme, Meant only to procure myself more woe!" No longer Alichino then refrain'd, But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake: "If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let The bank be as a shield, that we may see If singly thou prevail against us all." Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear! They each one turn'd his eyes to the' other shore, He first, who was the hardest to persuade. The spirit of Navarre chose well his time, Planted his feet on land, and at one leap Escaping disappointed their resolve. Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit He therefore sped, exclaiming; "Thou art caught." But little it avail'd: terror outstripp'd His following flight: the other plung'd beneath, And he with upward pinion rais'd his breast: E'en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives The falcon near, dives instant down, while he Enrag'd and spent retires. That mockery In Calcabrina fury stirr'd, who flew After him, with desire of strife inflam'd; And, for the barterer had 'scap'd, so turn'd His talons on his comrade. O'er the dyke In grapple close they join'd; but the' other prov'd A goshawk able to rend well his foe; And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat Was umpire soon between them, but in vain To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest, That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatch'd From the' other coast, with all their weapons arm'd. They, to their post on each side speedily Descending, stretch'd their hooks toward the fiends, Who flounder'd, inly burning from their scars: And we departing left them to that broil. CANTO XXIII IN silence and in solitude we went, One first, the other following his steps, As minor friars journeying on their road. The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to muse Upon old Aesop's fable, where he told What fate unto the mouse and frog befell. For language hath not sounds more like in sense, Than are these chances, if the origin And end of each be heedfully compar'd. And as one thought bursts from another forth, So afterward from that another sprang, Which added doubly to my former fear. For thus I reason'd: "These through us have been So foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete, As needs must sting them sore. If anger then Be to their evil will conjoin'd, more fell They shall pursue us, than the savage hound Snatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass, I should not sooner draw unto myself Thy outward image, than I now imprint That from within. This moment came thy thoughts Presented before mine, with similar act And count'nance similar, so that from both I one design have fram'd. If the right coast Incline so much, that we may thence descend Into the other chasm, we shall escape Secure from this imagined pursuit." He had not spoke his purpose to the end, When I from far beheld them with spread wings Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide Caught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleep Is by the noise arous'd, and near her sees The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe And flies ne'er pausing, careful more of him Than of herself, that but a single vest Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock, Which closes on one part the other chasm. Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, When over us the steep they reach'd; but fear In him was none; for that high Providence, Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss, Power of departing thence took from them all. There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! We yet once more with them together turn'd To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly came The fainting people, that our company Was chang'd at every movement of the step. Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice, Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet, Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air. Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd To overtake me; but the load they bare And narrow path retarded their approach. Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askance Perus'd me, but spake not: then turning each To other thus conferring said: "This one Seems, by the action of his throat, alive. And, be they dead, what privilege allows They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?" Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." "By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied, "In the great city I was bred and grew, And wear the body I have ever worn. but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief, As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks? What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?" "Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue," One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross, That with their weight they make the balances To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were, Bologna's natives, Catalano I, He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter, To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo's vicinage can best declare." "O friars!" I began, "your miseries--" But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard. And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware, Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs. In straits like this along the foss are plac'd The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews." I noted then, How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell'd they come To lead us from this depth." He thus replied: "Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o'ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below." With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. CANTO XXIV IN the year's early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister's image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour's issue, that he seems Still to foresee the' effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd His eye upon another. "Grapple that," Said he, "but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee." For one capp'd with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd. But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried, "For I am stout and fearless." Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: "To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not," Said he, "but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return." We from the bridge's head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn'd. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix'd the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'd To ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth. When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust again Uproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The' Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'd To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder'd with the monstrous agony He hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody." The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake: "It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart." CANTO XXV WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God! I level them at thee!" From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss, Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter'd more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm'd, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide: "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt." While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd; "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. "Where," said he, "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs The hideous monster intertwin'd his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, "Nor only one." The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang'd, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd That image miscreate, and so pass'd on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th' entrails of the other two Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first, One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd, As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd. He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other's substance. They in mutual guise So answer'd, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th' other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: "Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!" So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou, The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund'rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng'd, at its departure saw Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect Rais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu'd them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd; E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: "Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word," I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'd Already of the truth, already wish'd To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem'd Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?" He replied: "Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open'd wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles 'reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have power Of utt'rance from within these sparks," said I, "O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend." He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began: "O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate'er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd." Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'd From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T' explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd The bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the' other hand already Ceuta past. "O brothers!" I began, "who to the west Through perils without number now have reach'd, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn'd, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the' other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oft Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter'd, when from far Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos'd." CANTO XVII NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem'd Pierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn'd the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey'd Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: "O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, "Depart thou, I solicit thee no more, Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood." Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O'ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France. "The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd point On either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last: "If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. "A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so T' have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on, The' high priest again seduc'd me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn'd; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord, Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask'd: and I was silent: for his words Seem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd: 'From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." "When I was number'd with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.'" Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me not A disputant in logic so exact." To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin'd eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: "This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e'er Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur'd booty made A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs One were to show transpierc'd, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th' englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, Haply so lingering to delay the pain Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet," My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin Conducts to torment; but, that he may make Full trial of your state, I who am dead Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true." More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed, Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not Here soon to follow me, that with good store Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows Yield him a victim to Novara's power, No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade, Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind Piero of Medicina, if again Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo; "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo, That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright The future, they out of life's tenement Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves Near to Cattolica, through perfidy Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen An injury so foul, by pirates done Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end, That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus: "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of; He speaks not for himself: the outcast this Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind, Affirming that delay to men prepar'd Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd, 'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race." I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off, As one grief stung to madness. But I there Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw Things, such as I may fear without more proof To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, A headless trunk, that even as the rest Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said, "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself, And two there were in one, and one in two. How that may be he knows who ordereth so. When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on? Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below Among the maim'd and miserable shades? Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them That two and twenty miles the valley winds Its circuit, and already is the moon Beneath our feet: the time permitted now Is short, and more not seen remains to see." "If thou," I straight replied, "hadst weigh'd the cause For which I look'd, thou hadst perchance excus'd The tarrying still." My leader part pursu'd His way, the while I follow'd, answering him, And adding thus: "Within that cave I deem, Whereon so fixedly I held my ken, There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood, Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear." Then spake my master: "Let thy soul no more Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge's foot I mark'd how he did point with menacing look At thee, and heard him by the others nam'd Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul'd The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not That way, ere he was gone."--"O guide belov'd! His violent death yet unaveng'd," said I, "By any, who are partners in his shame, Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think, He pass'd me speechless by; and doing so Hath made me more compassionate his fate." So we discours'd to where the rock first show'd The other valley, had more light been there, E'en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came O'er the last cloister in the dismal rounds Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood Were to our view expos'd, then many a dart Of sore lament assail'd me, headed all With points of thrilling pity, that I clos'd Both ears against the volley with mine hands. As were the torment, if each lazar-house Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 'Twixt July and September, with the isle Sardinia and Maremma's pestilent fen, Had heap'd their maladies all in one foss Together; such was here the torment: dire The stench, as issuing steams from fester'd limbs. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. More rueful was it not methinks to see The nation in Aegina droop, what time Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, All fell, so full of malice was the air (And afterward, as bards of yore have told, The ancient people were restor'd anew From seed of emmets) than was here to see The spirits, that languish'd through the murky vale Up-pil'd on many a stack. Confus'd they lay, One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one Roll'd of another; sideling crawl'd a third Along the dismal pathway. Step by step We journey'd on, in silence looking round And list'ning those diseas'd, who strove in vain To lift their forms. Then two I mark'd, that sat Propp'd 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, A tetter bark'd them round. Nor saw I e'er Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord Impatient waited, or himself perchance Tir'd with long watching, as of these each one Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales Scrap'd from the bream or fish of broader mail. "O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off Thy coat of proof," thus spake my guide to one, "And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them, Tell me if any born of Latian land Be among these within: so may thy nails Serve thee for everlasting to this toil." "Both are of Latium," weeping he replied, "Whom tortur'd thus thou seest: but who art thou That hast inquir'd of us?" To whom my guide: "One that descend with this man, who yet lives, From rock to rock, and show him hell's abyss." Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." "Arezzo was my dwelling," answer'd one, "And me Albero of Sienna brought To die by fire; but that, for which I died, Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him, That I had learn'd to wing my flight in air. And he admiring much, as he was void Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him The secret of mine art: and only hence, Because I made him not a Daedalus, Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me. But Minos to this chasm last of the ten, For that I practis'd alchemy on earth, Has doom'd me. Him no subterfuge eludes." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." The other leprous spirit heard my words, And thus return'd: "Be Stricca from this charge Exempted, he who knew so temp'rately To lay out fortune's gifts; and Niccolo Who first the spice's costly luxury Discover'd in that garden, where such seed Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano Lavish'd his vineyards and wide-spreading woods, And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show'd A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know Who seconds thee against the Siennese Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen'd sight, That well my face may answer to thy ken; So shalt thou see I am Capocchio's ghost, Who forg'd transmuted metals by the power Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right, Thus needs must well remember how I aped Creative nature by my subtle art." CANTO XXX WHAT time resentment burn'd in Juno's breast For Semele against the Theban blood, As more than once in dire mischance was rued, Such fatal frenzy seiz'd on Athamas, That he his spouse beholding with a babe Laden on either arm, "Spread out," he cried, "The meshes, that I take the lioness And the young lions at the pass:" then forth Stretch'd he his merciless talons, grasping one, One helpless innocent, Learchus nam'd, Whom swinging down he dash'd upon a rock, And with her other burden self-destroy'd The hapless mother plung'd: and when the pride Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height, By fortune overwhelm'd, and the old king With his realm perish'd, then did Hecuba, A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw Polyxena first slaughter'd, and her son, Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach Next met the mourner's view, then reft of sense Did she run barking even as a dog; Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul. Bet ne'er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads Infixing in the limbs of man or beast, As now two pale and naked ghost I saw That gnarling wildly scamper'd, like the swine Excluded from his stye. One reach'd Capocchio, And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs, Dragg'd him, that o'er the solid pavement rubb'd His belly stretch'd out prone. The other shape, He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake; "That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood Of random mischief vent he still his spite." To whom I answ'ring: "Oh! as thou dost hope, The other may not flesh its jaws on thee, Be patient to inform us, who it is, Ere it speed hence."--"That is the ancient soul Of wretched Myrrha," he replied, "who burn'd With most unholy flame for her own sire, "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." When vanish'd the two furious shades, on whom Mine eye was held, I turn'd it back to view The other cursed spirits. One I saw In fashion like a lute, had but the groin Been sever'd, where it meets the forked part. Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch Suits not the visage, open'd wide his lips Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, One towards the chin, the other upward curl'd. "O ye, who in this world of misery, Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," Thus he began, "attentively regard Adamo's woe. When living, full supply Ne'er lack'd me of what most I coveted; One drop of water now, alas! I crave. The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes Of Casentino, making fresh and soft The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, Stand ever in my view; and not in vain; For more the pictur'd semblance dries me up, Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh Desert these shrivel'd cheeks. So from the place, Where I transgress'd, stern justice urging me, Takes means to quicken more my lab'ring sighs. There is Romena, where I falsified The metal with the Baptist's form imprest, For which on earth I left my body burnt. But if I here might see the sorrowing soul Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's limpid spring I would not change The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, If truly the mad spirits tell, that round Are wand'ring. But wherein besteads me that? My limbs are fetter'd. Were I but so light, That I each hundred years might move one inch, I had set forth already on this path, Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, Although eleven miles it wind, not more Than half of one across. They brought me down Among this tribe; induc'd by them I stamp'd The florens with three carats of alloy." "Who are that abject pair," I next inquir'd, "That closely bounding thee upon thy right Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep'd In the chill stream?"--"When to this gulf I dropt," He answer'd, "here I found them; since that hour They have not turn'd, nor ever shall, I ween, Till time hath run his course. One is that dame The false accuser of the Hebrew youth; Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, In such a cloud upsteam'd." When that he heard, One, gall'd perchance to be so darkly nam'd, With clench'd hand smote him on the braced paunch, That like a drum resounded: but forthwith Adamo smote him on the face, the blow Returning with his arm, that seem'd as hard. "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," Said Sinon; "I am here but for one fault, And thou for more than any imp beside." "Remember," he replied, "O perjur'd one, The horse remember, that did teem with death, And all the world be witness to thy guilt." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more. And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." CANTO XXXI THE very tongue, whose keen reproof before Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain'd, Now minister'd my cure. So have I heard, Achilles and his father's javelin caus'd Pain first, and then the boon of health restor'd. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, W cross'd th' encircled mound in silence. There Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom Mine eye advanc'd not: but I heard a horn Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made The thunder feeble. Following its course The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent On that one spot. So terrible a blast Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout O'erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench'd His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long My head was rais'd, when many lofty towers Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land Is this?" He answer'd straight: "Too long a space Of intervening darkness has thine eye To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err'd In thy imagining. Thither arriv'd Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." As when a fog disperseth gradually, Our vision traces what the mist involves Condens'd in air; so piercing through the gross And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more We near'd toward the brink, mine error fled, And fear came o'er me. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls, E'en thus the shore, encompassing th' abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav'n Yet threatens, when his mutt'ring thunder rolls. Of one already I descried the face, Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge Great part, and both arms down along his ribs. All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand Left framing of these monsters, did display Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she Repent her not of th' elephant and whale, Who ponders well confesses her therein Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force And evil will are back'd with subtlety, Resistance none avails. His visage seem'd In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops Saint Peter's Roman fane; and th' other bones Of like proportion, so that from above The bank, which girdled him below, such height Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders Had striv'n in vain to reach but to his hair. Full thirty ample palms was he expos'd Downward from whence a man his garments loops. "Raphel bai ameth sabi almi," So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns Became not; and my guide address'd him thus: "O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck, There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on. Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast Where hangs the baldrick!" Then to me he spake: "He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this, Through whose ill counsel in the world no more One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste Our words; for so each language is to him, As his to others, understood by none." Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, And at a sling's throw found another shade Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say What master hand had girt him; but he held Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before The other with a chain, that fasten'd him From the neck down, and five times round his form Apparent met the wreathed links. "This proud one Would of his strength against almighty Jove Make trial," said my guide; "whence he is thus Requited: Ephialtes him they call. "Great was his prowess, when the giants brought Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled, Now moves he never." Forthwith I return'd: "Fain would I, if 't were possible, mine eyes Of Briareus immeasurable gain'd Experience next." He answer'd: "Thou shalt see Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks And is unfetter'd, who shall place us there Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made Like to this spirit, save that in his looks More fell he seems." By violent earthquake rock'd Ne'er shook a tow'r, so reeling to its base, As Ephialtes. More than ever then I dreaded death, nor than the terror more Had needed, if I had not seen the cords That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on, Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete Without the head, forth issued from the cave. "O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, Seems as men yet believ'd, that through thine arm The sons of earth had conquer'd, now vouchsafe To place us down beneath, where numbing cold Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. He in the upper world can yet bestow Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks For life yet longer, if before the time Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake The teacher. He in haste forth stretch'd his hands, And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt That grapple straighten'd score. Soon as my guide Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, That we were both one burden. As appears The tower of Carisenda, from beneath Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud So sail across, that opposite it hangs, Such then Antaeus seem'd, as at mine ease I mark'd him stooping. I were fain at times T' have pass'd another way. Yet in th' abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he plac'd us; nor there leaning stay'd, But rose as in a bark the stately mast. CANTO XXXII COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. A space I look'd around, then at my feet Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye, Whose bosoms thus together press," said I, "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent, And when their looks were lifted up to me, Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there. Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd. And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft, Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves. They from one body issued; and throughout Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade More worthy in congealment to be fix'd, Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia, No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be, Well knowest who he was: and to cut short All further question, in my form behold What once was Camiccione. I await Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on Toward the middle, at whose point unites All heavy substance, and I trembling went Through that eternal chillness, I know not If will it were or destiny, or chance, But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike With violent blow against the face of one. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that I will not tell nor show thee who I am, Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes Drawn in and downward, when another cried, "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright? What devil wrings thee?"--"Now," said I, "be dumb, Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee True tidings will I bear."--"Off," he replied, "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold. 'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd, Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd What other shade was with them, at thy side Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd The biting axe of Florence. Farther on, If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides, With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him Who op'd Faenza when the people slept." We now had left him, passing on our way, When I beheld two spirits by the ice Pent in one hollow, that the head of one Was cowl unto the other; and as bread Is raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost Did so apply his fangs to th' other's brain, Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd, Than on that skull and on its garbage he. "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that, wherewith I speak be moist so long." CANTO XXXIII HIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast, That sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head, Which he behind had mangled, then began: "Thy will obeying, I call up afresh Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words, That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear Fruit of eternal infamy to him, The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be I know not, nor how here below art come: But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth Count Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en And after murder'd, need is not I tell. What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate Within that mew, which for my sake the name Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, Already through its opening sev'ral moons Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep, That from the future tore the curtain off. This one, methought, as master of the sport, Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs Inquisitive and keen, before him rang'd Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. After short course the father and the sons Seem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold; And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up The' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word I look'd upon the visage of my sons. I wept not: so all stone I felt within. They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried: "Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet I shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day Nor the next night, until another sun Came out upon the world. When a faint beam Had to our doleful prison made its way, And in four countenances I descry'd The image of my own, on either hand Through agony I bit, and they who thought I did it through desire of feeding, rose O' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, 'And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth! Why open'dst not upon us? When we came To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet Outstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help For me, my father!' There he died, and e'en Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth: "Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope Over them all, and for three days aloud Call'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame Of all the people, who their dwelling make In that fair region, where th' Italian voice Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack To punish, from their deep foundations rise Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee May perish in the waters! What if fame Reported that thy castles were betray'd By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou To stretch his children on the rack. For them, Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd, Where others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice Not on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd. There very weeping suffers not to weep; For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds Impediment, and rolling inward turns For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears Hang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show, Under the socket brimming all the cup. Now though the cold had from my face dislodg'd Each feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd Some breath of wind I felt. "Whence cometh this," Said I, "my master? Is not here below All vapour quench'd?"--"'Thou shalt be speedily," He answer'd, "where thine eye shall tell thee whence The cause descrying of this airy shower." Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd: "O souls so cruel! that the farthest post Hath been assign'd you, from this face remove The harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief Impregnate at my heart, some little space Ere it congeal again!" I thus replied: "Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid; And if I extricate thee not, far down As to the lowest ice may I descend!" "The friar Alberigo," answered he, "Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date More luscious for my fig."--"Hah!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou too dead!"--"How in the world aloft It fareth with my body," answer'd he, "I am right ignorant. Such privilege Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd. And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, As I did, yields her body to a fiend Who after moves and governs it at will, Till all its time be rounded; headlong she Falls to this cistern. And perchance above Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st, If thou but newly art arriv'd below. The years are many that have pass'd away, Since to this fastness Branca Doria came." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." He thus: "Not yet unto that upper foss By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd, When this one left a demon in his stead In his own body, and of one his kin, Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth Thy hand, and ope mine eyes." I op'd them not. Ill manners were best courtesy to him. Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way, With every foulness stain'd, why from the earth Are ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, As for his doings even now in soul Is in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem In body still alive upon the earth. CANTO XXXIV "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain Record the marvel) where the souls were all Whelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid, Others stood upright, this upon the soles, That on his head, a third with face to feet Arch'd like a bow. When to the point we came, Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see The creature eminent in beauty once, He from before me stepp'd and made me pause. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." How frozen and how faint I then became, Ask me not, reader! for I write it not, Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. I was not dead nor living. Think thyself If quick conception work in thee at all, How I did feel. That emperor, who sways The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice Stood forth; and I in stature am more like A giant, than the giants are in his arms. Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits With such a part. If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight! How passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy Upon his head three faces: one in front Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest; The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left To look on, such as come from whence old Nile Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth Two mighty wings, enormous as became A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they, But were in texture like a bat, and these He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam. At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three Were in this guise tormented. But far more Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit, Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide, "Is Judas, he that hath his head within And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears So large of limb. But night now re-ascends, And it is time for parting. All is seen." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. Soon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh Upon the swelling of the haunches turns, My leader there with pain and struggling hard Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before, And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts, That into hell methought we turn'd again. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. "Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet. The way is long, and much uncouth the road; And now within one hour and half of noon The sun returns." It was no palace-hall Lofty and luminous wherein we stood, But natural dungeon where ill footing was And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss I sep'rate," thus when risen I began, "My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free From error's thralldom. Where is now the ice? How standeth he in posture thus revers'd? And how from eve to morn in space so brief Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world. Thou wast on th' other side, so long as I Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass That point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd Under the hemisphere opposed to that, Which the great continent doth overspread, And underneath whose canopy expir'd The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd. Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere, Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn Here rises, when there evening sets: and he, Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd, As at the first. On this part he fell down From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before, Through fear of him did veil her with the sea, And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance To shun him was the vacant space left here By what of firm land on this side appears, That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath, From Belzebub as distant, as extends The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight, But by the sound of brooklet, that descends This way along the hollow of a rock, Which, as it winds with no precipitous course, The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climbed, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. 
1006	----	THE DIVINE COMEDY: PURGATORY BY DANTE ALIGHIERI Complete Translated By The Rev. H. F. Cary PURGATORY Cantos 1 - 33 CANTO I O'er better waves to speed her rapid course The light bark of my genius lifts the sail, Well pleas'd to leave so cruel sea behind; And of that second region will I sing, In which the human spirit from sinful blot Is purg'd, and for ascent to Heaven prepares. Here, O ye hallow'd Nine! for in your train I follow, here the deadened strain revive; Nor let Calliope refuse to sound A somewhat higher song, of that loud tone, Which when the wretched birds of chattering note Had heard, they of forgiveness lost all hope. Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread O'er the serene aspect of the pure air, High up as the first circle, to mine eyes Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I 'scap'd Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom, That had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief. The radiant planet, that to love invites, Made all the orient laugh, and veil'd beneath The Pisces' light, that in his escort came. To the right hand I turn'd, and fix'd my mind On the' other pole attentive, where I saw Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays Seem'd joyous. O thou northern site, bereft Indeed, and widow'd, since of these depriv'd! As from this view I had desisted, straight Turning a little tow'rds the other pole, There from whence now the wain had disappear'd, I saw an old man standing by my side Alone, so worthy of rev'rence in his look, That ne'er from son to father more was ow'd. Low down his beard and mix'd with hoary white Descended, like his locks, which parting fell Upon his breast in double fold. The beams Of those four luminaries on his face So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear Deck'd it, that I beheld him as the sun. "Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream, Forth from th' eternal prison-house have fled?" He spoke and moved those venerable plumes. "Who hath conducted, or with lantern sure Lights you emerging from the depth of night, That makes the infernal valley ever black? Are the firm statutes of the dread abyss Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain'd, That thus, condemn'd, ye to my caves approach?" My guide, then laying hold on me, by words And intimations given with hand and head, Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay Due reverence; then thus to him replied. "Not of myself I come; a Dame from heaven Descending, had besought me in my charge To bring. But since thy will implies, that more Our true condition I unfold at large, Mine is not to deny thee thy request. This mortal ne'er hath seen the farthest gloom. But erring by his folly had approach'd So near, that little space was left to turn. Then, as before I told, I was dispatch'd To work his rescue, and no way remain'd Save this which I have ta'en. I have display'd Before him all the regions of the bad; And purpose now those spirits to display, That under thy command are purg'd from sin. How I have brought him would be long to say. From high descends the virtue, by whose aid I to thy sight and hearing him have led. Now may our coming please thee. In the search Of liberty he journeys: that how dear They know, who for her sake have life refus'd. Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds, That in the last great day will shine so bright. For us the' eternal edicts are unmov'd: He breathes, and I am free of Minos' power, Abiding in that circle where the eyes Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look Prays thee, O hallow'd spirit! to own her shine. Then by her love we' implore thee, let us pass Through thy sev'n regions; for which best thanks I for thy favour will to her return, If mention there below thou not disdain." "Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found," He then to him rejoin'd, "while I was there, That all she ask'd me I was fain to grant. Now that beyond the' accursed stream she dwells, She may no longer move me, by that law, Which was ordain'd me, when I issued thence. Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst, Moves and directs thee; then no flattery needs. Enough for me that in her name thou ask. Go therefore now: and with a slender reed See that thou duly gird him, and his face Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence. For not with eye, by any cloud obscur'd, Would it be seemly before him to come, Who stands the foremost minister in heaven. This islet all around, there far beneath, Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed Produces store of reeds. No other plant, Cover'd with leaves, or harden'd in its stalk, There lives, not bending to the water's sway. After, this way return not; but the sun Will show you, that now rises, where to take The mountain in its easiest ascent." He disappear'd; and I myself uprais'd Speechless, and to my guide retiring close, Toward him turn'd mine eyes. He thus began; "My son! observant thou my steps pursue. We must retreat to rearward, for that way The champain to its low extreme declines." The dawn had chas'd the matin hour of prime, Which deaf before it, so that from afar I spy'd the trembling of the ocean stream. We travers'd the deserted plain, as one Who, wander'd from his track, thinks every step Trodden in vain till he regain the path. When we had come, where yet the tender dew Strove with the sun, and in a place, where fresh The wind breath'd o'er it, while it slowly dried; Both hands extended on the watery grass My master plac'd, in graceful act and kind. Whence I of his intent before appriz'd, Stretch'd out to him my cheeks suffus'd with tears. There to my visage he anew restor'd That hue, which the dun shades of hell conceal'd. Then on the solitary shore arriv'd, That never sailing on its waters saw Man, that could after measure back his course, He girt me in such manner as had pleas'd Him who instructed, and O, strange to tell! As he selected every humble plant, Wherever one was pluck'd, another there Resembling, straightway in its place arose. CANTO II Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd, That covers, with the most exalted point Of its meridian circle, Salem's walls, And night, that opposite to him her orb Sounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropp'd When she reigns highest: so that where I was, Aurora's white and vermeil-tinctur'd cheek To orange turn'd as she in age increas'd. Meanwhile we linger'd by the water's brink, Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought Journey, while motionless the body rests. When lo! as near upon the hour of dawn, Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beam Glares down in west, over the ocean floor; So seem'd, what once again I hope to view, A light so swiftly coming through the sea, No winged course might equal its career. From which when for a space I had withdrawn Thine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide, Again I look'd and saw it grown in size And brightness: thou on either side appear'd Something, but what I knew not of bright hue, And by degrees from underneath it came Another. My preceptor silent yet Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern'd, Open'd the form of wings: then when he knew The pilot, cried aloud, "Down, down; bend low Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands: Now shalt thou see true Ministers indeed. "Lo how all human means he sets at naught! So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail Except his wings, between such distant shores. Lo how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd, Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes, That not like mortal hairs fall off or change!" As more and more toward us came, more bright Appear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down. He drove ashore in a small bark so swift And light, that in its course no wave it drank. The heav'nly steersman at the prow was seen, Visibly written blessed in his looks. Within a hundred spirits and more there sat. "In Exitu Israel de Aegypto;" All with one voice together sang, with what In the remainder of that hymn is writ. Then soon as with the sign of holy cross He bless'd them, they at once leap'd out on land, The swiftly as he came return'd. The crew, There left, appear'd astounded with the place, Gazing around as one who sees new sights. From every side the sun darted his beams, And with his arrowy radiance from mid heav'n Had chas'd the Capricorn, when that strange tribe Lifting their eyes towards us: "If ye know, Declare what path will Lead us to the mount." Them Virgil answer'd. "Ye suppose perchance Us well acquainted with this place: but here, We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst We came, before you but a little space, By other road so rough and hard, that now The' ascent will seem to us as play." The spirits, Who from my breathing had perceiv'd I liv'd, Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude Flock round a herald, sent with olive branch, To hear what news he brings, and in their haste Tread one another down, e'en so at sight Of me those happy spirits were fix'd, each one Forgetful of its errand, to depart, Where cleans'd from sin, it might be made all fair. Then one I saw darting before the rest With such fond ardour to embrace me, I To do the like was mov'd. O shadows vain Except in outward semblance! thrice my hands I clasp'd behind it, they as oft return'd Empty into my breast again. Surprise I needs must think was painted in my looks, For that the shadow smil'd and backward drew. To follow it I hasten'd, but with voice Of sweetness it enjoin'd me to desist. Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it, To talk with me, it would a little pause. It answered: "Thee as in my mortal frame I lov'd, so loos'd forth it I love thee still, And therefore pause; but why walkest thou here?" "Not without purpose once more to return, Thou find'st me, my Casella, where I am Journeying this way;" I said, "but how of thee Hath so much time been lost?" He answer'd straight: "No outrage hath been done to me, if he Who when and whom he chooses takes, me oft This passage hath denied, since of just will His will he makes. These three months past indeed, He, whose chose to enter, with free leave Hath taken; whence I wand'ring by the shore Where Tyber's wave grows salt, of him gain'd kind Admittance, at that river's mouth, tow'rd which His wings are pointed, for there always throng All such as not to Archeron descend." Then I: "If new laws have not quite destroy'd Memory and use of that sweet song of love, That while all my cares had power to 'swage; Please thee with it a little to console My spirit, that incumber'd with its frame, Travelling so far, of pain is overcome." "Love that discourses in my thoughts." He then Began in such soft accents, that within The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide And all who came with him, so well were pleas'd, That seem'd naught else might in their thoughts have room. Fast fix'd in mute attention to his notes We stood, when lo! that old man venerable Exclaiming, "How is this, ye tardy spirits? What negligence detains you loit'ring here? Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, That from your eyes the sight of God conceal." As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food Collected, blade or tares, without their pride Accustom'd, and in still and quiet sort, If aught alarm them, suddenly desert Their meal, assail'd by more important care; So I that new-come troop beheld, the song Deserting, hasten to the mountain's side, As one who goes yet where he tends knows not. Nor with less hurried step did we depart. CANTO III Them sudden flight had scatter'd over the plain, Turn'd tow'rds the mountain, whither reason's voice Drives us; I to my faithful company Adhering, left it not. For how of him Depriv'd, might I have sped, or who beside Would o'er the mountainous tract have led my steps He with the bitter pang of self-remorse Seem'd smitten. O clear conscience and upright How doth a little fling wound thee sore! Soon as his feet desisted (slack'ning pace), From haste, that mars all decency of act, My mind, that in itself before was wrapt, Its thoughts expanded, as with joy restor'd: And full against the steep ascent I set My face, where highest to heav'n its top o'erflows. The sun, that flar'd behind, with ruddy beam Before my form was broken; for in me His rays resistance met. I turn'd aside With fear of being left, when I beheld Only before myself the ground obscur'd. When thus my solace, turning him around, Bespake me kindly: "Why distrustest thou? Believ'st not I am with thee, thy sure guide? It now is evening there, where buried lies The body, in which I cast a shade, remov'd To Naples from Brundusium's wall. Nor thou Marvel, if before me no shadow fall, More than that in the sky element One ray obstructs not other. To endure Torments of heat and cold extreme, like frames That virtue hath dispos'd, which how it works Wills not to us should be reveal'd. Insane Who hopes, our reason may that space explore, Which holds three persons in one substance knit. Seek not the wherefore, race of human kind; Could ye have seen the whole, no need had been For Mary to bring forth. Moreover ye Have seen such men desiring fruitlessly; To whose desires repose would have been giv'n, That now but serve them for eternal grief. I speak of Plato, and the Stagyrite, And others many more." And then he bent Downwards his forehead, and in troubled mood Broke off his speech. Meanwhile we had arriv'd Far as the mountain's foot, and there the rock Found of so steep ascent, that nimblest steps To climb it had been vain. The most remote Most wild untrodden path, in all the tract 'Twixt Lerice and Turbia were to this A ladder easy' and open of access. "Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?" My master said and paus'd, "so that he may Ascend, who journeys without aid of wine?" And while with looks directed to the ground The meaning of the pathway he explor'd, And I gaz'd upward round the stony height, Of spirits, that toward us mov'd their steps, Yet moving seem'd not, they so slow approach'd. I thus my guide address'd: "Upraise thine eyes, Lo that way some, of whom thou may'st obtain Counsel, if of thyself thou find'st it not!" Straightway he look'd, and with free speech replied: "Let us tend thither: they but softly come. And thou be firm in hope, my son belov'd." Now was that people distant far in space A thousand paces behind ours, as much As at a throw the nervous arm could fling, When all drew backward on the messy crags Of the steep bank, and firmly stood unmov'd As one who walks in doubt might stand to look. "O spirits perfect! O already chosen!" Virgil to them began, "by that blest peace, Which, as I deem, is for you all prepar'd, Instruct us where the mountain low declines, So that attempt to mount it be not vain. For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves." As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose To ground, and what the foremost does, that do The others, gath'ring round her, if she stops, Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern; So saw I moving to advance the first, Who of that fortunate crew were at the head, Of modest mien and graceful in their gait. When they before me had beheld the light From my right side fall broken on the ground, So that the shadow reach'd the cave, they stopp'd And somewhat back retir'd: the same did all, Who follow'd, though unweeting of the cause. "Unask'd of you, yet freely I confess, This is a human body which ye see. That the sun's light is broken on the ground, Marvel not: but believe, that not without Virtue deriv'd from Heaven, we to climb Over this wall aspire." So them bespake My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin'd; "Turn, and before you there the entrance lies," Making a signal to us with bent hands. Then of them one began. "Whoe'er thou art, Who journey'st thus this way, thy visage turn, Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen." I tow'rds him turn'd, and with fix'd eye beheld. Comely, and fair, and gentle of aspect, He seem'd, but on one brow a gash was mark'd. When humbly I disclaim'd to have beheld Him ever: "Now behold!" he said, and show'd High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake. "I am Manfredi, grandson to the Queen Costanza: whence I pray thee, when return'd, To my fair daughter go, the parent glad Of Aragonia and Sicilia's pride; And of the truth inform her, if of me Aught else be told. When by two mortal blows My frame was shatter'd, I betook myself Weeping to him, who of free will forgives. My sins were horrible; but so wide arms Hath goodness infinite, that it receives All who turn to it. Had this text divine Been of Cosenza's shepherd better scann'd, Who then by Clement on my hunt was set, Yet at the bridge's head my bones had lain, Near Benevento, by the heavy mole Protected; but the rain now drenches them, And the wind drives, out of the kingdom's bounds, Far as the stream of Verde, where, with lights Extinguish'd, he remov'd them from their bed. Yet by their curse we are not so destroy'd, But that the eternal love may turn, while hope Retains her verdant blossoms. True it is, That such one as in contumacy dies Against the holy church, though he repent, Must wander thirty-fold for all the time In his presumption past; if such decree Be not by prayers of good men shorter made Look therefore if thou canst advance my bliss; Revealing to my good Costanza, how Thou hast beheld me, and beside the terms Laid on me of that interdict; for here By means of those below much profit comes." CANTO IV When by sensations of delight or pain, That any of our faculties hath seiz'd, Entire the soul collects herself, it seems She is intent upon that power alone, And thus the error is disprov'd which holds The soul not singly lighted in the breast. And therefore when as aught is heard or seen, That firmly keeps the soul toward it turn'd, Time passes, and a man perceives it not. For that, whereby he hearken, is one power, Another that, which the whole spirit hash; This is as it were bound, while that is free. This found I true by proof, hearing that spirit And wond'ring; for full fifty steps aloft The sun had measur'd unobserv'd of me, When we arriv'd where all with one accord The spirits shouted, "Here is what ye ask." A larger aperture ofttimes is stopp'd With forked stake of thorn by villager, When the ripe grape imbrowns, than was the path, By which my guide, and I behind him close, Ascended solitary, when that troop Departing left us. On Sanleo's road Who journeys, or to Noli low descends, Or mounts Bismantua's height, must use his feet; But here a man had need to fly, I mean With the swift wing and plumes of high desire, Conducted by his aid, who gave me hope, And with light furnish'd to direct my way. We through the broken rock ascended, close Pent on each side, while underneath the ground Ask'd help of hands and feet. When we arriv'd Near on the highest ridge of the steep bank, Where the plain level open'd I exclaim'd, "O master! say which way can we proceed?" He answer'd, "Let no step of thine recede. Behind me gain the mountain, till to us Some practis'd guide appear." That eminence Was lofty that no eye might reach its point, And the side proudly rising, more than line From the mid quadrant to the centre drawn. I wearied thus began: "Parent belov'd! Turn, and behold how I remain alone, If thou stay not."--" My son!" He straight reply'd, "Thus far put forth thy strength;" and to a track Pointed, that, on this side projecting, round Circles the hill. His words so spurr'd me on, That I behind him clamb'ring, forc'd myself, Till my feet press'd the circuit plain beneath. There both together seated, turn'd we round To eastward, whence was our ascent: and oft Many beside have with delight look'd back. First on the nether shores I turn'd my eyes, Then rais'd them to the sun, and wond'ring mark'd That from the left it smote us. Soon perceiv'd That Poet sage now at the car of light Amaz'd I stood, where 'twixt us and the north Its course it enter'd. Whence he thus to me: "Were Leda's offspring now in company Of that broad mirror, that high up and low Imparts his light beneath, thou might'st behold The ruddy zodiac nearer to the bears Wheel, if its ancient course it not forsook. How that may be if thou would'st think; within Pond'ring, imagine Sion with this mount Plac'd on the earth, so that to both be one Horizon, and two hemispheres apart, Where lies the path that Phaeton ill knew To guide his erring chariot: thou wilt see How of necessity by this on one He passes, while by that on the' other side, If with clear view shine intellect attend." "Of truth, kind teacher!" I exclaim'd, "so clear Aught saw I never, as I now discern Where seem'd my ken to fail, that the mid orb Of the supernal motion (which in terms Of art is called the Equator, and remains Ever between the sun and winter) for the cause Thou hast assign'd, from hence toward the north Departs, when those who in the Hebrew land Inhabit, see it tow'rds the warmer part. But if it please thee, I would gladly know, How far we have to journey: for the hill Mounts higher, than this sight of mine can mount." He thus to me: "Such is this steep ascent, That it is ever difficult at first, But, more a man proceeds, less evil grows. When pleasant it shall seem to thee, so much That upward going shall be easy to thee. As in a vessel to go down the tide, Then of this path thou wilt have reach'd the end. There hope to rest thee from thy toil. No more I answer, and thus far for certain know." As he his words had spoken, near to us A voice there sounded: "Yet ye first perchance May to repose you by constraint be led." At sound thereof each turn'd, and on the left A huge stone we beheld, of which nor I Nor he before was ware. Thither we drew, find there were some, who in the shady place Behind the rock were standing, as a man Thru' idleness might stand. Among them one, Who seem'd to me much wearied, sat him down, And with his arms did fold his knees about, Holding his face between them downward bent. "Sweet Sir!" I cry'd, "behold that man, who shows Himself more idle, than if laziness Were sister to him." Straight he turn'd to us, And, o'er the thigh lifting his face, observ'd, Then in these accents spake: "Up then, proceed Thou valiant one." Straight who it was I knew; Nor could the pain I felt (for want of breath Still somewhat urg'd me) hinder my approach. And when I came to him, he scarce his head Uplifted, saying "Well hast thou discern'd, How from the left the sun his chariot leads." His lazy acts and broken words my lips To laughter somewhat mov'd; when I began: "Belacqua, now for thee I grieve no more. But tell, why thou art seated upright there? Waitest thou escort to conduct thee hence? Or blame I only shine accustom'd ways?" Then he: "My brother, of what use to mount, When to my suffering would not let me pass The bird of God, who at the portal sits? Behooves so long that heav'n first bear me round Without its limits, as in life it bore, Because I to the end repentant Sighs Delay'd, if prayer do not aid me first, That riseth up from heart which lives in grace. What other kind avails, not heard in heaven?"' Before me now the Poet up the mount Ascending, cried: "Haste thee, for see the sun Has touch'd the point meridian, and the night Now covers with her foot Marocco's shore." CANTO V Now had I left those spirits, and pursued The steps of my Conductor, when beheld Pointing the finger at me one exclaim'd: "See how it seems as if the light not shone From the left hand of him beneath, and he, As living, seems to be led on." Mine eyes I at that sound reverting, saw them gaze Through wonder first at me, and then at me And the light broken underneath, by turns. "Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?" my guide Exclaim'd, "that thou hast slack'd thy pace? or how Imports it thee, what thing is whisper'd here? Come after me, and to their babblings leave The crowd. Be as a tower, that, firmly set, Shakes not its top for any blast that blows! He, in whose bosom thought on thought shoots out, Still of his aim is wide, in that the one Sicklies and wastes to nought the other's strength." What other could I answer save "I come?" I said it, somewhat with that colour ting'd Which ofttimes pardon meriteth for man. Meanwhile traverse along the hill there came, A little way before us, some who sang The "Miserere" in responsive Strains. When they perceiv'd that through my body I Gave way not for the rays to pass, their song Straight to a long and hoarse exclaim they chang'd; And two of them, in guise of messengers, Ran on to meet us, and inquiring ask'd: "Of your condition we would gladly learn." To them my guide. "Ye may return, and bear Tidings to them who sent you, that his frame Is real flesh. If, as I deem, to view His shade they paus'd, enough is answer'd them. Him let them honour, they may prize him well." Ne'er saw I fiery vapours with such speed Cut through the serene air at fall of night, Nor August's clouds athwart the setting sun, That upward these did not in shorter space Return; and, there arriving, with the rest Wheel back on us, as with loose rein a troop. "Many," exclaim'd the bard, "are these, who throng Around us: to petition thee they come. Go therefore on, and listen as thou go'st." "O spirit! who go'st on to blessedness With the same limbs, that clad thee at thy birth." Shouting they came, "a little rest thy step. Look if thou any one amongst our tribe Hast e'er beheld, that tidings of him there Thou mayst report. Ah, wherefore go'st thou on? Ah wherefore tarriest thou not? We all By violence died, and to our latest hour Were sinners, but then warn'd by light from heav'n, So that, repenting and forgiving, we Did issue out of life at peace with God, Who with desire to see him fills our heart." Then I: "The visages of all I scan Yet none of ye remember. But if aught, That I can do, may please you, gentle spirits! Speak; and I will perform it, by that peace, Which on the steps of guide so excellent Following from world to world intent I seek." In answer he began: "None here distrusts Thy kindness, though not promis'd with an oath; So as the will fail not for want of power. Whence I, who sole before the others speak, Entreat thee, if thou ever see that land, Which lies between Romagna and the realm Of Charles, that of thy courtesy thou pray Those who inhabit Fano, that for me Their adorations duly be put up, By which I may purge off my grievous sins. From thence I came. But the deep passages, Whence issued out the blood wherein I dwelt, Upon my bosom in Antenor's land Were made, where to be more secure I thought. The author of the deed was Este's prince, Who, more than right could warrant, with his wrath Pursued me. Had I towards Mira fled, When overta'en at Oriaco, still Might I have breath'd. But to the marsh I sped, And in the mire and rushes tangled there Fell, and beheld my life-blood float the plain." Then said another: "Ah! so may the wish, That takes thee o'er the mountain, be fulfill'd, As thou shalt graciously give aid to mine. Of Montefeltro I; Buonconte I: Giovanna nor none else have care for me, Sorrowing with these I therefore go." I thus: "From Campaldino's field what force or chance Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?" "Oh!" answer'd he, "at Casentino's foot A stream there courseth, nam'd Archiano, sprung In Apennine above the Hermit's seat. E'en where its name is cancel'd, there came I, Pierc'd in the heart, fleeing away on foot, And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech Fail'd me, and finishing with Mary's name I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain'd. I will report the truth; which thou again Tell to the living. Me God's angel took, Whilst he of hell exclaim'd: "O thou from heav'n! Say wherefore hast thou robb'd me? Thou of him Th' eternal portion bear'st with thee away For one poor tear that he deprives me of. But of the other, other rule I make." "Thou knowest how in the atmosphere collects That vapour dank, returning into water, Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it. That evil will, which in his intellect Still follows evil, came, and rais'd the wind And smoky mist, by virtue of the power Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon As day was spent, he cover'd o'er with cloud From Pratomagno to the mountain range, And stretch'd the sky above, so that the air Impregnate chang'd to water. Fell the rain, And to the fosses came all that the land Contain'd not; and, as mightiest streams are wont, To the great river with such headlong sweep Rush'd, that nought stay'd its course. My stiffen'd frame Laid at his mouth the fell Archiano found, And dash'd it into Arno, from my breast Loos'ning the cross, that of myself I made When overcome with pain. He hurl'd me on, Along the banks and bottom of his course; Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt." "Ah! when thou to the world shalt be return'd, And rested after thy long road," so spake Next the third spirit; "then remember me. I once was Pia. Sienna gave me life, Maremma took it from me. That he knows, Who me with jewell'd ring had first espous'd." CANTO VI When from their game of dice men separate, He, who hath lost, remains in sadness fix'd, Revolving in his mind, what luckless throws He cast: but meanwhile all the company Go with the other; one before him runs, And one behind his mantle twitches, one Fast by his side bids him remember him. He stops not; and each one, to whom his hand Is stretch'd, well knows he bids him stand aside; And thus he from the press defends himself. E'en such was I in that close-crowding throng; And turning so my face around to all, And promising, I 'scap'd from it with pains. Here of Arezzo him I saw, who fell By Ghino's cruel arm; and him beside, Who in his chase was swallow'd by the stream. Here Frederic Novello, with his hand Stretch'd forth, entreated; and of Pisa he, Who put the good Marzuco to such proof Of constancy. Count Orso I beheld; And from its frame a soul dismiss'd for spite And envy, as it said, but for no crime: I speak of Peter de la Brosse; and here, While she yet lives, that Lady of Brabant Let her beware; lest for so false a deed She herd with worse than these. When I was freed From all those spirits, who pray'd for others' prayers To hasten on their state of blessedness; Straight I began: "O thou, my luminary! It seems expressly in thy text denied, That heaven's supreme decree can never bend To supplication; yet with this design Do these entreat. Can then their hope be vain, Or is thy saying not to me reveal'd?" He thus to me: "Both what I write is plain, And these deceiv'd not in their hope, if well Thy mind consider, that the sacred height Of judgment doth not stoop, because love's flame In a short moment all fulfils, which he Who sojourns here, in right should satisfy. Besides, when I this point concluded thus, By praying no defect could be supplied; Because the pray'r had none access to God. Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not Contented unless she assure thee so, Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light. I know not if thou take me right; I mean Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above, Upon this mountain's crown, fair seat of joy." Then I: "Sir! let us mend our speed; for now I tire not as before; and lo! the hill Stretches its shadow far." He answer'd thus: "Our progress with this day shall be as much As we may now dispatch; but otherwise Than thou supposest is the truth. For there Thou canst not be, ere thou once more behold Him back returning, who behind the steep Is now so hidden, that as erst his beam Thou dost not break. But lo! a spirit there Stands solitary, and toward us looks: It will instruct us in the speediest way." We soon approach'd it. O thou Lombard spirit! How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood, Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes! It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass, Eyeing us as a lion on his watch. But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc'd, Requesting it to show the best ascent. It answer to his question none return'd, But of our country and our kind of life Demanded. When my courteous guide began, "Mantua," the solitary shadow quick Rose towards us from the place in which it stood, And cry'd, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman Sordello." Each the other then embrac'd. Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief, Vessel without a pilot in loud storm, Lady no longer of fair provinces, But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit, Ev'n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones In thee abide not without war; and one Malicious gnaws another, ay of those Whom the same wall and the same moat contains, Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide; Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark If any part of the sweet peace enjoy. What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress'd? Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame. Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live, And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit, If well thou marked'st that which God commands. Look how that beast to felness hath relaps'd From having lost correction of the spur, Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand, O German Albert! who abandon'st her, That is grown savage and unmanageable, When thou should'st clasp her flanks with forked heels. Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood! And be it strange and manifest to all! Such as may strike thy successor with dread! For that thy sire and thou have suffer'd thus, Through greediness of yonder realms detain'd, The garden of the empire to run waste. Come see the Capulets and Montagues, The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man Who car'st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these With dire suspicion rack'd. Come, cruel one! Come and behold the' oppression of the nobles, And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see. What safety Santafiore can supply. Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee, Desolate widow! day and night with moans: "My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?" Come and behold what love among thy people: And if no pity touches thee for us, Come and blush for thine own report. For me, If it be lawful, O Almighty Power, Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified! Are thy just eyes turn'd elsewhere? or is this A preparation in the wond'rous depth Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end, Entirely from our reach of thought cut off? So are the' Italian cities all o'erthrong'd With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made Of every petty factious villager. My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov'd At this digression, which affects not thee: Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. Many have justice in their heart, that long Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow, Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine Have it on their lip's edge. Many refuse To bear the common burdens: readier thine Answer uneall'd, and cry, "Behold I stoop!" Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now, Thou wealthy! thou at peace! thou wisdom-fraught! Facts best witness if I speak the truth. Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old Enacted laws, for civil arts renown'd, Made little progress in improving life Tow'rds thee, who usest such nice subtlety, That to the middle of November scarce Reaches the thread thou in October weav'st. How many times, within thy memory, Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices Have been by thee renew'd, and people chang'd! If thou remember'st well and can'st see clear, Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch, Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain. CANTO VII After their courteous greetings joyfully Sev'n times exchang'd, Sordello backward drew Exclaiming, "Who are ye?" "Before this mount By spirits worthy of ascent to God Was sought, my bones had by Octavius' care Been buried. I am Virgil, for no sin Depriv'd of heav'n, except for lack of faith." So answer'd him in few my gentle guide. As one, who aught before him suddenly Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries "It is yet is not," wav'ring in belief; Such he appear'd; then downward bent his eyes, And drawing near with reverential step, Caught him, where of mean estate might clasp His lord. "Glory of Latium!" he exclaim'd, "In whom our tongue its utmost power display'd! Boast of my honor'd birth-place! what desert Of mine, what favour rather undeserv'd, Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice Am worthy, say if from below thou com'st And from what cloister's pale?"--"Through every orb Of that sad region," he reply'd, "thus far Am I arriv'd, by heav'nly influence led And with such aid I come. There is a place There underneath, not made by torments sad, But by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs. "There I with little innocents abide, Who by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt From human taint. There I with those abide, Who the three holy virtues put not on, But understood the rest, and without blame Follow'd them all. But if thou know'st and canst, Direct us, how we soonest may arrive, Where Purgatory its true beginning takes." He answer'd thus: "We have no certain place Assign'd us: upwards I may go or round, Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide. But thou beholdest now how day declines: And upwards to proceed by night, our power Excels: therefore it may be well to choose A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right Some spirits sit apart retir'd. If thou Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps: And thou wilt know them, not without delight." "How chances this?" was answer'd; "who so wish'd To ascend by night, would he be thence debarr'd By other, or through his own weakness fail?" The good Sordello then, along the ground Trailing his finger, spoke: "Only this line Thou shalt not overpass, soon as the sun Hath disappear'd; not that aught else impedes Thy going upwards, save the shades of night. These with the wont of power perplex the will. With them thou haply mightst return beneath, Or to and fro around the mountain's side Wander, while day is in the horizon shut." My master straight, as wond'ring at his speech, Exclaim'd: "Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst, That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight." A little space we were remov'd from thence, When I perceiv'd the mountain hollow'd out. Ev'n as large valleys hollow'd out on earth, "That way," the' escorting spirit cried, "we go, Where in a bosom the high bank recedes: And thou await renewal of the day." Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked path Led us traverse into the ridge's side, Where more than half the sloping edge expires. Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin'd, And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers Plac'd in that fair recess, in color all Had been surpass'd, as great surpasses less. Nor nature only there lavish'd her hues, But of the sweetness of a thousand smells A rare and undistinguish'd fragrance made. "Salve Regina," on the grass and flowers Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit Who not beyond the valley could be seen. "Before the west'ring sun sink to his bed," Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn'd, "'Mid those desires not that I lead ye on. For from this eminence ye shall discern Better the acts and visages of all, Than in the nether vale among them mix'd. He, who sits high above the rest, and seems To have neglected that he should have done, And to the others' song moves not his lip, The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal'd The wounds whereof fair Italy hath died, So that by others she revives but slowly, He, who with kindly visage comforts him, Sway'd in that country, where the water springs, That Moldaw's river to the Elbe, and Elbe Rolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name: Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worth Than Winceslaus his son, a bearded man, Pamper'd with rank luxuriousness and ease. And that one with the nose depress, who close In counsel seems with him of gentle look, Flying expir'd, with'ring the lily's flower. Look there how he doth knock against his breast! The other ye behold, who for his cheek Makes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs. They are the father and the father-in-law Of Gallia's bane: his vicious life they know And foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus. "He, so robust of limb, who measure keeps In song, with him of feature prominent, With ev'ry virtue bore his girdle brac'd. And if that stripling who behinds him sits, King after him had liv'd, his virtue then From vessel to like vessel had been pour'd; Which may not of the other heirs be said. By James and Frederick his realms are held; Neither the better heritage obtains. Rarely into the branches of the tree Doth human worth mount up; and so ordains He who bestows it, that as his free gift It may be call'd. To Charles my words apply No less than to his brother in the song; Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess. So much that plant degenerates from its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza still boasts of her valorous spouse. "Behold the king of simple life and plain, Harry of England, sitting there alone: He through his branches better issue spreads. "That one, who on the ground beneath the rest Sits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft, Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose cause The deed of Alexandria and his war Makes Conferrat and Canavese weep." CANTO VIII Now was the hour that wakens fond desire In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart, Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, And pilgrim newly on his road with love Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far, That seems to mourn for the expiring day: When I, no longer taking heed to hear Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark One risen from its seat, which with its hand Audience implor'd. Both palms it join'd and rais'd, Fixing its steadfast gaze towards the east, As telling God, "I care for naught beside." "Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, That all my sense in ravishment was lost. And the rest after, softly and devout, Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze Directed to the bright supernal wheels. Here, reader! for the truth makes thine eyes keen: For of so subtle texture is this veil, That thou with ease mayst pass it through unmark'd. I saw that gentle band silently next Look up, as if in expectation held, Pale and in lowly guise; and from on high I saw forth issuing descend beneath Two angels with two flame-illumin'd swords, Broken and mutilated at their points. Green as the tender leaves but newly born, Their vesture was, the which by wings as green Beaten, they drew behind them, fann'd in air. A little over us one took his stand, The other lighted on the' Opposing hill, So that the troop were in the midst contain'd. Well I descried the whiteness on their heads; But in their visages the dazzled eye Was lost, as faculty that by too much Is overpower'd. "From Mary's bosom both Are come," exclaim'd Sordello, "as a guard Over the vale, ganst him, who hither tends, The serpent." Whence, not knowing by which path He came, I turn'd me round, and closely press'd, All frozen, to my leader's trusted side. Sordello paus'd not: "To the valley now (For it is time) let us descend; and hold Converse with those great shadows: haply much Their sight may please ye." Only three steps down Methinks I measur'd, ere I was beneath, And noted one who look'd as with desire To know me. Time was now that air arrow dim; Yet not so dim, that 'twixt his eyes and mine It clear'd not up what was conceal'd before. Mutually tow'rds each other we advanc'd. Nino, thou courteous judge! what joy I felt, When I perceiv'd thou wert not with the bad! No salutation kind on either part Was left unsaid. He then inquir'd: "How long Since thou arrived'st at the mountain's foot, Over the distant waves?"--"O!" answer'd I, "Through the sad seats of woe this morn I came, And still in my first life, thus journeying on, The other strive to gain." Soon as they heard My words, he and Sordello backward drew, As suddenly amaz'd. To Virgil one, The other to a spirit turn'd, who near Was seated, crying: "Conrad! up with speed: Come, see what of his grace high God hath will'd." Then turning round to me: "By that rare mark Of honour which thou ow'st to him, who hides So deeply his first cause, it hath no ford, When thou shalt be beyond the vast of waves. Tell my Giovanna, that for me she call There, where reply to innocence is made. Her mother, I believe, loves me no more; Since she has chang'd the white and wimpled folds, Which she is doom'd once more with grief to wish. By her it easily may be perceiv'd, How long in women lasts the flame of love, If sight and touch do not relume it oft. For her so fair a burial will not make The viper which calls Milan to the field, As had been made by shrill Gallura's bird." He spoke, and in his visage took the stamp Of that right seal, which with due temperature Glows in the bosom. My insatiate eyes Meanwhile to heav'n had travel'd, even there Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel Nearest the axle; when my guide inquir'd: "What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?" I answer'd: "The three torches, with which here The pole is all on fire." He then to me: "The four resplendent stars, thou saw'st this morn Are there beneath, and these ris'n in their stead." While yet he spoke. Sordello to himself Drew him, and cry'd: "Lo there our enemy!" And with his hand pointed that way to look. Along the side, where barrier none arose Around the little vale, a serpent lay, Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food. Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake Came on, reverting oft his lifted head; And, as a beast that smoothes its polish'd coat, Licking his hack. I saw not, nor can tell, How those celestial falcons from their seat Mov'd, but in motion each one well descried, Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes. The serpent fled; and to their stations back The angels up return'd with equal flight. The Spirit (who to Nino, when he call'd, Had come), from viewing me with fixed ken, Through all that conflict, loosen'd not his sight. "So may the lamp, which leads thee up on high, Find, in thy destin'd lot, of wax so much, As may suffice thee to the enamel's height." It thus began: "If any certain news Of Valdimagra and the neighbour part Thou know'st, tell me, who once was mighty there They call'd me Conrad Malaspina, not That old one, but from him I sprang. The love I bore my people is now here refin'd." "In your dominions," I answer'd, "ne'er was I. But through all Europe where do those men dwell, To whom their glory is not manifest? The fame, that honours your illustrious house, Proclaims the nobles and proclaims the land; So that he knows it who was never there. I swear to you, so may my upward route Prosper! your honour'd nation not impairs The value of her coffer and her sword. Nature and use give her such privilege, That while the world is twisted from his course By a bad head, she only walks aright, And has the evil way in scorn." He then: "Now pass thee on: sev'n times the tired sun Revisits not the couch, which with four feet The forked Aries covers, ere that kind Opinion shall be nail'd into thy brain With stronger nails than other's speech can drive, If the sure course of judgment be not stay'd." CANTO IX Now the fair consort of Tithonus old, Arisen from her mate's beloved arms, Look'd palely o'er the eastern cliff: her brow, Lucent with jewels, glitter'd, set in sign Of that chill animal, who with his train Smites fearful nations: and where then we were, Two steps of her ascent the night had past, And now the third was closing up its wing, When I, who had so much of Adam with me, Sank down upon the grass, o'ercome with sleep, There where all five were seated. In that hour, When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay, Rememb'ring haply ancient grief, renews, And with our minds more wand'rers from the flesh, And less by thought restrain'd are, as 't were, full Of holy divination in their dreams, Then in a vision did I seem to view A golden-feather'd eagle in the sky, With open wings, and hov'ring for descent, And I was in that place, methought, from whence Young Ganymede, from his associates 'reft, Was snatch'd aloft to the high consistory. "Perhaps," thought I within me, "here alone He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains To pounce upon the prey." Therewith, it seem'd, A little wheeling in his airy tour Terrible as the lightning rush'd he down, And snatch'd me upward even to the fire. There both, I thought, the eagle and myself Did burn; and so intense th' imagin'd flames, That needs my sleep was broken off. As erst Achilles shook himself, and round him roll'd His waken'd eyeballs wond'ring where he was, Whenas his mother had from Chiron fled To Scyros, with him sleeping in her arms; E'en thus I shook me, soon as from my face The slumber parted, turning deadly pale, Like one ice-struck with dread. Solo at my side My comfort stood: and the bright sun was now More than two hours aloft: and to the sea My looks were turn'd. "Fear not," my master cried, "Assur'd we are at happy point. Thy strength Shrink not, but rise dilated. Thou art come To Purgatory now. Lo! there the cliff That circling bounds it! Lo! the entrance there, Where it doth seem disparted! re the dawn Usher'd the daylight, when thy wearied soul Slept in thee, o'er the flowery vale beneath A lady came, and thus bespake me: "I Am Lucia. Suffer me to take this man, Who slumbers. Easier so his way shall speed." Sordello and the other gentle shapes Tarrying, she bare thee up: and, as day shone, This summit reach'd: and I pursued her steps. Here did she place thee. First her lovely eyes That open entrance show'd me; then at once She vanish'd with thy sleep. Like one, whose doubts Are chas'd by certainty, and terror turn'd To comfort on discovery of the truth, Such was the change in me: and as my guide Beheld me fearless, up along the cliff He mov'd, and I behind him, towards the height. Reader! thou markest how my theme doth rise, Nor wonder therefore, if more artfully I prop the structure! nearer now we drew, Arriv'd' whence in that part, where first a breach As of a wall appear'd, I could descry A portal, and three steps beneath, that led For inlet there, of different colour each, And one who watch'd, but spake not yet a word. As more and more mine eye did stretch its view, I mark'd him seated on the highest step, In visage such, as past my power to bear. Grasp'd in his hand a naked sword, glanc'd back The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain My sight directed. "Speak from whence ye stand:" He cried: "What would ye? Where is your escort? Take heed your coming upward harm ye not." "A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things," Replied the' instructor, "told us, even now, "Pass that way: here the gate is." --"And may she Befriending prosper your ascent," resum'd The courteous keeper of the gate: "Come then Before our steps." We straightway thither came. The lowest stair was marble white so smooth And polish'd, that therein my mirror'd form Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block, Crack'd lengthwise and across. The third, that lay Massy above, seem'd porphyry, that flam'd Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein. On this God's angel either foot sustain'd, Upon the threshold seated, which appear'd A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps My leader cheerily drew me. "Ask," said he, "With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt." Piously at his holy feet devolv'd I cast me, praying him for pity's sake That he would open to me: but first fell Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times The letter, that denotes the inward stain, He on my forehead with the blunted point Of his drawn sword inscrib'd. And "Look," he cried, "When enter'd, that thou wash these scars away." Ashes, or earth ta'en dry out of the ground, Were of one colour with the robe he wore. From underneath that vestment forth he drew Two keys of metal twain: the one was gold, Its fellow silver. With the pallid first, And next the burnish'd, he so ply'd the gate, As to content me well. "Whenever one Faileth of these, that in the keyhole straight It turn not, to this alley then expect Access in vain." Such were the words he spake. "One is more precious: but the other needs Skill and sagacity, large share of each, Ere its good task to disengage the knot Be worthily perform'd. From Peter these I hold, of him instructed, that I err Rather in opening than in keeping fast; So but the suppliant at my feet implore." Then of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door, Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear: He forth again departs who looks behind." As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels turn'd, sonorous metal strong, Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily Roar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss To leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd, List'ning the thunder, that first issued forth; And "We praise thee, O God," methought I heard In accents blended with sweet melody. The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear, Come swelling, now float indistinct away. CANTO X When we had passed the threshold of the gate (Which the soul's ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path), I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn'd, For that offence what plea might have avail'd? We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. "Here some little art Behooves us," said my leader, "that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path." Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb The moon once more o'erhangs her wat'ry couch, Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free We came and open, where the mount above One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil, And both, uncertain of the way, we stood, Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink Borders upon vacuity, to foot Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space Had measur'd thrice the stature of a man: And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight, To leftward now and now to right dispatch'd, That cornice equal in extent appear'd. Not yet our feet had on that summit mov'd, When I discover'd that the bank around, Whose proud uprising all ascent denied, Was marble white, and so exactly wrought With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone Had Polycletus, but e'en nature's self Been sham'd. The angel who came down to earth With tidings of the peace so many years Wept for in vain, that op'd the heavenly gates From their long interdict, before us seem'd, In a sweet act, so sculptur'd to the life, He look'd no silent image. One had sworn He had said, "Hail!" for she was imag'd there, By whom the key did open to God's love, And in her act as sensibly impress That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord," As figure seal'd on wax. "Fix not thy mind On one place only," said the guide belov'd, Who had me near him on that part where lies The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn'd And mark'd, behind the virgin mother's form, Upon that side, where he, that mov'd me, stood, Another story graven on the rock. I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near, That it might stand more aptly for my view. There in the self-same marble were engrav'd The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark, That from unbidden office awes mankind. Before it came much people; and the whole Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, "Nay," Another, "Yes, they sing." Like doubt arose Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl'd fume Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil. Preceding the blest vessel, onward came With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, Sweet Israel's harper: in that hap he seem'd Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite, At a great palace, from the lattice forth Look'd Michol, like a lady full of scorn And sorrow. To behold the tablet next, Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone, I mov'd me. There was storied on the rock The' exalted glory of the Roman prince, Whose mighty worth mov'd Gregory to earn His mighty conquest, Trajan th' Emperor. A widow at his bridle stood, attir'd In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd Full throng of knights, and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind. The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: "Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart My son is murder'd." He replying seem'd; "Wait now till I return." And she, as one Made hasty by her grief; "O sire, if thou Dost not return?"--"Where I am, who then is, May right thee."--"What to thee is other's good, If thou neglect thy own?"--"Now comfort thee," At length he answers. "It beseemeth well My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence: So justice wills; and pity bids me stay." He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc'd That visible speaking, new to us and strange The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz'd Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake, When "Lo," the poet whisper'd, "where this way (But slack their pace), a multitude advance. These to the lofty steps shall guide us on." Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights Their lov'd allurement, were not slow to turn. Reader! would not that amaz'd thou miss Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God Decrees our debts be cancel'd. Ponder not The form of suff'ring. Think on what succeeds, Think that at worst beyond the mighty doom It cannot pass. "Instructor," I began, "What I see hither tending, bears no trace Of human semblance, nor of aught beside That my foil'd sight can guess." He answering thus: "So courb'd to earth, beneath their heavy teems Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first Struggled as thine. But look intently thither, An disentangle with thy lab'ring view, What underneath those stones approacheth: now, E'en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each." Christians and proud! poor and wretched ones! That feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust Upon unstaid perverseness! now ye not That we are worms, yet made at last to form The winged insect, imp'd with angel plumes That to heaven's justice unobstructed soars? Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg'd souls? Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, Like the untimely embryon of a worm! As, to support incumbent floor or roof, For corbel is a figure sometimes seen, That crumples up its knees unto its breast, With the feign'd posture stirring ruth unfeign'd In the beholder's fancy; so I saw These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise. Each, as his back was laden, came indeed Or more or less contract; but it appear'd As he, who show'd most patience in his look, Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more." CANTO XI "O thou Almighty Father, who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd, But that with love intenser there thou view'st Thy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name: Join each created being to extol Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving thither tend in vain. As of their will the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count. 'Gainst the old adversary prove thou not Our virtue easily subdu'd; but free From his incitements and defeat his wiles. This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves, since that were needless now, But for their sakes who after us remain." Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring, Those spirits went beneath a weight like that We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset, But with unequal anguish, wearied all, Round the first circuit, purging as they go, The world's gross darkness off: In our behalf If there vows still be offer'd, what can here For them be vow'd and done by such, whose wills Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems That we should help them wash away the stains They carried hence, that so made pure and light, They may spring upward to the starry spheres. "Ah! so may mercy-temper'd justice rid Your burdens speedily, that ye have power To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand Toward the ladder leads the shortest way. And if there be more passages than one, Instruct us of that easiest to ascend; For this man who comes with me, and bears yet The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him, Despite his better will but slowly mounts." From whom the answer came unto these words, Which my guide spake, appear'd not; but 'twas said: "Along the bank to rightward come with us, And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil Of living man to climb: and were it not That I am hinder'd by the rock, wherewith This arrogant neck is tam'd, whence needs I stoop My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives, Whose name thou speak'st not him I fain would view. To mark if e'er I knew himnd to crave His pity for the fardel that I bear. I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn A mighty one: Aldobranlesco's name My sire's, I know not if ye e'er have heard. My old blood and forefathers' gallant deeds Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot The common mother, and to such excess, Wax'd in my scorn of all men, that I fell, Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna's sons, Each child in Campagnatico, can tell. I am Omberto; not me only pride Hath injur'd, but my kindred all involv'd In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains Under this weight to groan, till I appease God's angry justice, since I did it not Amongst the living, here amongst the dead." List'ning I bent my visage down: and one (Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight That urg'd him, saw me, knew me straight, and call'd, Holding his eyes With difficulty fix'd Intent upon me, stooping as I went Companion of their way. "O!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer's skill?" "Brother!" said he, "with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves. His all the honour now; mine borrow'd light. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv'd, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid. Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn'd me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp'd E'en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! imbue thought To lord it over painting's field; and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclips'd. Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch'd The letter'd prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel'd from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar'd, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven's slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam'd: There was he sov'reign, when destruction caught The madd'ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth." I thus to him: "True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay What tumours rankle there. But who is he Of whom thou spak'st but now?"--"This," he replied, "Is Provenzano. He is here, because He reach'd, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone, Thus goeth never-resting, since he died. Such is th' acquittance render'd back of him, Who, beyond measure, dar'd on earth." I then: "If soul that to the verge of life delays Repentance, linger in that lower space, Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend, How chanc'd admittance was vouchsaf'd to him?" "When at his glory's topmost height," said he, "Respect of dignity all cast aside, Freely He fix'd him on Sienna's plain, A suitor to redeem his suff'ring friend, Who languish'd in the prison-house of Charles, Nor for his sake refus'd through every vein To tremble. More I will not say; and dark, I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon Shall help thee to a comment on the text. This is the work, that from these limits freed him." CANTO XII With equal pace as oxen in the yoke, I with that laden spirit journey'd on Long as the mild instructor suffer'd me; But when he bade me quit him, and proceed (For "here," said he, "behooves with sail and oars Each man, as best he may, push on his bark"), Upright, as one dispos'd for speed, I rais'd My body, still in thought submissive bow'd. I now my leader's track not loth pursued; And each had shown how light we far'd along When thus he warn'd me: "Bend thine eyesight down: For thou to ease the way shall find it good To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet." As in memorial of the buried, drawn Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur'd form Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak'd, Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel), So saw I there, but with more curious skill Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space From forth the mountain stretches. On one part Him I beheld, above all creatures erst Created noblest, light'ning fall from heaven: On th' other side with bolt celestial pierc'd Briareus: cumb'ring earth he lay through dint Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire, Arm'd still, and gazing on the giant's limbs Strewn o'er th' ethereal field. Nimrod I saw: At foot of the stupendous work he stood, As if bewilder'd, looking on the crowd Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain. O Niobe! in what a trance of woe Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, Sev'n sons on either side thee slain! Saul! How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour Ne'er visited with rain from heav'n or dew! O fond Arachne! thee I also saw Half spider now in anguish crawling up Th' unfinish'd web thou weaved'st to thy bane! O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote With none to chase him in his chariot whirl'd. Was shown beside upon the solid floor How dear Alcmaeon forc'd his mother rate That ornament in evil hour receiv'd: How in the temple on Sennacherib fell His sons, and how a corpse they left him there. Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried: "Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!" Was shown how routed in the battle fled Th' Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark'd In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall'n, How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there! What master of the pencil or the style Had trac'd the shades and lines, that might have made The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead, The living seem'd alive; with clearer view His eye beheld not who beheld the truth, Than mine what I did tread on, while I went Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks, Lest they descry the evil of your path! I noted not (so busied was my thought) How much we now had circled of the mount, And of his course yet more the sun had spent, When he, who with still wakeful caution went, Admonish'd: "Raise thou up thy head: for know Time is not now for slow suspense. Behold That way an angel hasting towards us! Lo! Where duly the sixth handmaid doth return From service on the day. Wear thou in look And gesture seemly grace of reverent awe, That gladly he may forward us aloft. Consider that this day ne'er dawns again." Time's loss he had so often warn'd me 'gainst, I could not miss the scope at which he aim'd. The goodly shape approach'd us, snowy white In vesture, and with visage casting streams Of tremulous lustre like the matin star. His arms he open'd, then his wings; and spake: "Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now Th' ascent is without difficulty gain'd." A scanty few are they, who when they hear Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind So slight to baffle ye? He led us on Where the rock parted; here against my front Did beat his wings, then promis'd I should fare In safety on my way. As to ascend That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands (O'er Rubaconte, looking lordly down On the well-guided city,) up the right Th' impetuous rise is broken by the steps Carv'd in that old and simple age, when still The registry and label rested safe; Thus is th' acclivity reliev'd, which here Precipitous from the other circuit falls: But on each hand the tall cliff presses close. As ent'ring there we turn'd, voices, in strain Ineffable, sang: "Blessed are the poor In spirit." Ah how far unlike to these The straits of hell; here songs to usher us, There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs: And lighter to myself by far I seem'd Than on the plain before, whence thus I spake: "Say, master, of what heavy thing have I Been lighten'd, that scarce aught the sense of toil Affects me journeying?" He in few replied: "When sin's broad characters, that yet remain Upon thy temples, though well nigh effac'd, Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out, Then shall thy feet by heartiness of will Be so o'ercome, they not alone shall feel No sense of labour, but delight much more Shall wait them urg'd along their upward way." Then like to one, upon whose head is plac'd Somewhat he deems not of but from the becks Of others as they pass him by; his hand Lends therefore help to' assure him, searches, finds, And well performs such office as the eye Wants power to execute: so stretching forth The fingers of my right hand, did I find Six only of the letters, which his sword Who bare the keys had trac'd upon my brow. The leader, as he mark'd mine action, smil'd. CANTO XIII We reach'd the summit of the scale, and stood Upon the second buttress of that mount Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there, Like to the former, girdles round the hill; Save that its arch with sweep less ample bends. Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth The rampart and the path, reflecting nought But the rock's sullen hue. "If here we wait For some to question," said the bard, "I fear Our choice may haply meet too long delay." Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes He fastn'd, made his right the central point From whence to move, and turn'd the left aside. "O pleasant light, my confidence and hope, Conduct us thou," he cried, "on this new way, Where now I venture, leading to the bourn We seek. The universal world to thee Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide." Far, as is measur'd for a mile on earth, In brief space had we journey'd; such prompt will Impell'd; and towards us flying, now were heard Spirits invisible, who courteously Unto love's table bade the welcome guest. The voice, that firstlew by, call'd forth aloud, "They have no wine;" so on behind us past, Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost In the faint distance, when another came Crying, "I am Orestes," and alike Wing'd its fleet way. "Oh father!" I exclaim'd, "What tongues are these?" and as I question'd, lo! A third exclaiming, "Love ye those have wrong'd you." "This circuit," said my teacher, "knots the scourge For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn By charity's correcting hand. The curb Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear (If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass, Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes Intently through the air, and thou shalt see A multitude before thee seated, each Along the shelving grot." Then more than erst I op'd my eyes, before me view'd, and saw Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; And when we pass'd a little forth, I heard A crying, "Blessed Mary! pray for us, Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!" I do not think there walks on earth this day Man so remorseless, that he hath not yearn'd With pity at the sight that next I saw. Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now I stood so near them, that their semblances Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile Their cov'ring seem'd; and on his shoulder one Did stay another, leaning, and all lean'd Against the cliff. E'en thus the blind and poor, Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, Stand, each his head upon his fellow's sunk, So most to stir compassion, not by sound Of words alone, but that, which moves not less, The sight of mis'ry. And as never beam Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, E'en so was heav'n a niggard unto these Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all, A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, As for the taming of a haggard hawk. It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look On others, yet myself the while unseen. To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, Nor waited for my questioning, but said: "Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words." On that part of the cornice, whence no rim Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; On the' other side me were the spirits, their cheeks Bathing devout with penitential tears, That through the dread impalement forc'd a way. I turn'd me to them, and "O shades!" said I, "Assur'd that to your eyes unveil'd shall shine The lofty light, sole object of your wish, So may heaven's grace clear whatsoe'er of foam Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth The stream of mind roll limpid from its source, As ye declare (for so shall ye impart A boon I dearly prize) if any soul Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance That soul may profit, if I learn so much." "My brother, we are each one citizens Of one true city. Any thou wouldst say, Who lived a stranger in Italia's land." So heard I answering, as appeal'd, a voice That onward came some space from whence I stood. A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark'd Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was rais'd As in one reft of sight. "Spirit," said I, "Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be That which didst answer to me,) or by place Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee." "I was," it answer'd, "of Sienna: here I cleanse away with these the evil life, Soliciting with tears that He, who is, Vouchsafe him to us. Though Sapia nam'd In sapience I excell'd not, gladder far Of others' hurt, than of the good befell me. That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. When now my years slop'd waning down the arch, It so bechanc'd, my fellow citizens Near Colle met their enemies in the field, And I pray'd God to grant what He had will'd. There were they vanquish'd, and betook themselves Unto the bitter passages of flight. I mark'd the hunt, and waxing out of bounds In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, And like the merlin cheated by a gleam, Cried, "It is over. Heav'n! fear thee not." Upon my verge of life I wish'd for peace With God; nor repentance had supplied What I did lack of duty, were it not The hermit Piero, touch'd with charity, In his devout orisons thought on me. "But who art thou that question'st of our state, Who go'st to my belief, with lids unclos'd, And breathest in thy talk?"--"Mine eyes," said I, "May yet be here ta'en from me; but not long; For they have not offended grievously With envious glances. But the woe beneath Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. That nether load already weighs me down." She thus: "Who then amongst us here aloft Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?" "He," answer'd I, "who standeth mute beside me. I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit, If thou desire I yonder yet should move For thee my mortal feet."--"Oh!" she replied, "This is so strange a thing, it is great sign That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer Sometime assist me: and by that I crave, Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet E'er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold With that vain multitude, who set their hope On Telamone's haven, there to fail Confounded, more shall when the fancied stream They sought of Dian call'd: but they who lead Their navies, more than ruin'd hopes shall mourn." CANTO XIV "Say who is he around our mountain winds, Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight, That opes his eyes and covers them at will?" "I know not who he is, but know thus much He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him, For thou art nearer to him, and take heed Accost him gently, so that he may speak." Thus on the right two Spirits bending each Toward the other, talk'd of me, then both Addressing me, their faces backward lean'd, And thus the one began: "O soul, who yet Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky! For charity, we pray thee' comfort us, Recounting whence thou com'st, and who thou art: For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been." "There stretches through the midst of Tuscany," I straight began: "a brooklet, whose well-head Springs up in Falterona, with his race Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles Hath measur'd. From his banks bring, I this frame. To tell you who I am were words misspent: For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip." "If well I do incorp'rate with my thought The meaning of thy speech," said he, who first Addrest me, "thou dost speak of Arno's wave." To whom the other: "Why hath he conceal'd The title of that river, as a man Doth of some horrible thing?" The spirit, who Thereof was question'd, did acquit him thus: "I know not: but 'tis fitting well the name Should perish of that vale; for from the source Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep Maim'd of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass Beyond that limit,) even to the point Whereunto ocean is restor'd, what heaven Drains from th' exhaustless store for all earth's streams, Throughout the space is virtue worried down, As 'twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe, Or through disastrous influence on the place, Or else distortion of misguided wills, That custom goads to evil: whence in those, The dwellers in that miserable vale, Nature is so transform'd, it seems as they Had shar'd of Circe's feeding. 'Midst brute swine, Worthier of acorns than of other food Created for man's use, he shapeth first His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down, By how much more the curst and luckless foss Swells out to largeness, e'en so much it finds Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets A race of foxes, so replete with craft, They do not fear that skill can master it. Nor will I cease because my words are heard By other ears than thine. It shall be well For this man, if he keep in memory What from no erring Spirit I reveal. Lo! behold thy grandson, that becomes A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread: Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale, Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms. Many of life he reaves, himself of worth And goodly estimation. Smear'd with gore Mark how he issues from the rueful wood, Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years It spreads not to prime lustihood again." As one, who tidings hears of woe to come, Changes his looks perturb'd, from whate'er part The peril grasp him, so beheld I change That spirit, who had turn'd to listen, struck With sadness, soon as he had caught the word. His visage and the other's speech did raise Desire in me to know the names of both, whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd. The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum'd: "Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine. But since God's will is that so largely shine His grace in thee, I will be liberal too. Guido of Duca know then that I am. Envy so parch'd my blood, that had I seen A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark'd A livid paleness overspread my cheek. Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow'd. O man, why place thy heart where there doth need Exclusion of participants in good? This is Rinieri's spirit, this the boast And honour of the house of Calboli, Where of his worth no heritage remains. Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript ('twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,) Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss; But in those limits such a growth has sprung Of rank and venom'd roots, as long would mock Slow culture's toil. Where is good Liziohere Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna? O bastard slips of old Romagna's line! When in Bologna the low artisan, And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts, A gentle cyon from ignoble stem. Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep, When I recall to mind those once lov'd names, Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop, With Traversaro's house and Anastagio's, (Each race disherited) and beside these, The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease, That witch'd us into love and courtesy; Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts. O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still, Since forth of thee thy family hath gone, And many, hating evil, join'd their steps? Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease, Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill, And Conio worse, who care to propagate A race of Counties from such blood as theirs. Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then When from amongst you tries your demon child. Not so, howe'er, that henceforth there remain True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin! Thou sprung of Fantolini's line! thy name Is safe, since none is look'd for after thee To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock. But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take Far more delight in weeping than in words. Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart." We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them, Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'd Like vollied light'ning, when it rives the air, Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever finds Will slay me," then fled from us, as the bolt Lanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud. When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing, Behold the other with a crash as loud As the quick-following thunder: "Mark in me Aglauros turn'd to rock." I at the sound Retreating drew more closely to my guide. Now in mute stillness rested all the air: And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit. But your old enemy so baits his hook, He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n calls And round about you wheeling courts your gaze With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye Turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all." CANTO XV As much as 'twixt the third hour's close and dawn, Appeareth of heav'n's sphere, that ever whirls As restless as an infant in his play, So much appear'd remaining to the sun Of his slope journey towards the western goal. Evening was there, and here the noon of night; and full upon our forehead smote the beams. For round the mountain, circling, so our path Had led us, that toward the sun-set now Direct we journey'd: when I felt a weight Of more exceeding splendour, than before, Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze Possess'd me, and both hands against my brow Lifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen, That of its gorgeous superflux of light Clipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray, Striking On water or the surface clear Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part, Ascending at a glance, e'en as it fell, (And so much differs from the stone, that falls Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown); Thus with refracted light before me seemed The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste My sight recoil'd. "What is this, sire belov'd! 'Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?" Cried I, "and which towards us moving seems?" "Marvel not, if the family of heav'n," He answer'd, "yet with dazzling radiance dim Thy sense it is a messenger who comes, Inviting man's ascent. Such sights ere long, Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight, As thy perception is by nature wrought Up to their pitch." The blessed angel, soon As we had reach'd him, hail'd us with glad voice: "Here enter on a ladder far less steep Than ye have yet encounter'd." We forthwith Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet, "Blessed the merciful," and "happy thou! That conquer'st." Lonely each, my guide and I Pursued our upward way; and as we went, Some profit from his words I hop'd to win, And thus of him inquiring, fram'd my speech: "What meant Romagna's spirit, when he spake Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar'd?" He straight replied: "No wonder, since he knows, What sorrow waits on his own worst defect, If he chide others, that they less may mourn. Because ye point your wishes at a mark, Where, by communion of possessors, part Is lessen'd, envy bloweth up the sighs of men. No fear of that might touch ye, if the love Of higher sphere exalted your desire. For there, by how much more they call it ours, So much propriety of each in good Increases more, and heighten'd charity Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame." "Now lack I satisfaction more," said I, "Than if thou hadst been silent at the first, And doubt more gathers on my lab'ring thought. How can it chance, that good distributed, The many, that possess it, makes more rich, Than if 't were shar'd by few?" He answering thus: "Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth, Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed To love, as beam to lucid body darts, Giving as much of ardour as it finds. The sempiternal effluence streams abroad Spreading, wherever charity extends. So that the more aspirants to that bliss Are multiplied, more good is there to love, And more is lov'd; as mirrors, that reflect, Each unto other, propagated light. If these my words avail not to allay Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see, Who of this want, and of all else thou hast, Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou That from thy temples may be soon eras'd, E'en as the two already, those five scars, That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal," "Thou," I had said, "content'st me," when I saw The other round was gain'd, and wond'ring eyes Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem'd By an ecstatic vision wrapt away; And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd Of many persons; and at th' entrance stood A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express A mother's love, who said, "Child! why hast thou Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I Sorrowing have sought thee;" and so held her peace, And straight the vision fled. A female next Appear'd before me, down whose visage cours'd Those waters, that grief forces out from one By deep resentment stung, who seem'd to say: "If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed Over this city, nam'd with such debate Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles, Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace Hath clasp'd our daughter; "and to fuel, meseem'd, Benign and meek, with visage undisturb'd, Her sovran spake: "How shall we those requite, Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn The man that loves us?" After that I saw A multitude, in fury burning, slay With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain "Destroy, destroy:" and him I saw, who bow'd Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav'n, Praying forgiveness of th' Almighty Sire, Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes, With looks, that With compassion to their aim. Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight Returning, sought again the things, whose truth Depends not on her shaping, I observ'd How she had rov'd to no unreal scenes Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov'd, As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep, Exclaim'd: "What ails thee, that thou canst not hold Thy footing firm, but more than half a league Hast travel'd with clos'd eyes and tott'ring gait, Like to a man by wine or sleep o'ercharg'd?" "Beloved father! so thou deign," said I, "To listen, I will tell thee what appear'd Before me, when so fail'd my sinking steps." He thus: "Not if thy Countenance were mask'd With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine How small soe'er, elude me. What thou saw'st Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart To the waters of peace, that flow diffus'd From their eternal fountain. I not ask'd, What ails theeor such cause as he doth, who Looks only with that eye which sees no more, When spiritless the body lies; but ask'd, To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads The slow and loit'ring need; that they be found Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns." So on we journey'd through the evening sky Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes With level view could stretch against the bright Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees Gath'ring, a fog made tow'rds us, dark as night. There was no room for 'scaping; and that mist Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air. CANTO XVI Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, Of every planes 'reft, and pall'd in clouds, Did never spread before the sight a veil In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense So palpable and gross. Ent'ring its shade, Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids; Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, Offering me his shoulder for a stay. As the blind man behind his leader walks, Lest he should err, or stumble unawares On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy, I journey'd through that bitter air and foul, Still list'ning to my escort's warning voice, "Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heard Voices, and each one seem'd to pray for peace, And for compassion, to the Lamb of God That taketh sins away. Their prelude still Was "Agnus Dei," and through all the choir, One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem'd The concord of their song. "Are these I hear Spirits, O master?" I exclaim'd; and he: "Thou aim'st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath." "Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave? And speak'st of us, as thou thyself e'en yet Dividest time by calends?" So one voice Bespake me; whence my master said: "Reply; And ask, if upward hence the passage lead." "O being! who dost make thee pure, to stand Beautiful once more in thy Maker's sight! Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder." Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake: "Long as 't is lawful for me, shall my steps Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead Shall keep us join'd." I then forthwith began "Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend To higher regions, and am hither come Through the fearful agony of hell. And, if so largely God hath doled his grace, That, clean beside all modern precedent, He wills me to behold his kingly state, From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death Had loos'd thee; but instruct me: and instruct If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words The way directing as a safe escort." "I was of Lombardy, and Marco call'd: Not inexperienc'd of the world, that worth I still affected, from which all have turn'd The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right Unto the summit:" and, replying thus, He added, "I beseech thee pray for me, When thou shalt come aloft." And I to him: "Accept my faith for pledge I will perform What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains, That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not, Singly before it urg'd me, doubled now By thine opinion, when I couple that With one elsewhere declar'd, each strength'ning other. The world indeed is even so forlorn Of all good as thou speak'st it and so swarms With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point The cause out to me, that myself may see, And unto others show it: for in heaven One places it, and one on earth below." Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh, "Brother!" he thus began, "the world is blind; And thou in truth com'st from it. Ye, who live, Do so each cause refer to heav'n above, E'en as its motion of necessity Drew with it all that moves. If this were so, Free choice in you were none; nor justice would There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill. Your movements have their primal bent from heaven; Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues? Light have ye still to follow evil or good, And of the will free power, which, if it stand Firm and unwearied in Heav'n's first assay, Conquers at last, so it be cherish'd well, Triumphant over all. To mightier force, To better nature subject, ye abide Free, not constrain'd by that, which forms in you The reasoning mind uninfluenc'd of the stars. If then the present race of mankind err, Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there. Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy. "Forth from his plastic hand, who charm'd beholds Her image ere she yet exist, the soul Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods, As artless and as ignorant of aught, Save that her Maker being one who dwells With gladness ever, willingly she turns To whate'er yields her joy. Of some slight good The flavour soon she tastes; and, snar'd by that, With fondness she pursues it, if no guide Recall, no rein direct her wand'ring course. Hence it behov'd, the law should be a curb; A sovereign hence behov'd, whose piercing view Might mark at least the fortress and main tower Of the true city. Laws indeed there are: But who is he observes them? None; not he, Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock, Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof. Therefore the multitude, who see their guide Strike at the very good they covet most, Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause Is not corrupted nature in yourselves, But ill-conducting, that hath turn'd the world To evil. Rome, that turn'd it unto good, Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams Cast light on either way, the world's and God's. One since hath quench'd the other; and the sword Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin'd Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw'd By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark The blade: each herb is judg'd of by its seed. That land, through which Adice and the Po Their waters roll, was once the residence Of courtesy and velour, ere the day, That frown'd on Frederick; now secure may pass Those limits, whosoe'er hath left, for shame, To talk with good men, or come near their haunts. Three aged ones are still found there, in whom The old time chides the new: these deem it long Ere God restore them to a better world: The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam'd In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard. On this at last conclude. The church of Rome, Mixing two governments that ill assort, Hath miss'd her footing, fall'n into the mire, And there herself and burden much defil'd." "O Marco!" I replied, shine arguments Convince me: and the cause I now discern Why of the heritage no portion came To Levi's offspring. But resolve me this Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst Is left a sample of the perish'd race, And for rebuke to this untoward age?" "Either thy words," said he, "deceive; or else Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan, Appear'st not to have heard of good Gherado; The sole addition that, by which I know him; Unless I borrow'd from his daughter Gaia Another name to grace him. God be with you. I bear you company no more. Behold The dawn with white ray glimm'ring through the mist. I must away--the angel comes--ere he Appear." He said, and would not hear me more. CANTO XVII Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er Hast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud, Through which thou saw'st no better, than the mole Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene'er The wat'ry vapours dense began to melt Into thin air, how faintly the sun's sphere Seem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thought May image, how at first I re-beheld The sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung. Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd The parting beams from off the nether shores. O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark Though round about us thousand trumpets clang! What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light Kindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd, Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse By will divine. Portray'd before me came The traces of her dire impiety, Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that most Delights itself in song: and here my mind Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place To aught that ask'd admittance from without. Next shower'd into my fantasy a shape As of one crucified, whose visage spake Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died; And round him Ahasuerus the great king, Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just, Blameless in word and deed. As of itself That unsubstantial coinage of the brain Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails That fed it; in my vision straight uprose A damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen! O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire Driv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose Lavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself. Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears Mourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end." E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly New radiance strike upon the closed lids, The broken slumber quivering ere it dies; Thus from before me sunk that imagery Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck The light, outshining far our earthly beam. As round I turn'd me to survey what place I had arriv'd at, "Here ye mount," exclaim'd A voice, that other purpose left me none, Save will so eager to behold who spake, I could not choose but gaze. As 'fore the sun, That weighs our vision down, and veils his form In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'd Unequal. "This is Spirit from above, Who marshals us our upward way, unsought; And in his own light shrouds him. As a man Doth for himself, so now is done for us. For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'd For blunt denial, ere the suit be made. Refuse we not to lend a ready foot At such inviting: haste we to ascend, Before it darken: for we may not then, Till morn again return." So spake my guide; And to one ladder both address'd our steps; And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'd Near me as 'twere the waving of a wing, That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed they The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath." Now to such height above our heads were rais'd The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night, That many a star on all sides through the gloom Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?" So with myself I commun'd; for I felt My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space, If aught should meet mine ear in that new round, Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire! Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd. If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause." He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'er Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils. Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill. But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand, Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay. "Creator, nor created being, ne'er, My son," he thus began, "was without love, Or natural, or the free spirit's growth. Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still Is without error; but the other swerves, If on ill object bent, or through excess Of vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeks The primal blessings, or with measure due Th' inferior, no delight, that flows from it, Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil, Or with more ardour than behooves, or less. Pursue the good, the thing created then Works 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer That love is germin of each virtue in ye, And of each act no less, that merits pain. Now since it may not be, but love intend The welfare mainly of the thing it loves, All from self-hatred are secure; and since No being can be thought t' exist apart And independent of the first, a bar Of equal force restrains from hating that. "Grant the distinction just; and it remains The' evil must be another's, which is lov'd. Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay. There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,) Preeminence himself, and coverts hence For his own greatness that another fall. There is who so much fears the loss of power, Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount Above him), and so sickens at the thought, He loves their opposite: and there is he, Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs Must doat on other's evil. Here beneath This threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sort Be now instructed, that which follows good But with disorder'd and irregular course. "All indistinctly apprehend a bliss On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold Or seek it with a love remiss and lax, This cornice after just repenting lays Its penal torment on ye. Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness: It is not true fruition, not that blest Essence, of every good the branch and root. The love too lavishly bestow'd on this, Along three circles over us, is mourn'd. Account of that division tripartite Expect not, fitter for thine own research." CANTO XVIII The teacher ended, and his high discourse Concluding, earnest in my looks inquir'd If I appear'd content; and I, whom still Unsated thirst to hear him urg'd, was mute, Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said: "Perchance my too much questioning offends" But he, true father, mark'd the secret wish By diffidence restrain'd, and speaking, gave Me boldness thus to speak: 'Master, my Sight Gathers so lively virtue from thy beams, That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen. Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heart Holds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t' unfold That love, from which as from their source thou bring'st All good deeds and their opposite.'" He then: "To what I now disclose be thy clear ken Directed, and thou plainly shalt behold How much those blind have err'd, who make themselves The guides of men. The soul, created apt To love, moves versatile which way soe'er Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak'd By pleasure into act. Of substance true Your apprehension forms its counterfeit, And in you the ideal shape presenting Attracts the soul's regard. If she, thus drawn, incline toward it, love is that inclining, And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye. Then as the fire points up, and mounting seeks His birth-place and his lasting seat, e'en thus Enters the captive soul into desire, Which is a spiritual motion, that ne'er rests Before enjoyment of the thing it loves. Enough to show thee, how the truth from those Is hidden, who aver all love a thing Praise-worthy in itself: although perhaps Its substance seem still good. Yet if the wax Be good, it follows not th' impression must." "What love is," I return'd, "thy words, O guide! And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thence New doubts have sprung. For from without if love Be offer'd to us, and the spirit knows No other footing, tend she right or wrong, Is no desert of hers." He answering thus: "What reason here discovers I have power To show thee: that which lies beyond, expect From Beatrice, faith not reason's task. Spirit, substantial form, with matter join'd Not in confusion mix'd, hath in itself Specific virtue of that union born, Which is not felt except it work, nor prov'd But through effect, as vegetable life By the green leaf. From whence his intellect Deduced its primal notices of things, Man therefore knows not, or his appetites Their first affections; such in you, as zeal In bees to gather honey; at the first, Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise. But o'er each lower faculty supreme, That as she list are summon'd to her bar, Ye have that virtue in you, whose just voice Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep The threshold of assent. Here is the source, Whence cause of merit in you is deriv'd, E'en as the affections good or ill she takes, Or severs, winnow'd as the chaff. Those men Who reas'ning went to depth profoundest, mark'd That innate freedom, and were thence induc'd To leave their moral teaching to the world. Grant then, that from necessity arise All love that glows within you; to dismiss Or harbour it, the pow'r is in yourselves. Remember, Beatrice, in her style, Denominates free choice by eminence The noble virtue, if in talk with thee She touch upon that theme." The moon, well nigh To midnight hour belated, made the stars Appear to wink and fade; and her broad disk Seem'd like a crag on fire, as up the vault That course she journey'd, which the sun then warms, When they of Rome behold him at his set. Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle. And now the weight, that hung upon my thought, Was lighten'd by the aid of that clear spirit, Who raiseth Andes above Mantua's name. I therefore, when my questions had obtain'd Solution plain and ample, stood as one Musing in dreary slumber; but not long Slumber'd; for suddenly a multitude, The steep already turning, from behind, Rush'd on. With fury and like random rout, As echoing on their shores at midnight heard Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes If Bacchus' help were needed; so came these Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, By eagerness impell'd of holy love. Soon they o'ertook us; with such swiftness mov'd The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head Cried weeping; "Blessed Mary sought with haste The hilly region. Caesar to subdue Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting, And flew to Spain."--"Oh tarry not: away;" The others shouted; "let not time be lost Through slackness of affection. Hearty zeal To serve reanimates celestial grace." "O ye, in whom intenser fervency Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail'd, Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part Of good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives, (Credit my tale, though strange) desires t' ascend, So morning rise to light us. Therefore say Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?" So spake my guide, to whom a shade return'd: "Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft. We may not linger: such resistless will Speeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us then Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I Was abbot of San Zeno, when the hand Of Barbarossa grasp'd Imperial sway, That name, ne'er utter'd without tears in Milan. And there is he, hath one foot in his grave, Who for that monastery ere long shall weep, Ruing his power misus'd: for that his son, Of body ill compact, and worse in mind, And born in evil, he hath set in place Of its true pastor." Whether more he spake, Or here was mute, I know not: he had sped E'en now so far beyond us. Yet thus much I heard, and in rememb'rance treasur'd it. He then, who never fail'd me at my need, Cried, "Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse Chiding their sin!" In rear of all the troop These shouted: "First they died, to whom the sea Open'd, or ever Jordan saw his heirs: And they, who with Aeneas to the end Endur'd not suffering, for their portion chose Life without glory." Soon as they had fled Past reach of sight, new thought within me rose By others follow'd fast, and each unlike Its fellow: till led on from thought to thought, And pleasur'd with the fleeting train, mine eye Was clos'd, and meditation chang'd to dream. CANTO XIX It was the hour, when of diurnal heat No reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon, O'erpower'd by earth, or planetary sway Of Saturn; and the geomancer sees His Greater Fortune up the east ascend, Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone; When 'fore me in my dream a woman's shape There came, with lips that stammer'd, eyes aslant, Distorted feet, hands maim'd, and colour pale. I look'd upon her; and as sunshine cheers Limbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my look Unloos'd her tongue, next in brief space her form Decrepit rais'd erect, and faded face With love's own hue illum'd. Recov'ring speech She forthwith warbling such a strain began, That I, how loth soe'er, could scarce have held Attention from the song. "I," thus she sang, "I am the Siren, she, whom mariners On the wide sea are wilder'd when they hear: Such fulness of delight the list'ner feels. I from his course Ulysses by my lay Enchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me once Parts seldom; so I charm him, and his heart Contented knows no void." Or ere her mouth Was clos'd, to shame her at her side appear'd A dame of semblance holy. With stern voice She utter'd; "Say, O Virgil, who is this?" Which hearing, he approach'd, with eyes still bent Toward that goodly presence: th' other seiz'd her, And, her robes tearing, open'd her before, And show'd the belly to me, whence a smell, Exhaling loathsome, wak'd me. Round I turn'd Mine eyes, and thus the teacher: "At the least Three times my voice hath call'd thee. Rise, begone. Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass." I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high, Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount; And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smote The early ray. I follow'd, stooping low My forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought, Who bends him to the likeness of an arch, That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard, "Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild, As never met the ear on mortal strand. With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up, Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along, Where each side of the solid masonry The sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes, And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn, Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. "What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?" Began my leader; while th' angelic shape A little over us his station took. "New vision," I replied, "hath rais'd in me Surmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereon My soul intent allows no other thought Or room or entrance."--"Hast thou seen," said he, "That old enchantress, her, whose wiles alone The spirits o'er us weep for? Hast thou seen How man may free him of her bonds? Enough. Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais'd ken Fix on the lure, which heav'n's eternal King Whirls in the rolling spheres." As on his feet The falcon first looks down, then to the sky Turns, and forth stretches eager for the food, That woos him thither; so the call I heard, So onward, far as the dividing rock Gave way, I journey'd, till the plain was reach'd. On the fifth circle when I stood at large, A race appear'd before me, on the ground All downward lying prone and weeping sore. "My soul hath cleaved to the dust," I heard With sighs so deep, they well nigh choak'd the words. "O ye elect of God, whose penal woes Both hope and justice mitigate, direct Tow'rds the steep rising our uncertain way." "If ye approach secure from this our doom, Prostration--and would urge your course with speed, See that ye still to rightward keep the brink." So them the bard besought; and such the words, Beyond us some short space, in answer came. I noted what remain'd yet hidden from them: Thence to my liege's eyes mine eyes I bent, And he, forthwith interpreting their suit, Beckon'd his glad assent. Free then to act, As pleas'd me, I drew near, and took my stand O`er that shade, whose words I late had mark'd. And, "Spirit!" I said, "in whom repentant tears Mature that blessed hour, when thou with God Shalt find acceptance, for a while suspend For me that mightier care. Say who thou wast, Why thus ye grovel on your bellies prone, And if in aught ye wish my service there, Whence living I am come." He answering spake "The cause why Heav'n our back toward his cope Reverses, shalt thou know: but me know first The successor of Peter, and the name And title of my lineage from that stream, That' twixt Chiaveri and Siestri draws His limpid waters through the lowly glen. A month and little more by proof I learnt, With what a weight that robe of sov'reignty Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire Would guard it: that each other fardel seems But feathers in the balance. Late, alas! Was my conversion: but when I became Rome's pastor, I discern'd at once the dream And cozenage of life, saw that the heart Rested not there, and yet no prouder height Lur'd on the climber: wherefore, of that life No more enamour'd, in my bosom love Of purer being kindled. For till then I was a soul in misery, alienate From God, and covetous of all earthly things; Now, as thou seest, here punish'd for my doting. Such cleansing from the taint of avarice Do spirits converted need. This mount inflicts No direr penalty. E'en as our eyes Fasten'd below, nor e'er to loftier clime Were lifted, thus hath justice level'd us Here on the earth. As avarice quench'd our love Of good, without which is no working, thus Here justice holds us prison'd, hand and foot Chain'd down and bound, while heaven's just Lord shall please. So long to tarry motionless outstretch'd." My knees I stoop'd, and would have spoke; but he, Ere my beginning, by his ear perceiv'd I did him reverence; and "What cause," said he, "Hath bow'd thee thus!"--"Compunction," I rejoin'd. "And inward awe of your high dignity." "Up," he exclaim'd, "brother! upon thy feet Arise: err not: thy fellow servant I, (Thine and all others') of one Sovran Power. If thou hast ever mark'd those holy sounds Of gospel truth, 'nor shall be given ill marriage,' Thou mayst discern the reasons of my speech. Go thy ways now; and linger here no more. Thy tarrying is a let unto the tears, With which I hasten that whereof thou spak'st. I have on earth a kinswoman; her name Alagia, worthy in herself, so ill Example of our house corrupt her not: And she is all remaineth of me there." CANTO XX Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd, I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave. Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd, Who led me, coasting still, wherever place Along the rock was vacant, as a man Walks near the battlements on narrow wall. For those on th' other part, who drop by drop Wring out their all-infecting malady, Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou! Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey, Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd! So bottomless thy maw!--Ye spheres of heaven! To whom there are, as seems, who attribute All change in mortal state, when is the day Of his appearing, for whom fate reserves To chase her hence?--With wary steps and slow We pass'd; and I attentive to the shades, Whom piteously I heard lament and wail; And, 'midst the wailing, one before us heard Cry out "O blessed Virgin!" as a dame In the sharp pangs of childbed; and "How poor Thou wast," it added, "witness that low roof Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down. O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue choose With poverty, before great wealth with vice." The words so pleas'd me, that desire to know The spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come, Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he Bounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful prime Unblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deeds So worthy, tell me who thou was," I said, "And why thou dost with single voice renew Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'd Haply shall meet reward; if I return To finish the Short pilgrimage of life, Still speeding to its close on restless wing." "I," answer'd he, "will tell thee, not for hell, Which thence I look for; but that in thyself Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time Of mortal dissolution. I was root Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds O'er all the Christian land, that seldom thence Good fruit is gather'd. Vengeance soon should come, Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power; And vengeance I of heav'n's great Judge implore. Hugh Capet was I high: from me descend The Philips and the Louis, of whom France Newly is govern'd; born of one, who ply'd The slaughterer's trade at Paris. When the race Of ancient kings had vanish'd (all save one Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe I found the reins of empire, and such powers Of new acquirement, with full store of friends, That soon the widow'd circlet of the crown Was girt upon the temples of my son, He, from whose bones th' anointed race begins. Till the great dower of Provence had remov'd The stains, that yet obscur'd our lowly blood, Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe'er It wrought no evil: there, with force and lies, Began its rapine; after, for amends, Poitou it seiz'd, Navarre and Gascony. To Italy came Charles, and for amends Young Conradine an innocent victim slew, And sent th' angelic teacher back to heav'n, Still for amends. I see the time at hand, That forth from France invites another Charles To make himself and kindred better known. Unarm'd he issues, saving with that lance, Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that He carries with so home a thrust, as rives The bowels of poor Florence. No increase Of territory hence, but sin and shame Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong. I see the other, who a prisoner late Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do The Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice! What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood So wholly to thyself, they feel no care Of their own flesh? To hide with direr guilt Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ Himself a captive, and his mockery Acted again! Lo! to his holy lip The vinegar and gall once more applied! And he 'twixt living robbers doom'd to bleed! Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty Such violence cannot fill the measure up, With no degree to sanction, pushes on Into the temple his yet eager sails! "O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas'd In secret silence broods?--While daylight lasts, So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn'dst To me for comment, is the general theme Of all our prayers: but when it darkens, then A different strain we utter, then record Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold Made traitor, robber, parricide: the woes Of Midas, which his greedy wish ensued, Mark'd for derision to all future times: And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey, That yet he seems by Joshua's ire pursued. Sapphira with her husband next, we blame; And praise the forefeet, that with furious ramp Spurn'd Heliodorus. All the mountain round Rings with the infamy of Thracia's king, Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shout Ascends: "Declare, O Crassus! for thou know'st, The flavour of thy gold." The voice of each Now high now low, as each his impulse prompts, Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave. Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears'd That blessedness we tell of in the day: But near me none beside his accent rais'd." From him we now had parted, and essay'd With utmost efforts to surmount the way, When I did feel, as nodding to its fall, The mountain tremble; whence an icy chill Seiz'd on me, as on one to death convey'd. So shook not Delos, when Latona there Couch'd to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven. Forthwith from every side a shout arose So vehement, that suddenly my guide Drew near, and cried: "Doubt not, while I conduct thee." "Glory!" all shouted (such the sounds mine ear Gather'd from those, who near me swell'd the sounds) "Glory in the highest be to God." We stood Immovably suspended, like to those, The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem's field That song: till ceas'd the trembling, and the song Was ended: then our hallow'd path resum'd, Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew'd Their custom'd mourning. Never in my breast Did ignorance so struggle with desire Of knowledge, if my memory do not err, As in that moment; nor through haste dar'd I To question, nor myself could aught discern, So on I far'd in thoughtfulness and dread. CANTO XXI The natural thirst, ne'er quench'd but from the well, Whereof the woman of Samaria crav'd, Excited: haste along the cumber'd path, After my guide, impell'd; and pity mov'd My bosom for the 'vengeful deed, though just. When lo! even as Luke relates, that Christ Appear'd unto the two upon their way, New-risen from his vaulted grave; to us A shade appear'd, and after us approach'd, Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet. We were not ware of it; so first it spake, Saying, "God give you peace, my brethren!" then Sudden we turn'd: and Virgil such salute, As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried: "Peace in the blessed council be thy lot Awarded by that righteous court, which me To everlasting banishment exiles!" "How!" he exclaim'd, nor from his speed meanwhile Desisting, "If that ye be spirits, whom God Vouchsafes not room above, who up the height Has been thus far your guide?" To whom the bard: "If thou observe the tokens, which this man Trac'd by the finger of the angel bears, 'Tis plain that in the kingdom of the just He needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheel Spins day and night, for him not yet had drawn That yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil'd, Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes, His soul, that sister is to mine and thine, Not of herself could mount, for not like ours Her ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulf Of hell was ta'en, to lead him, and will lead Far as my lore avails. But, if thou know, Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhile Thus shook and trembled: wherefore all at once Seem'd shouting, even from his wave-wash'd foot." That questioning so tallied with my wish, The thirst did feel abatement of its edge E'en from expectance. He forthwith replied, "In its devotion nought irregular This mount can witness, or by punctual rule Unsanction'd; here from every change exempt. Other than that, which heaven in itself Doth of itself receive, no influence Can reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow, Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher falls Than that brief scale of threefold steps: thick clouds Nor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glance Ne'er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams, That yonder often shift on each side heav'n. Vapour adust doth never mount above The highest of the trinal stairs, whereon Peter's vicegerent stands. Lower perchance, With various motion rock'd, trembles the soil: But here, through wind in earth's deep hollow pent, I know not how, yet never trembled: then Trembles, when any spirit feels itself So purified, that it may rise, or move For rising, and such loud acclaim ensues. Purification by the will alone Is prov'd, that free to change society Seizes the soul rejoicing in her will. Desire of bliss is present from the first; But strong propension hinders, to that wish By the just ordinance of heav'n oppos'd; Propension now as eager to fulfil Th' allotted torment, as erewhile to sin. And I who in this punishment had lain Five hundred years and more, but now have felt Free wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt'st The mountain tremble, and the spirits devout Heard'st, over all his limits, utter praise To that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joy To hasten." Thus he spake: and since the draught Is grateful ever as the thirst is keen, No words may speak my fullness of content. "Now," said the instructor sage, "I see the net That takes ye here, and how the toils are loos'd, Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice. Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn, Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore here So many an age wert prostrate."--"In that time, When the good Titus, with Heav'n's King to help, Aveng'd those piteous gashes, whence the blood By Judas sold did issue, with the name Most lasting and most honour'd there was I Abundantly renown'd," the shade reply'd, "Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweet My vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, Rome To herself drew me, where I merited A myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow. Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang, And next of great Achilles: but i' th' way Fell with the second burthen. Of my flame Those sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv'd From the bright fountain of celestial fire That feeds unnumber'd lamps, the song I mean Which sounds Aeneas' wand'rings: that the breast I hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veins Drank inspiration: whose authority Was ever sacred with me. To have liv'd Coeval with the Mantuan, I would bide The revolution of another sun Beyond my stated years in banishment." The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn'd to me, And holding silence: by his countenance Enjoin'd me silence but the power which wills, Bears not supreme control: laughter and tears Follow so closely on the passion prompts them, They wait not for the motions of the will In natures most sincere. I did but smile, As one who winks; and thereupon the shade Broke off, and peer'd into mine eyes, where best Our looks interpret. "So to good event Mayst thou conduct such great emprize," he cried, "Say, why across thy visage beam'd, but now, The lightning of a smile!" On either part Now am I straiten'd; one conjures me speak, Th' other to silence binds me: whence a sigh I utter, and the sigh is heard. "Speak on;" The teacher cried; "and do not fear to speak, But tell him what so earnestly he asks." Whereon I thus: "Perchance, O ancient spirit! Thou marvel'st at my smiling. There is room For yet more wonder. He who guides my ken On high, he is that Mantuan, led by whom Thou didst presume of men and gods to sing. If other cause thou deem'dst for which I smil'd, Leave it as not the true one; and believe Those words, thou spak'st of him, indeed the cause." Now down he bent t' embrace my teacher's feet; But he forbade him: "Brother! do it not: Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade." He rising answer'd thus: "Now hast thou prov'd The force and ardour of the love I bear thee, When I forget we are but things of air, And as a substance treat an empty shade." CANTO XXII Now we had left the angel, who had turn'd To the sixth circle our ascending step, One gash from off my forehead raz'd: while they, Whose wishes tend to justice, shouted forth: "Blessed!" and ended with, "I thirst:" and I, More nimble than along the other straits, So journey'd, that, without the sense of toil, I follow'd upward the swift-footed shades; When Virgil thus began: "Let its pure flame From virtue flow, and love can never fail To warm another's bosom' so the light Shine manifestly forth. Hence from that hour, When 'mongst us in the purlieus of the deep, Came down the spirit of Aquinum's hard, Who told of thine affection, my good will Hath been for thee of quality as strong As ever link'd itself to one not seen. Therefore these stairs will now seem short to me. But tell me: and if too secure I loose The rein with a friend's license, as a friend Forgive me, and speak now as with a friend: How chanc'd it covetous desire could find Place in that bosom, 'midst such ample store Of wisdom, as thy zeal had treasur'd there?" First somewhat mov'd to laughter by his words, Statius replied: "Each syllable of thine Is a dear pledge of love. Things oft appear That minister false matters to our doubts, When their true causes are remov'd from sight. Thy question doth assure me, thou believ'st I was on earth a covetous man, perhaps Because thou found'st me in that circle plac'd. Know then I was too wide of avarice: And e'en for that excess, thousands of moons Have wax'd and wan'd upon my sufferings. And were it not that I with heedful care Noted where thou exclaim'st as if in ire With human nature, 'Why, thou cursed thirst Of gold! dost not with juster measure guide The appetite of mortals?' I had met The fierce encounter of the voluble rock. Then was I ware that with too ample wing The hands may haste to lavishment, and turn'd, As from my other evil, so from this In penitence. How many from their grave Shall with shorn locks arise, who living, aye And at life's last extreme, of this offence, Through ignorance, did not repent. And know, The fault which lies direct from any sin In level opposition, here With that Wastes its green rankness on one common heap. Therefore if I have been with those, who wail Their avarice, to cleanse me, through reverse Of their transgression, such hath been my lot." To whom the sovran of the pastoral song: "While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag'd By the twin sorrow of Jocasta's womb, From thy discourse with Clio there, it seems As faith had not been shine: without the which Good deeds suffice not. And if so, what sun Rose on thee, or what candle pierc'd the dark That thou didst after see to hoist the sail, And follow, where the fisherman had led?" He answering thus: "By thee conducted first, I enter'd the Parnassian grots, and quaff'd Of the clear spring; illumin'd first by thee Open'd mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one, Who, journeying through the darkness, hears a light Behind, that profits not himself, but makes His followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, 'Lo! A renovated world! Justice return'd! Times of primeval innocence restor'd! And a new race descended from above!' Poet and Christian both to thee I owed. That thou mayst mark more clearly what I trace, My hand shall stretch forth to inform the lines With livelier colouring. Soon o'er all the world, By messengers from heav'n, the true belief Teem'd now prolific, and that word of thine Accordant, to the new instructors chim'd. Induc'd by which agreement, I was wont Resort to them; and soon their sanctity So won upon me, that, Domitian's rage Pursuing them, I mix'd my tears with theirs, And, while on earth I stay'd, still succour'd them; And their most righteous customs made me scorn All sects besides. Before I led the Greeks In tuneful fiction, to the streams of Thebes, I was baptiz'd; but secretly, through fear, Remain'd a Christian, and conform'd long time To Pagan rites. Five centuries and more, T for that lukewarmness was fain to pace Round the fourth circle. Thou then, who hast rais'd The covering, which did hide such blessing from me, Whilst much of this ascent is yet to climb, Say, if thou know, where our old Terence bides, Caecilius, Plautus, Varro: if condemn'd They dwell, and in what province of the deep." "These," said my guide, "with Persius and myself, And others many more, are with that Greek, Of mortals, the most cherish'd by the Nine, In the first ward of darkness. There ofttimes We of that mount hold converse, on whose top For aye our nurses live. We have the bard Of Pella, and the Teian, Agatho, Simonides, and many a Grecian else Ingarlanded with laurel. Of thy train Antigone is there, Deiphile, Argia, and as sorrowful as erst Ismene, and who show'd Langia's wave: Deidamia with her sisters there, And blind Tiresias' daughter, and the bride Sea-born of Peleus." Either poet now Was silent, and no longer by th' ascent Or the steep walls obstructed, round them cast Inquiring eyes. Four handmaids of the day Had finish'd now their office, and the fifth Was at the chariot-beam, directing still Its balmy point aloof, when thus my guide: "Methinks, it well behooves us to the brink Bend the right shoulder' circuiting the mount, As we have ever us'd." So custom there Was usher to the road, the which we chose Less doubtful, as that worthy shade complied. They on before me went; I sole pursued, List'ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey'd Mysterious lessons of sweet poesy. But soon they ceas'd; for midway of the road A tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung, And pleasant to the smell: and as a fir Upward from bough to bough less ample spreads, So downward this less ample spread, that none. Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side, That clos'd our path, a liquid crystal fell From the steep rock, and through the sprays above Stream'd showering. With associate step the bards Drew near the plant; and from amidst the leaves A voice was heard: "Ye shall be chary of me;" And after added: "Mary took more thought For joy and honour of the nuptial feast, Than for herself who answers now for you. The women of old Rome were satisfied With water for their beverage. Daniel fed On pulse, and wisdom gain'd. The primal age Was beautiful as gold; and hunger then Made acorns tasteful, thirst each rivulet Run nectar. Honey and locusts were the food, Whereon the Baptist in the wilderness Fed, and that eminence of glory reach'd And greatness, which the' Evangelist records." CANTO XXIII On the green leaf mine eyes were fix'd, like his Who throws away his days in idle chase Of the diminutive, when thus I heard The more than father warn me: "Son! our time Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away." Thereat my face and steps at once I turn'd Toward the sages, by whose converse cheer'd I journey'd on, and felt no toil: and lo! A sound of weeping and a song: "My lips, O Lord!" and these so mingled, it gave birth To pleasure and to pain. "O Sire, belov'd! Say what is this I hear?" Thus I inquir'd. "Spirits," said he, "who as they go, perchance, Their debt of duty pay." As on their road The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, But stay not; thus, approaching from behind With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass'd, A crowd of spirits, silent and devout. The eyes of each were dark and hollow: pale Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones Stood staring thro' the skin. I do not think Thus dry and meagre Erisicthon show'd, When pinc'ed by sharp-set famine to the quick. "Lo!" to myself I mus'd, "the race, who lost Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak Prey'd on her child." The sockets seem'd as rings, From which the gems were drops. Who reads the name Of man upon his forehead, there the M Had trac'd most plainly. Who would deem, that scent Of water and an apple, could have prov'd Powerful to generate such pining want, Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood Wond'ring what thus could waste them (for the cause Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind Appear'd not) lo! a spirit turn'd his eyes In their deep-sunken cell, and fasten'd then On me, then cried with vehemence aloud: "What grace is this vouchsaf'd me?" By his looks I ne'er had recogniz'd him: but the voice Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal'd. Remembrance of his alter'd lineaments Was kindled from that spark; and I agniz'd The visage of Forese. "Ah! respect This wan and leprous wither'd skin," thus he Suppliant implor'd, "this macerated flesh. Speak to me truly of thyself. And who Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there? Be it not said thou Scorn'st to talk with me." "That face of thine," I answer'd him, "which dead I once bewail'd, disposes me not less For weeping, when I see It thus transform'd. Say then, by Heav'n, what blasts ye thus? The whilst I wonder, ask not Speech from me: unapt Is he to speak, whom other will employs." He thus: "The water and tee plant we pass'd, Virtue possesses, by th' eternal will Infus'd, the which so pines me. Every spirit, Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg'd Too grossly, here in hunger and in thirst Is purified. The odour, which the fruit, And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe, Inflames us with desire to feed and drink. Nor once alone encompassing our route We come to add fresh fuel to the pain: Pain, said Iolace rather: for that will To the tree leads us, by which Christ was led To call Elias, joyful when he paid Our ransom from his vein." I answering thus: "Forese! from that day, in which the world For better life thou changedst, not five years Have circled. If the power of sinning more Were first concluded in thee, ere thou knew'st That kindly grief, which re-espouses us To God, how hither art thou come so soon? I thought to find thee lower, there, where time Is recompense for time." He straight replied: "To drink up the sweet wormwood of affliction I have been brought thus early by the tears Stream'd down my Nella's cheeks. Her prayers devout, Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oft Expectance lingers, and have set me free From th' other circles. In the sight of God So much the dearer is my widow priz'd, She whom I lov'd so fondly, as she ranks More singly eminent for virtuous deeds. The tract most barb'rous of Sardinia's isle, Hath dames more chaste and modester by far Than that wherein I left her. O sweet brother! What wouldst thou have me say? A time to come Stands full within my view, to which this hour Shall not be counted of an ancient date, When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn'd Th' unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bare Unkerchief'd bosoms to the common gaze. What savage women hath the world e'er seen, What Saracens, for whom there needed scourge Of spiritual or other discipline, To force them walk with cov'ring on their limbs! But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav'n Wafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak, Their mouths were op'd for howling: they shall taste Of Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here) Or ere the cheek of him be cloth'd with down Who is now rock'd with lullaby asleep. Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more, Thou seest how not I alone but all Gaze, where thou veil'st the intercepted sun." Whence I replied: "If thou recall to mind What we were once together, even yet Remembrance of those days may grieve thee sore. That I forsook that life, was due to him Who there precedes me, some few evenings past, When she was round, who shines with sister lamp To his, that glisters yonder," and I show'd The sun. "Tis he, who through profoundest night Of he true dead has brought me, with this flesh As true, that follows. From that gloom the aid Of his sure comfort drew me on to climb, And climbing wind along this mountain-steep, Which rectifies in you whate'er the world Made crooked and deprav'd I have his word, That he will bear me company as far As till I come where Beatrice dwells: But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit, Who thus hath promis'd," and I pointed to him; "The other is that shade, for whom so late Your realm, as he arose, exulting shook Through every pendent cliff and rocky bound." CANTO XXIV Our journey was not slacken'd by our talk, Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake, And urg'd our travel stoutly, like a ship When the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms, That seem'd things dead and dead again, drew in At their deep-delved orbs rare wonder of me, Perceiving I had life; and I my words Continued, and thus spake; "He journeys up Perhaps more tardily then else he would, For others' sake. But tell me, if thou know'st, Where is Piccarda? Tell me, if I see Any of mark, among this multitude, Who eye me thus."--"My sister (she for whom, 'Twixt beautiful and good I cannot say Which name was fitter ) wears e'en now her crown, And triumphs in Olympus." Saying this, He added: "Since spare diet hath so worn Our semblance out, 't is lawful here to name Each one. This," and his finger then he rais'd, "Is Buonaggiuna,--Buonaggiuna, he Of Lucca: and that face beyond him, pierc'd Unto a leaner fineness than the rest, Had keeping of the church: he was of Tours, And purges by wan abstinence away Bolsena's eels and cups of muscadel." He show'd me many others, one by one, And all, as they were nam'd, seem'd well content; For no dark gesture I discern'd in any. I saw through hunger Ubaldino grind His teeth on emptiness; and Boniface, That wav'd the crozier o'er a num'rous flock. I saw the Marquis, who tad time erewhile To swill at Forli with less drought, yet so Was one ne'er sated. I howe'er, like him, That gazing 'midst a crowd, singles out one, So singled him of Lucca; for methought Was none amongst them took such note of me. Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca: The sound was indistinct, and murmur'd there, Where justice, that so strips them, fix'd her sting. "Spirit!" said I, "it seems as thou wouldst fain Speak with me. Let me hear thee. Mutual wish To converse prompts, which let us both indulge." He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born, Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make My city please thee, blame it as they may. Go then with this forewarning. If aught false My whisper too implied, th' event shall tell But say, if of a truth I see the man Of that new lay th' inventor, which begins With 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." To whom I thus: "Count of me but as one Who am the scribe of love; that, when he breathes, Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write." "Brother!" said he, "the hind'rance which once held The notary with Guittone and myself, Short of that new and sweeter style I hear, Is now disclos'd. I see how ye your plumes Stretch, as th' inditer guides them; which, no question, Ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond, Sees not the distance parts one style from other." And, as contented, here he held his peace. Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile, In squared regiment direct their course, Then stretch themselves in file for speedier flight; Thus all the tribe of spirits, as they turn'd Their visage, faster deaf, nimble alike Through leanness and desire. And as a man, Tir'd With the motion of a trotting steed, Slacks pace, and stays behind his company, Till his o'erbreathed lungs keep temperate time; E'en so Forese let that holy crew Proceed, behind them lingering at my side, And saying: "When shall I again behold thee?" "How long my life may last," said I, "I know not; This know, how soon soever I return, My wishes will before me have arriv'd. Sithence the place, where I am set to live, Is, day by day, more scoop'd of all its good, And dismal ruin seems to threaten it." "Go now," he cried: "lo! he, whose guilt is most, Passes before my vision, dragg'd at heels Of an infuriate beast. Toward the vale, Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds, Each step increasing swiftness on the last; Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth him A corse most vilely shatter'd. No long space Those wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyes Look'd up to heav'n) "ere thou shalt plainly see That which my words may not more plainly tell. I quit thee: time is precious here: I lose Too much, thus measuring my pace with shine." As from a troop of well-rank'd chivalry One knight, more enterprising than the rest, Pricks forth at gallop, eager to display His prowess in the first encounter prov'd So parted he from us with lengthen'd strides, And left me on the way with those twain spirits, Who were such mighty marshals of the world. When he beyond us had so fled mine eyes No nearer reach'd him, than my thought his words, The branches of another fruit, thick hung, And blooming fresh, appear'd. E'en as our steps Turn'd thither, not far off it rose to view. Beneath it were a multitude, that rais'd Their hands, and shouted forth I know not What Unto the boughs; like greedy and fond brats, That beg, and answer none obtain from him, Of whom they beg; but more to draw them on, He at arm's length the object of their wish Above them holds aloft, and hides it not. At length, as undeceiv'd they went their way: And we approach the tree, who vows and tears Sue to in vain, the mighty tree. "Pass on, And come not near. Stands higher up the wood, Whereof Eve tasted, and from it was ta'en 'this plant." Such sounds from midst the thickets came. Whence I, with either bard, close to the side That rose, pass'd forth beyond. "Remember," next We heard, "those noblest creatures of the clouds, How they their twofold bosoms overgorg'd Oppos'd in fight to Theseus: call to mind The Hebrews, how effeminate they stoop'd To ease their thirst; whence Gideon's ranks were thinn'd, As he to Midian march'd adown the hills." Thus near one border coasting, still we heard The sins of gluttony, with woe erewhile Reguerdon'd. Then along the lonely path, Once more at large, full thousand paces on We travel'd, each contemplative and mute. "Why pensive journey thus ye three alone?" Thus suddenly a voice exclaim'd: whereat I shook, as doth a scar'd and paltry beast; Then rais'd my head to look from whence it came. Was ne'er, in furnace, glass, or metal seen So bright and glowing red, as was the shape I now beheld. "If ye desire to mount," He cried, "here must ye turn. This way he goes, Who goes in quest of peace." His countenance Had dazzled me; and to my guides I fac'd Backward, like one who walks, as sound directs. As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs up On freshen'd wing the air of May, and breathes Of fragrance, all impregn'd with herb and flowers, E'en such a wind I felt upon my front Blow gently, and the moving of a wing Perceiv'd, that moving shed ambrosial smell; And then a voice: "Blessed are they, whom grace Doth so illume, that appetite in them Exhaleth no inordinate desire, Still hung'ring as the rule of temperance wills." CANTO XXV It was an hour, when he who climbs, had need To walk uncrippled: for the sun had now To Taurus the meridian circle left, And to the Scorpion left the night. As one That makes no pause, but presses on his road, Whate'er betide him, if some urgent need Impel: so enter'd we upon our way, One before other; for, but singly, none That steep and narrow scale admits to climb. E'en as the young stork lifteth up his wing Through wish to fly, yet ventures not to quit The nest, and drops it; so in me desire Of questioning my guide arose, and fell, Arriving even to the act, that marks A man prepar'd for speech. Him all our haste Restrain'd not, but thus spake the sire belov'd: Fear not to speed the shaft, that on thy lip Stands trembling for its flight. Encourag'd thus I straight began: "How there can leanness come, Where is no want of nourishment to feed?" "If thou," he answer'd, "hadst remember'd thee, How Meleager with the wasting brand Wasted alike, by equal fires consum'd, This would not trouble thee: and hadst thou thought, How in the mirror your reflected form With mimic motion vibrates, what now seems Hard, had appear'd no harder than the pulp Of summer fruit mature. But that thy will In certainty may find its full repose, Lo Statius here! on him I call, and pray That he would now be healer of thy wound." "If in thy presence I unfold to him The secrets of heaven's vengeance, let me plead Thine own injunction, to exculpate me." So Statius answer'd, and forthwith began: "Attend my words, O son, and in thy mind Receive them: so shall they be light to clear The doubt thou offer'st. Blood, concocted well, Which by the thirsty veins is ne'er imbib'd, And rests as food superfluous, to be ta'en From the replenish'd table, in the heart Derives effectual virtue, that informs The several human limbs, as being that, Which passes through the veins itself to make them. Yet more concocted it descends, where shame Forbids to mention: and from thence distils In natural vessel on another's blood. Then each unite together, one dispos'd T' endure, to act the other, through meet frame Of its recipient mould: that being reach'd, It 'gins to work, coagulating first; Then vivifies what its own substance caus'd To bear. With animation now indued, The active virtue (differing from a plant No further, than that this is on the way And at its limit that) continues yet To operate, that now it moves, and feels, As sea sponge clinging to the rock: and there Assumes th' organic powers its seed convey'd. 'This is the period, son! at which the virtue, That from the generating heart proceeds, Is pliant and expansive; for each limb Is in the heart by forgeful nature plann'd. How babe of animal becomes, remains For thy consid'ring. At this point, more wise, Than thou hast err'd, making the soul disjoin'd From passive intellect, because he saw No organ for the latter's use assign'd. "Open thy bosom to the truth that comes. Know soon as in the embryo, to the brain, Articulation is complete, then turns The primal Mover with a smile of joy On such great work of nature, and imbreathes New spirit replete with virtue, that what here Active it finds, to its own substance draws, And forms an individual soul, that lives, And feels, and bends reflective on itself. And that thou less mayst marvel at the word, Mark the sun's heat, how that to wine doth change, Mix'd with the moisture filter'd through the vine. "When Lachesis hath spun the thread, the soul Takes with her both the human and divine, Memory, intelligence, and will, in act Far keener than before, the other powers Inactive all and mute. No pause allow'd, In wond'rous sort self-moving, to one strand Of those, where the departed roam, she falls, Here learns her destin'd path. Soon as the place Receives her, round the plastic virtue beams, Distinct as in the living limbs before: And as the air, when saturate with showers, The casual beam refracting, decks itself With many a hue; so here the ambient air Weareth that form, which influence of the soul Imprints on it; and like the flame, that where The fire moves, thither follows, so henceforth The new form on the spirit follows still: Hence hath it semblance, and is shadow call'd, With each sense even to the sight endued: Hence speech is ours, hence laughter, tears, and sighs Which thou mayst oft have witness'd on the mount Th' obedient shadow fails not to present Whatever varying passion moves within us. And this the cause of what thou marvel'st at." Now the last flexure of our way we reach'd, And to the right hand turning, other care Awaits us. Here the rocky precipice Hurls forth redundant flames, and from the rim A blast upblown, with forcible rebuff Driveth them back, sequester'd from its bound. Behoov'd us, one by one, along the side, That border'd on the void, to pass; and I Fear'd on one hand the fire, on th' other fear'd Headlong to fall: when thus th' instructor warn'd: "Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes. A little swerving and the way is lost." Then from the bosom of the burning mass, "O God of mercy!" heard I sung; and felt No less desire to turn. And when I saw Spirits along the flame proceeding, I Between their footsteps and mine own was fain To share by turns my view. At the hymn's close They shouted loud, "I do not know a man;" Then in low voice again took up the strain, Which once more ended, "To the wood," they cried, "Ran Dian, and drave forth Callisto, stung With Cytherea's poison:" then return'd Unto their song; then marry a pair extoll'd, Who liv'd in virtue chastely, and the bands Of wedded love. Nor from that task, I ween, Surcease they; whilesoe'er the scorching fire Enclasps them. Of such skill appliance needs To medicine the wound, that healeth last. CANTO XXVI While singly thus along the rim we walk'd, Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well. Avail it that I caution thee." The sun Now all the western clime irradiate chang'd From azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd, My passing shadow made the umber'd flame Burn ruddier. At so strange a sight I mark'd That many a spirit marvel'd on his way. This bred occasion first to speak of me, "He seems," said they, "no insubstantial frame:" Then to obtain what certainty they might, Stretch'd towards me, careful not to overpass The burning pale. "O thou, who followest The others, haply not more slow than they, But mov'd by rev'rence, answer me, who burn In thirst and fire: nor I alone, but these All for thine answer do more thirst, than doth Indian or Aethiop for the cooling stream. Tell us, how is it that thou mak'st thyself A wall against the sun, as thou not yet Into th' inextricable toils of death Hadst enter'd?" Thus spake one, and I had straight Declar'd me, if attention had not turn'd To new appearance. Meeting these, there came, Midway the burning path, a crowd, on whom Earnestly gazing, from each part I view The shadows all press forward, sev'rally Each snatch a hasty kiss, and then away. E'en so the emmets, 'mid their dusky troops, Peer closely one at other, to spy out Their mutual road perchance, and how they thrive. That friendly greeting parted, ere dispatch Of the first onward step, from either tribe Loud clamour rises: those, who newly come, Shout "Sodom and Gomorrah!" these, "The cow Pasiphae enter'd, that the beast she woo'd Might rush unto her luxury." Then as cranes, That part towards the Riphaean mountains fly, Part towards the Lybic sands, these to avoid The ice, and those the sun; so hasteth off One crowd, advances th' other; and resume Their first song weeping, and their several shout. Again drew near my side the very same, Who had erewhile besought me, and their looks Mark'd eagerness to listen. I, who twice Their will had noted, spake: "O spirits secure, Whene'er the time may be, of peaceful end! My limbs, nor crude, nor in mature old age, Have I left yonder: here they bear me, fed With blood, and sinew-strung. That I no more May live in blindness, hence I tend aloft. There is a dame on high, who wind for us This grace, by which my mortal through your realm I bear. But may your utmost wish soon meet Such full fruition, that the orb of heaven, Fullest of love, and of most ample space, Receive you, as ye tell (upon my page Henceforth to stand recorded) who ye are, And what this multitude, that at your backs Have past behind us." As one, mountain-bred, Rugged and clownish, if some city's walls He chance to enter, round him stares agape, Confounded and struck dumb; e'en such appear'd Each spirit. But when rid of that amaze, (Not long the inmate of a noble heart) He, who before had question'd, thus resum'd: "O blessed, who, for death preparing, tak'st Experience of our limits, in thy bark! Their crime, who not with us proceed, was that, For which, as he did triumph, Caesar heard The snout of 'queen,' to taunt him. Hence their cry Of 'Sodom,' as they parted, to rebuke Themselves, and aid the burning by their shame. Our sinning was Hermaphrodite: but we, Because the law of human kind we broke, Following like beasts our vile concupiscence, Hence parting from them, to our own disgrace Record the name of her, by whom the beast In bestial tire was acted. Now our deeds Thou know'st, and how we sinn'd. If thou by name Wouldst haply know us, time permits not now To tell so much, nor can I. Of myself Learn what thou wishest. Guinicelli I, Who having truly sorrow'd ere my last, Already cleanse me." With such pious joy, As the two sons upon their mother gaz'd From sad Lycurgus rescu'd, such my joy (Save that I more represt it) when I heard From his own lips the name of him pronounc'd, Who was a father to me, and to those My betters, who have ever us'd the sweet And pleasant rhymes of love. So nought I heard Nor spake, but long time thoughtfully I went, Gazing on him; and, only for the fire, Approach'd not nearer. When my eyes were fed By looking on him, with such solemn pledge, As forces credence, I devoted me Unto his service wholly. In reply He thus bespake me: "What from thee I hear Is grav'd so deeply on my mind, the waves Of Lethe shall not wash it off, nor make A whit less lively. But as now thy oath Has seal'd the truth, declare what cause impels That love, which both thy looks and speech bewray." "Those dulcet lays," I answer'd, "which, as long As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, Shall make us love the very ink that trac'd them." "Brother!" he cried, and pointed at a shade Before him, "there is one, whose mother speech Doth owe to him a fairer ornament. He in love ditties and the tales of prose Without a rival stands, and lets the fools Talk on, who think the songster of Limoges O'ertops him. Rumour and the popular voice They look to more than truth, and so confirm Opinion, ere by art or reason taught. Thus many of the elder time cried up Guittone, giving him the prize, till truth By strength of numbers vanquish'd. If thou own So ample privilege, as to have gain'd Free entrance to the cloister, whereof Christ Is Abbot of the college, say to him One paternoster for me, far as needs For dwellers in this world, where power to sin No longer tempts us." Haply to make way For one, that follow'd next, when that was said, He vanish'd through the fire, as through the wave A fish, that glances diving to the deep. I, to the spirit he had shown me, drew A little onward, and besought his name, For which my heart, I said, kept gracious room. He frankly thus began: "Thy courtesy So wins on me, I have nor power nor will To hide me. I am Arnault; and with songs, Sorely lamenting for my folly past, Thorough this ford of fire I wade, and see The day, I hope for, smiling in my view. I pray ye by the worth that guides ye up Unto the summit of the scale, in time Remember ye my suff'rings." With such words He disappear'd in the refining flame. CANTO XXVII Now was the sun so station'd, as when first His early radiance quivers on the heights, Where stream'd his Maker's blood, while Libra hangs Above Hesperian Ebro, and new fires Meridian flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the' angel of God Appear'd before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink, And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpass'd our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he Sang: then near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as one Laid in the grave. My hands together clasp'd, And upward stretching, on the fire I look'd, And busy fancy conjur'd up the forms Erewhile beheld alive consum'd in flames. Th' escorting spirits turn'd with gentle looks Toward me, and the Mantuan spake: "My son, Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death. Remember thee, remember thee, if I Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee: now I come More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now? Of this be sure: though in its womb that flame A thousand years contain'd thee, from thy head No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth, Approach, and with thy hands thy vesture's hem Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief. Lay now all fear, O lay all fear aside. Turn hither, and come onward undismay'd." I still, though conscience urg'd' no step advanc'd. When still he saw me fix'd and obstinate, Somewhat disturb'd he cried: "Mark now, my son, From Beatrice thou art by this wall Divided." As at Thisbe's name the eye Of Pyramus was open'd (when life ebb'd Fast from his veins), and took one parting glance, While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turn'd To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard The name, that springs forever in my breast. He shook his forehead; and, "How long," he said, "Linger we now?" then smil'd, as one would smile Upon a child, that eyes the fruit and yields. Into the fire before me then he walk'd; And Statius, who erewhile no little space Had parted us, he pray'd to come behind. I would have cast me into molten glass To cool me, when I enter'd; so intense Rag'd the conflagrant mass. The sire belov'd, To comfort me, as he proceeded, still Of Beatrice talk'd. "Her eyes," saith he, "E'en now I seem to view." From the other side A voice, that sang, did guide us, and the voice Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard, "Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds, That hail'd us from within a light, which shone So radiant, I could not endure the view. "The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes. Delay not: ere the western sky is hung With blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our way Upright within the rock arose, and fac'd Such part of heav'n, that from before my steps The beams were shrouded of the sinking sun. Nor many stairs were overpass, when now By fading of the shadow we perceiv'd The sun behind us couch'd: and ere one face Of darkness o'er its measureless expanse Involv'd th' horizon, and the night her lot Held individual, each of us had made A stair his pallet: not that will, but power, Had fail'd us, by the nature of that mount Forbidden further travel. As the goats, That late have skipp'd and wanton'd rapidly Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en Their supper on the herb, now silent lie And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown, While noonday rages; and the goatherd leans Upon his staff, and leaning watches them: And as the swain, that lodges out all night In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey Disperse them; even so all three abode, I as a goat and as the shepherds they, Close pent on either side by shelving rock. A little glimpse of sky was seen above; Yet by that little I beheld the stars In magnitude and rustle shining forth With more than wonted glory. As I lay, Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing, Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oft Tidings of future hap. About the hour, As I believe, when Venus from the east First lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orb Seems always glowing with the fire of love, A lady young and beautiful, I dream'd, Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came, Methought I saw her ever and anon Bending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang: "Know ye, whoever of my name would ask, That I am Leah: for my brow to weave A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply. To please me at the crystal mirror, here I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she Before her glass abides the livelong day, Her radiant eyes beholding, charm'd no less, Than I with this delightful task. Her joy In contemplation, as in labour mine." And now as glimm'ring dawn appear'd, that breaks More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he Sojourns less distant on his homeward way, Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled My slumber; whence I rose and saw my guide Already risen. "That delicious fruit, Which through so many a branch the zealous care Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day Appease thy hunger." Such the words I heard From Virgil's lip; and never greeting heard So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight Desire so grew upon desire to mount, Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings Increasing for my flight. When we had run O'er all the ladder to its topmost round, As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'd His eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son, The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen, And art arriv'd, where of itself my ken No further reaches. I with skill and art Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, O'ercome the straighter. Lo! the sun, that darts His beam upon thy forehead! lo! the herb, The arboreta and flowers, which of itself This land pours forth profuse! Will those bright eyes With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste To succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down, Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more Sanction of warning voice or sign from me, Free of thy own arbitrement to choose, Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense Were henceforth error. I invest thee then With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself." CANTO XXVIII Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade With lively greenness the new-springing day Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank, Along the champain leisurely my way Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides Delicious odour breath'd. A pleasant air, That intermitted never, never veer'd, Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind Of softest influence: at which the sprays, Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part Where first the holy mountain casts his shade, Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still Upon their top the feather'd quiristers Applied their wonted art, and with full joy Welcom'd those hours of prime, and warbled shrill Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays inept tenor; even as from branch to branch, Along the piney forests on the shore Of Chiassi, rolls the gath'ring melody, When Eolus hath from his cavern loos'd The dripping south. Already had my steps, Though slow, so far into that ancient wood Transported me, I could not ken the place Where I had enter'd, when behold! my path Was bounded by a rill, which to the left With little rippling waters bent the grass, That issued from its brink. On earth no wave How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have Some mixture in itself, compar'd with this, Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll'd, Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er Admits or sun or moon light there to shine. My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyes Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey The tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue, In prodigal variety: and there, As object, rising suddenly to view, That from our bosom every thought beside With the rare marvel chases, I beheld A lady all alone, who, singing, went, And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful! Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart, Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beam Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd: "Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song. Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks, I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd Proserpine, in that season, when her child The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring." As when a lady, turning in the dance, Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce One step before the other to the ground; Over the yellow and vermilion flowers Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like, Valing her sober eyes, and came so near, That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound. Arriving where the limped waters now Lav'd the green sward, her eyes she deign'd to raise, That shot such splendour on me, as I ween Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart. Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil'd through her graceful fingers shifted still The intermingling dyes, which without seed That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er, (A curb for ever to the pride of man) Was by Leander not more hateful held For floating, with inhospitable wave 'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me That flood, because it gave no passage thence. "Strangers ye come, and haply in this place, That cradled human nature in its birth, Wond'ring, ye not without suspicion view My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody, 'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,' will give ye light, Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me, Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine." She spake; and I replied: "I know not how To reconcile this wave and rustling sound Of forest leaves, with what I late have heard Of opposite report." She answering thus: "I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds, Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloud That hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joy Is only in himself, created man For happiness, and gave this goodly place, His pledge and earnest of eternal peace. Favour'd thus highly, through his own defect He fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell, And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang'd Laughter unblam'd and ever-new delight. That vapours none, exhal'd from earth beneath, Or from the waters (which, wherever heat Attracts them, follow), might ascend thus far To vex man's peaceful state, this mountain rose So high toward the heav'n, nor fears the rage Of elements contending, from that part Exempted, where the gate his limit bars. Because the circumambient air throughout With its first impulse circles still, unless Aught interpose to cheek or thwart its course; Upon the summit, which on every side To visitation of th' impassive air Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes Beneath its sway th' umbrageous wood resound: And in the shaken plant such power resides, That it impregnates with its efficacy The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume That wafted flies abroad; and th' other land Receiving (as 't is worthy in itself, Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive, And from its womb produces many a tree Of various virtue. This when thou hast heard, The marvel ceases, if in yonder earth Some plant without apparent seed be found To fix its fibrous stem. And further learn, That with prolific foison of all seeds, This holy plain is fill'd, and in itself Bears fruit that ne'er was pluck'd on other soil. "The water, thou behold'st, springs not from vein, As stream, that intermittently repairs And spends his pulse of life, but issues forth From fountain, solid, undecaying, sure; And by the will omnific, full supply Feeds whatsoe'er On either side it pours; On this devolv'd with power to take away Remembrance of offence, on that to bring Remembrance back of every good deed done. From whence its name of Lethe on this part; On th' other Eunoe: both of which must first Be tasted ere it work; the last exceeding All flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may now Be well contented, if I here break off, No more revealing: yet a corollary I freely give beside: nor deem my words Less grateful to thee, if they somewhat pass The stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yore The golden age recorded and its bliss, On the Parnassian mountain, of this place Perhaps had dream'd. Here was man guiltless, here Perpetual spring and every fruit, and this The far-fam'd nectar." Turning to the bards, When she had ceas'd, I noted in their looks A smile at her conclusion; then my face Again directed to the lovely dame. CANTO XXIX Singing, as if enamour'd, she resum'd And clos'd the song, with "Blessed they whose sins Are cover'd." Like the wood-nymphs then, that tripp'd Singly across the sylvan shadows, one Eager to view and one to 'scape the sun, So mov'd she on, against the current, up The verdant rivage. I, her mincing step Observing, with as tardy step pursued. Between us not an hundred paces trod, The bank, on each side bending equally, Gave me to face the orient. Nor our way Far onward brought us, when to me at once She turn'd, and cried: "My brother! look and hearken." And lo! a sudden lustre ran across Through the great forest on all parts, so bright I doubted whether lightning were abroad; But that expiring ever in the spleen, That doth unfold it, and this during still And waxing still in splendor, made me question What it might be: and a sweet melody Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide With warrantable zeal the hardihood Of our first parent, for that there were earth Stood in obedience to the heav'ns, she only, Woman, the creature of an hour, endur'd not Restraint of any veil: which had she borne Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these, Had from the first, and long time since, been mine. While through that wilderness of primy sweets That never fade, suspense I walk'd, and yet Expectant of beatitude more high, Before us, like a blazing fire, the air Under the green boughs glow'd; and, for a song, Distinct the sound of melody was heard. O ye thrice holy virgins! for your sakes If e'er I suffer'd hunger, cold and watching, Occasion calls on me to crave your bounty. Now through my breast let Helicon his stream Pour copious; and Urania with her choir Arise to aid me: while the verse unfolds Things that do almost mock the grasp of thought. Onward a space, what seem'd seven trees of gold, The intervening distance to mine eye Falsely presented; but when I was come So near them, that no lineament was lost Of those, with which a doubtful object, seen Remotely, plays on the misdeeming sense, Then did the faculty, that ministers Discourse to reason, these for tapers of gold Distinguish, and it th' singing trace the sound "Hosanna." Above, their beauteous garniture Flam'd with more ample lustre, than the moon Through cloudless sky at midnight in her full. I turn'd me full of wonder to my guide; And he did answer with a countenance Charg'd with no less amazement: whence my view Reverted to those lofty things, which came So slowly moving towards us, that the bride Would have outstript them on her bridal day. The lady called aloud: "Why thus yet burns Affection in thee for these living, lights, And dost not look on that which follows them?" I straightway mark'd a tribe behind them walk, As if attendant on their leaders, cloth'd With raiment of such whiteness, as on earth Was never. On my left, the wat'ry gleam Borrow'd, and gave me back, when there I look'd. As in a mirror, my left side portray'd. When I had chosen on the river's edge Such station, that the distance of the stream Alone did separate me; there I stay'd My steps for clearer prospect, and beheld The flames go onward, leaving, as they went, The air behind them painted as with trail Of liveliest pencils! so distinct were mark'd All those sev'n listed colours, whence the sun Maketh his bow, and Cynthia her zone. These streaming gonfalons did flow beyond My vision; and ten paces, as I guess, Parted the outermost. Beneath a sky So beautiful, came foul and-twenty elders, By two and two, with flower-de-luces crown'd. All sang one song: "Blessed be thou among The daughters of Adam! and thy loveliness Blessed for ever!" After that the flowers, And the fresh herblets, on the opposite brink, Were free from that elected race; as light In heav'n doth second light, came after them Four animals, each crown'd with verdurous leaf. With six wings each was plum'd, the plumage full Of eyes, and th' eyes of Argus would be such, Were they endued with life. Reader, more rhymes Will not waste in shadowing forth their form: For other need no straitens, that in this I may not give my bounty room. But read Ezekiel; for he paints them, from the north How he beheld them come by Chebar's flood, In whirlwind, cloud and fire; and even such As thou shalt find them character'd by him, Here were they; save as to the pennons; there, From him departing, John accords with me. The space, surrounded by the four, enclos'd A car triumphal: on two wheels it came Drawn at a Gryphon's neck; and he above Stretch'd either wing uplifted, 'tween the midst And the three listed hues, on each side three; So that the wings did cleave or injure none; And out of sight they rose. The members, far As he was bird, were golden; white the rest With vermeil intervein'd. So beautiful A car in Rome ne'er grac'd Augustus pomp, Or Africanus': e'en the sun's itself Were poor to this, that chariot of the sun Erroneous, which in blazing ruin fell At Tellus' pray'r devout, by the just doom Mysterious of all-seeing Jove. Three nymphs at the right wheel, came circling in smooth dance; The one so ruddy, that her form had scarce Been known within a furnace of clear flame: The next did look, as if the flesh and bones Were emerald: snow new-fallen seem'd the third. Now seem'd the white to lead, the ruddy now; And from her song who led, the others took Their treasure, swift or slow. At th' other wheel, A band quaternion, each in purple clad, Advanc'd with festal step, as of them one The rest conducted, one, upon whose front Three eyes were seen. In rear of all this group, Two old men I beheld, dissimilar In raiment, but in port and gesture like, Solid and mainly grave; of whom the one Did show himself some favour'd counsellor Of the great Coan, him, whom nature made To serve the costliest creature of her tribe. His fellow mark'd an opposite intent, Bearing a sword, whose glitterance and keen edge, E'en as I view'd it with the flood between, Appall'd me. Next four others I beheld, Of humble seeming: and, behind them all, One single old man, sleeping, as he came, With a shrewd visage. And these seven, each Like the first troop were habited, but wore No braid of lilies on their temples wreath'd. Rather with roses and each vermeil flower, A sight, but little distant, might have sworn, That they were all on fire above their brow. Whenas the car was o'er against me, straight. Was heard a thund'ring, at whose voice it seem'd The chosen multitude were stay'd; for there, With the first ensigns, made they solemn halt. CANTO XXX Soon as the polar light, which never knows Setting nor rising, nor the shadowy veil Of other cloud than sin, fair ornament Of the first heav'n, to duty each one there Safely convoying, as that lower doth The steersman to his port, stood firmly fix'd; Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the van Between the Gryphon and its radiance came, Did turn them to the car, as to their rest: And one, as if commission'd from above, In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud: "Come, spouse, from Libanus!" and all the rest Took up the song--At the last audit so The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh, As, on the sacred litter, at the voice Authoritative of that elder, sprang A hundred ministers and messengers Of life eternal. "Blessed thou! who com'st!" And, "O," they cried, "from full hands scatter ye Unwith'ring lilies;" and, so saying, cast Flowers over head and round them on all sides. I have beheld, ere now, at break of day, The eastern clime all roseate, and the sky Oppos'd, one deep and beautiful serene, And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists Attemper'd at lids rising, that the eye Long while endur'd the sight: thus in a cloud Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose, And down, within and outside of the car, Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath'd, A virgin in my view appear'd, beneath Green mantle, rob'd in hue of living flame: And o'er my Spirit, that in former days Within her presence had abode so long, No shudd'ring terror crept. Mine eyes no more Had knowledge of her; yet there mov'd from her A hidden virtue, at whose touch awak'd, The power of ancient love was strong within me. No sooner on my vision streaming, smote The heav'nly influence, which years past, and e'en In childhood, thrill'd me, than towards Virgil I Turn'd me to leftward, panting, like a babe, That flees for refuge to his mother's breast, If aught have terrified or work'd him woe: And would have cried: "There is no dram of blood, That doth not quiver in me. The old flame Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire:" But Virgil had bereav'd us of himself, Virgil, my best-lov'd father; Virgil, he To whom I gave me up for safety: nor, All, our prime mother lost, avail'd to save My undew'd cheeks from blur of soiling tears. "Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay, Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edge Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that." As to the prow or stern, some admiral Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, When 'mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; Thus on the left side of the car I saw, (Turning me at the sound of mine own name, Which here I am compell'd to register) The virgin station'd, who before appeared Veil'd in that festive shower angelical. Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes; Though from her brow the veil descending, bound With foliage of Minerva, suffer'd not That I beheld her clearly; then with act Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall, Added, as one, who speaking keepeth back The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech: "Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am Beatrice. What! and hast thou deign'd at last Approach the mountainnewest not, O man! Thy happiness is whole?" Down fell mine eyes On the clear fount, but there, myself espying, Recoil'd, and sought the greensward: such a weight Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien Of that stern majesty, which doth surround mother's presence to her awe-struck child, She look'd; a flavour of such bitterness Was mingled in her pity. There her words Brake off, and suddenly the angels sang: "In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:" But went no farther than, "Thou Lord, hast set My feet in ample room." As snow, that lies Amidst the living rafters on the back Of Italy congeal'd when drifted high And closely pil'd by rough Sclavonian blasts, Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls, And straightway melting it distils away, Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I, Without a sigh or tear, or ever these Did sing, that with the chiming of heav'n's sphere, Still in their warbling chime: but when the strain Of dulcet symphony, express'd for me Their soft compassion, more than could the words "Virgin, why so consum'st him?" then the ice, Congeal'd about my bosom, turn'd itself To spirit and water, and with anguish forth Gush'd through the lips and eyelids from the heart. Upon the chariot's right edge still she stood, Immovable, and thus address'd her words To those bright semblances with pity touch'd: "Ye in th' eternal day your vigils keep, So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth, Conveys from you a single step in all The goings on of life: thence with more heed I shape mine answer, for his ear intended, Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow now May equal the transgression. Not alone Through operation of the mighty orbs, That mark each seed to some predestin'd aim, As with aspect or fortunate or ill The constellations meet, but through benign Largess of heav'nly graces, which rain down From such a height, as mocks our vision, this man Was in the freshness of his being, such, So gifted virtually, that in him All better habits wond'rously had thriv'd. The more of kindly strength is in the soil, So much doth evil seed and lack of culture Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness. These looks sometime upheld him; for I show'd My youthful eyes, and led him by their light In upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd The threshold of my second age, and chang'd My mortal for immortal, then he left me, And gave himself to others. When from flesh To spirit I had risen, and increase Of beauty and of virtue circled me, I was less dear to him, and valued less. His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways, Following false images of good, that make No promise perfect. Nor avail'd me aught To sue for inspirations, with the which, I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise, Did call him back; of them so little reck'd him, Such depth he fell, that all device was short Of his preserving, save that he should view The children of perdition. To this end I visited the purlieus of the dead: And one, who hath conducted him thus high, Receiv'd my supplications urg'd with weeping. It were a breaking of God's high decree, If Lethe should be past, and such food tasted Without the cost of some repentant tear." CANTO XXXI "O Thou!" her words she thus without delay Resuming, turn'd their point on me, to whom They but with lateral edge seem'd harsh before, "Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream, If this be true. A charge so grievous needs Thine own avowal." On my faculty Such strange amazement hung, the voice expir'd Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth. A little space refraining, then she spake: "What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The wave On thy remembrances of evil yet Hath done no injury." A mingled sense Of fear and of confusion, from my lips Did such a "Yea" produce, as needed help Of vision to interpret. As when breaks In act to be discharg'd, a cross-bow bent Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretch'd, The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark; Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst Beneath the heavy load, and thus my voice Was slacken'd on its way. She straight began: "When my desire invited thee to love The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings, What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain Did meet thee, that thou so should'st quit the hope Of further progress, or what bait of ease Or promise of allurement led thee on Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere should'st rather wait?" A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voice To answer, hardly to these sounds my lips Gave utterance, wailing: "Thy fair looks withdrawn, Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turn'd My steps aside." She answering spake: "Hadst thou Been silent, or denied what thou avow'st, Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more: such eye Observes it. But whene'er the sinner's cheek Breaks forth into the precious-streaming tears Of self-accusing, in our court the wheel Of justice doth run counter to the edge. Howe'er that thou may'st profit by thy shame For errors past, and that henceforth more strength May arm thee, when thou hear'st the Siren-voice, Lay thou aside the motive to this grief, And lend attentive ear, while I unfold How opposite a way my buried flesh Should have impell'd thee. Never didst thou spy In art or nature aught so passing sweet, As were the limbs, that in their beauteous frame Enclos'd me, and are scatter'd now in dust. If sweetest thing thus fail'd thee with my death, What, afterward, of mortal should thy wish Have tempted? When thou first hadst felt the dart Of perishable things, in my departing For better realms, thy wing thou should'st have prun'd To follow me, and never stoop'd again To 'bide a second blow for a slight girl, Or other gaud as transient and as vain. The new and inexperienc'd bird awaits, Twice it may be, or thrice, the fowler's aim; But in the sight of one, whose plumes are full, In vain the net is spread, the arrow wing'd." I stood, as children silent and asham'd Stand, list'ning, with their eyes upon the earth, Acknowledging their fault and self-condemn'd. And she resum'd: "If, but to hear thus pains thee, Raise thou thy beard, and lo! what sight shall do!" With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm, Rent from its fibers by a blast, that blows From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land, Than I at her behest my visage rais'd: And thus the face denoting by the beard, I mark'd the secret sting her words convey'd. No sooner lifted I mine aspect up, Than downward sunk that vision I beheld Of goodly creatures vanish; and mine eyes Yet unassur'd and wavering, bent their light On Beatrice. Towards the animal, Who joins two natures in one form, she turn'd, And, even under shadow of her veil, And parted by the verdant rill, that flow'd Between, in loveliness appear'd as much Her former self surpassing, as on earth All others she surpass'd. Remorseful goads Shot sudden through me. Each thing else, the more Its love had late beguil'd me, now the more I Was loathsome. On my heart so keenly smote The bitter consciousness, that on the ground O'erpower'd I fell: and what my state was then, She knows who was the cause. When now my strength Flow'd back, returning outward from the heart, The lady, whom alone I first had seen, I found above me. "Loose me not," she cried: "Loose not thy hold;" and lo! had dragg'd me high As to my neck into the stream, while she, Still as she drew me after, swept along, Swift as a shuttle, bounding o'er the wave. The blessed shore approaching then was heard So sweetly, "Tu asperges me," that I May not remember, much less tell the sound. The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasp'd My temples, and immerg'd me, where 't was fit The wave should drench me: and thence raising up, Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphs Presented me so lav'd, and with their arm They each did cover me. "Here are we nymphs, And in the heav'n are stars. Or ever earth Was visited of Beatrice, we Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her. We to her eyes will lead thee; but the light Of gladness that is in them, well to scan, Those yonder three, of deeper ken than ours, Thy sight shall quicken." Thus began their song; And then they led me to the Gryphon's breast, While, turn'd toward us, Beatrice stood. "Spare not thy vision. We have stationed thee Before the emeralds, whence love erewhile Hath drawn his weapons on thee." As they spake, A thousand fervent wishes riveted Mine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood Still fix'd toward the Gryphon motionless. As the sun strikes a mirror, even thus Within those orbs the twofold being, shone, For ever varying, in one figure now Reflected, now in other. Reader! muse How wond'rous in my sight it seem'd to mark A thing, albeit steadfast in itself, Yet in its imag'd semblance mutable. Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soul Fed on the viand, whereof still desire Grows with satiety, the other three With gesture, that declar'd a loftier line, Advanc'd: to their own carol on they came Dancing in festive ring angelical. "Turn, Beatrice!" was their song: "O turn Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one, Who to behold thee many a wearisome pace Hath measur'd. Gracious at our pray'r vouchsafe Unveil to him thy cheeks: that he may mark Thy second beauty, now conceal'd." O splendour! O sacred light eternal! who is he So pale with musing in Pierian shades, Or with that fount so lavishly imbued, Whose spirit should not fail him in th' essay To represent thee such as thou didst seem, When under cope of the still-chiming heaven Thou gav'st to open air thy charms reveal'd. CANTO XXXII Mine eyes with such an eager coveting, Were bent to rid them of their ten years' thirst, No other sense was waking: and e'en they Were fenc'd on either side from heed of aught; So tangled in its custom'd toils that smile Of saintly brightness drew me to itself, When forcibly toward the left my sight The sacred virgins turn'd; for from their lips I heard the warning sounds: "Too fix'd a gaze!" Awhile my vision labor'd; as when late Upon the' o'erstrained eyes the sun hath smote: But soon to lesser object, as the view Was now recover'd (lesser in respect To that excess of sensible, whence late I had perforce been sunder'd) on their right I mark'd that glorious army wheel, and turn, Against the sun and sev'nfold lights, their front. As when, their bucklers for protection rais'd, A well-rang'd troop, with portly banners curl'd, Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground: E'en thus the goodly regiment of heav'n Proceeding, all did pass us, ere the car Had slop'd his beam. Attendant at the wheels The damsels turn'd; and on the Gryphon mov'd The sacred burden, with a pace so smooth, No feather on him trembled. The fair dame Who through the wave had drawn me, companied By Statius and myself, pursued the wheel, Whose orbit, rolling, mark'd a lesser arch. Through the high wood, now void (the more her blame, Who by the serpent was beguil'd) I past With step in cadence to the harmony Angelic. Onward had we mov'd, as far Perchance as arrow at three several flights Full wing'd had sped, when from her station down Descended Beatrice. With one voice All murmur'd "Adam," circling next a plant Despoil'd of flowers and leaf on every bough. Its tresses, spreading more as more they rose, Were such, as 'midst their forest wilds for height The Indians might have gaz'd at. "Blessed thou! Gryphon, whose beak hath never pluck'd that tree Pleasant to taste: for hence the appetite Was warp'd to evil." Round the stately trunk Thus shouted forth the rest, to whom return'd The animal twice-gender'd: "Yea: for so The generation of the just are sav'd." And turning to the chariot-pole, to foot He drew it of the widow'd branch, and bound There left unto the stock whereon it grew. As when large floods of radiance from above Stream, with that radiance mingled, which ascends Next after setting of the scaly sign, Our plants then burgeon, and each wears anew His wonted colours, ere the sun have yok'd Beneath another star his flamy steeds; Thus putting forth a hue, more faint than rose, And deeper than the violet, was renew'd The plant, erewhile in all its branches bare. Unearthly was the hymn, which then arose. I understood it not, nor to the end Endur'd the harmony. Had I the skill To pencil forth, how clos'd th' unpitying eyes Slumb'ring, when Syrinx warbled, (eyes that paid So dearly for their watching,) then like painter, That with a model paints, I might design The manner of my falling into sleep. But feign who will the slumber cunningly; I pass it by to when I wak'd, and tell How suddenly a flash of splendour rent The curtain of my sleep, and one cries out: "Arise, what dost thou?" As the chosen three, On Tabor's mount, admitted to behold The blossoming of that fair tree, whose fruit Is coveted of angels, and doth make Perpetual feast in heaven, to themselves Returning at the word, whence deeper sleeps Were broken, that they their tribe diminish'd saw, Both Moses and Elias gone, and chang'd The stole their master wore: thus to myself Returning, over me beheld I stand The piteous one, who cross the stream had brought My steps. "And where," all doubting, I exclaim'd, "Is Beatrice?"--"See her," she replied, "Beneath the fresh leaf seated on its root. Behold th' associate choir that circles her. The others, with a melody more sweet And more profound, journeying to higher realms, Upon the Gryphon tend." If there her words Were clos'd, I know not; but mine eyes had now Ta'en view of her, by whom all other thoughts Were barr'd admittance. On the very ground Alone she sat, as she had there been left A guard upon the wain, which I beheld Bound to the twyform beast. The seven nymphs Did make themselves a cloister round about her, And in their hands upheld those lights secure From blast septentrion and the gusty south. "A little while thou shalt be forester here: And citizen shalt be forever with me, Of that true Rome, wherein Christ dwells a Roman To profit the misguided world, keep now Thine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest, Take heed thou write, returning to that place." Thus Beatrice: at whose feet inclin'd Devout, at her behest, my thought and eyes, I, as she bade, directed. Never fire, With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloud Leap'd downward from the welkin's farthest bound, As I beheld the bird of Jove descending Pounce on the tree, and, as he rush'd, the rind, Disparting crush beneath him, buds much more And leaflets. On the car with all his might He struck, whence, staggering like a ship, it reel'd, At random driv'n, to starboard now, o'ercome, And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves. Next springing up into the chariot's womb A fox I saw, with hunger seeming pin'd Of all good food. But, for his ugly sins The saintly maid rebuking him, away Scamp'ring he turn'd, fast as his hide-bound corpse Would bear him. Next, from whence before he came, I saw the eagle dart into the hull O' th' car, and leave it with his feathers lin'd; And then a voice, like that which issues forth From heart with sorrow riv'd, did issue forth From heav'n, and, "O poor bark of mine!" it cried, "How badly art thou freighted!" Then, it seem'd, That the earth open'd between either wheel, And I beheld a dragon issue thence, That through the chariot fix'd his forked train; And like a wasp that draggeth back the sting, So drawing forth his baleful train, he dragg'd Part of the bottom forth, and went his way Exulting. What remain'd, as lively turf With green herb, so did clothe itself with plumes, Which haply had with purpose chaste and kind Been offer'd; and therewith were cloth'd the wheels, Both one and other, and the beam, so quickly A sigh were not breath'd sooner. Thus transform'd, The holy structure, through its several parts, Did put forth heads, three on the beam, and one On every side; the first like oxen horn'd, But with a single horn upon their front The four. Like monster sight hath never seen. O'er it methought there sat, secure as rock On mountain's lofty top, a shameless whore, Whose ken rov'd loosely round her. At her side, As 't were that none might bear her off, I saw A giant stand; and ever, and anon They mingled kisses. But, her lustful eyes Chancing on me to wander, that fell minion Scourg'd her from head to foot all o'er; then full Of jealousy, and fierce with rage, unloos'd The monster, and dragg'd on, so far across The forest, that from me its shades alone Shielded the harlot and the new-form'd brute. CANTO XXXIII "The heathen, Lord! are come!" responsive thus, The trinal now, and now the virgin band Quaternion, their sweet psalmody began, Weeping; and Beatrice listen'd, sad And sighing, to the song', in such a mood, That Mary, as she stood beside the cross, Was scarce more chang'd. But when they gave her place To speak, then, risen upright on her feet, She, with a colour glowing bright as fire, Did answer: "Yet a little while, and ye Shall see me not; and, my beloved sisters, Again a little while, and ye shall see me." Before her then she marshall'd all the seven, And, beck'ning only motion'd me, the dame, And that remaining sage, to follow her. So on she pass'd; and had not set, I ween, Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyes Her eyes encounter'd; and, with visage mild, "So mend thy pace," she cried, "that if my words Address thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac'd To hear them." Soon as duly to her side I now had hasten'd: "Brother!" she began, "Why mak'st thou no attempt at questioning, As thus we walk together?" Like to those Who, speaking with too reverent an awe Before their betters, draw not forth the voice Alive unto their lips, befell me shell That I in sounds imperfect thus began: "Lady! what I have need of, that thou know'st, And what will suit my need." She answering thus: "Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thou Henceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more, As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me: The vessel, which thou saw'st the serpent break, Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame, Hope not to scare God's vengeance with a sop. Without an heir for ever shall not be That eagle, he, who left the chariot plum'd, Which monster made it first and next a prey. Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the stars E'en now approaching, whose conjunction, free From all impediment and bar, brings on A season, in the which, one sent from God, (Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out) That foul one, and th' accomplice of her guilt, The giant, both shall slay. And if perchance My saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx, Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foils The intellect with blindness) yet ere long Events shall be the Naiads, that will solve This knotty riddle, and no damage light On flock or field. Take heed; and as these words By me are utter'd, teach them even so To those who live that life, which is a race To death: and when thou writ'st them, keep in mind Not to conceal how thou hast seen the plant, That twice hath now been spoil'd. This whoso robs, This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deed Sins against God, who for his use alone Creating hallow'd it. For taste of this, In pain and in desire, five thousand years And upward, the first soul did yearn for him, Who punish'd in himself the fatal gust. "Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this height And summit thus inverted of the plant, Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts, As Elsa's numbing waters, to thy soul, And their fond pleasures had not dyed it dark As Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen, In such momentous circumstance alone, God's equal justice morally implied In the forbidden tree. But since I mark thee In understanding harden'd into stone, And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain'd, So that thine eye is dazzled at my word, I will, that, if not written, yet at least Painted thou take it in thee, for the cause, That one brings home his staff inwreath'd with palm." I thus: "As wax by seal, that changeth not Its impress, now is stamp'd my brain by thee. But wherefore soars thy wish'd-for speech so high Beyond my sight, that loses it the more, The more it strains to reach it?"--"To the end That thou mayst know," she answer'd straight, "the school, That thou hast follow'd; and how far behind, When following my discourse, its learning halts: And mayst behold your art, from the divine As distant, as the disagreement is 'Twixt earth and heaven's most high and rapturous orb." "I not remember," I replied, "that e'er I was estrang'd from thee, nor for such fault Doth conscience chide me." Smiling she return'd: "If thou canst, not remember, call to mind How lately thou hast drunk of Lethe's wave; And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame, In that forgetfulness itself conclude Blame from thy alienated will incurr'd. From henceforth verily my words shall be As naked as will suit them to appear In thy unpractis'd view." More sparkling now, And with retarded course the sun possess'd The circle of mid-day, that varies still As th' aspect varies of each several clime, When, as one, sent in vaward of a troop For escort, pauses, if perchance he spy Vestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus'd The sev'nfold band, arriving at the verge Of a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen, Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oft To overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff. And, where they stood, before them, as it seem'd, Tigris and Euphrates both beheld, Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends, Linger at parting. "O enlight'ning beam! O glory of our kind! beseech thee say What water this, which from one source deriv'd Itself removes to distance from itself?" To such entreaty answer thus was made: "Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this." And here, as one, who clears himself of blame Imputed, the fair dame return'd: "Of me He this and more hath learnt; and I am safe That Lethe's water hath not hid it from him." And Beatrice: "Some more pressing care That oft the memory 'reeves, perchance hath made His mind's eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows! Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, revive His fainting virtue." As a courteous spirit, That proffers no excuses, but as soon As he hath token of another's will, Makes it his own; when she had ta'en me, thus The lovely maiden mov'd her on, and call'd To Statius with an air most lady-like: "Come thou with him." Were further space allow'd, Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part, That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne'er Been sated. But, since all the leaves are full, Appointed for this second strain, mine art With warning bridle checks me. I return'd From the most holy wave, regenerate, If 'en as new plants renew'd with foliage new, Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars. 
1007	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI PARADISE Complete TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. PARADISE Canto 1 - 33 CANTO I His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd, Pierces the universe, and in one part Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. In heav'n, That largeliest of his light partakes, was I, Witness of things, which to relate again Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence; For that, so near approaching its desire Our intellect is to such depth absorb'd, That memory cannot follow. Nathless all, That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm Could store, shall now be matter of my song. Benign Apollo! this last labour aid, And make me such a vessel of thy worth, As thy own laurel claims of me belov'd. Thus far hath one of steep Parnassus' brows Suffic'd me; henceforth there is need of both For my remaining enterprise Do thou Enter into my bosom, and there breathe So, as when Marsyas by thy hand was dragg'd Forth from his limbs unsheath'd. O power divine! If thou to me of shine impart so much, That of that happy realm the shadow'd form Trac'd in my thoughts I may set forth to view, Thou shalt behold me of thy favour'd tree Come to the foot, and crown myself with leaves; For to that honour thou, and my high theme Will fit me. If but seldom, mighty Sire! To grace his triumph gathers thence a wreath Caesar or bard (more shame for human wills Deprav'd) joy to the Delphic god must spring From the Pierian foliage, when one breast Is with such thirst inspir'd. From a small spark Great flame hath risen: after me perchance Others with better voice may pray, and gain From the Cirrhaean city answer kind. Through diver passages, the world's bright lamp Rises to mortals, but through that which joins Four circles with the threefold cross, in best Course, and in happiest constellation set He comes, and to the worldly wax best gives Its temper and impression. Morning there, Here eve was by almost such passage made; And whiteness had o'erspread that hemisphere, Blackness the other part; when to the left I saw Beatrice turn'd, and on the sun Gazing, as never eagle fix'd his ken. As from the first a second beam is wont To issue, and reflected upwards rise, E'en as a pilgrim bent on his return, So of her act, that through the eyesight pass'd Into my fancy, mine was form'd; and straight, Beyond our mortal wont, I fix'd mine eyes Upon the sun. Much is allowed us there, That here exceeds our pow'r; thanks to the place Made for the dwelling of the human kind I suffer'd it not long, and yet so long That I beheld it bick'ring sparks around, As iron that comes boiling from the fire. And suddenly upon the day appear'd A day new-ris'n, as he, who hath the power, Had with another sun bedeck'd the sky. Her eyes fast fix'd on the eternal wheels, Beatrice stood unmov'd; and I with ken Fix'd upon her, from upward gaze remov'd At her aspect, such inwardly became As Glaucus, when he tasted of the herb, That made him peer among the ocean gods; Words may not tell of that transhuman change: And therefore let the example serve, though weak, For those whom grace hath better proof in store If I were only what thou didst create, Then newly, Love! by whom the heav'n is rul'd, Thou know'st, who by thy light didst bear me up. Whenas the wheel which thou dost ever guide, Desired Spirit! with its harmony Temper'd of thee and measur'd, charm'd mine ear, Then seem'd to me so much of heav'n to blaze With the sun's flame, that rain or flood ne'er made A lake so broad. The newness of the sound, And that great light, inflam'd me with desire, Keener than e'er was felt, to know their cause. Whence she who saw me, clearly as myself, To calm my troubled mind, before I ask'd, Open'd her lips, and gracious thus began: "With false imagination thou thyself Mak'st dull, so that thou seest not the thing, Which thou hadst seen, had that been shaken off. Thou art not on the earth as thou believ'st; For light'ning scap'd from its own proper place Ne'er ran, as thou hast hither now return'd." Although divested of my first-rais'd doubt, By those brief words, accompanied with smiles, Yet in new doubt was I entangled more, And said: "Already satisfied, I rest From admiration deep, but now admire How I above those lighter bodies rise." Whence, after utt'rance of a piteous sigh, She tow'rds me bent her eyes, with such a look, As on her frenzied child a mother casts; Then thus began: "Among themselves all things Have order; and from hence the form, which makes The universe resemble God. In this The higher creatures see the printed steps Of that eternal worth, which is the end Whither the line is drawn. All natures lean, In this their order, diversely, some more, Some less approaching to their primal source. Thus they to different havens are mov'd on Through the vast sea of being, and each one With instinct giv'n, that bears it in its course; This to the lunar sphere directs the fire, This prompts the hearts of mortal animals, This the brute earth together knits, and binds. Nor only creatures, void of intellect, Are aim'd at by this bow; but even those, That have intelligence and love, are pierc'd. That Providence, who so well orders all, With her own light makes ever calm the heaven, In which the substance, that hath greatest speed, Is turn'd: and thither now, as to our seat Predestin'd, we are carried by the force Of that strong cord, that never looses dart, But at fair aim and glad. Yet is it true, That as ofttimes but ill accords the form To the design of art, through sluggishness Of unreplying matter, so this course Is sometimes quitted by the creature, who Hath power, directed thus, to bend elsewhere; As from a cloud the fire is seen to fall, From its original impulse warp'd, to earth, By vicious fondness. Thou no more admire Thy soaring, (if I rightly deem,) than lapse Of torrent downwards from a mountain's height. There would in thee for wonder be more cause, If, free of hind'rance, thou hadst fix'd thyself Below, like fire unmoving on the earth." So said, she turn'd toward the heav'n her face. CANTO II All ye, who in small bark have following sail'd, Eager to listen, on the advent'rous track Of my proud keel, that singing cuts its way, Backward return with speed, and your own shores Revisit, nor put out to open sea, Where losing me, perchance ye may remain Bewilder'd in deep maze. The way I pass Ne'er yet was run: Minerva breathes the gale, Apollo guides me, and another Nine To my rapt sight the arctic beams reveal. Ye other few, who have outstretch'd the neck. Timely for food of angels, on which here They live, yet never know satiety, Through the deep brine ye fearless may put out Your vessel, marking, well the furrow broad Before you in the wave, that on both sides Equal returns. Those, glorious, who pass'd o'er To Colchos, wonder'd not as ye will do, When they saw Jason following the plough. The increate perpetual thirst, that draws Toward the realm of God's own form, bore us Swift almost as the heaven ye behold. Beatrice upward gaz'd, and I on her, And in such space as on the notch a dart Is plac'd, then loosen'd flies, I saw myself Arriv'd, where wond'rous thing engag'd my sight. Whence she, to whom no work of mine was hid, Turning to me, with aspect glad as fair, Bespake me: "Gratefully direct thy mind To God, through whom to this first star we come." Me seem'd as if a cloud had cover'd us, Translucent, solid, firm, and polish'd bright, Like adamant, which the sun's beam had smit Within itself the ever-during pearl Receiv'd us, as the wave a ray of light Receives, and rests unbroken. If I then Was of corporeal frame, and it transcend Our weaker thought, how one dimension thus Another could endure, which needs must be If body enter body, how much more Must the desire inflame us to behold That essence, which discovers by what means God and our nature join'd! There will be seen That which we hold through faith, not shown by proof, But in itself intelligibly plain, E'en as the truth that man at first believes. I answered: "Lady! I with thoughts devout, Such as I best can frame, give thanks to Him, Who hath remov'd me from the mortal world. But tell, I pray thee, whence the gloomy spots Upon this body, which below on earth Give rise to talk of Cain in fabling quaint?" She somewhat smil'd, then spake: "If mortals err In their opinion, when the key of sense Unlocks not, surely wonder's weapon keen Ought not to pierce thee; since thou find'st, the wings Of reason to pursue the senses' flight Are short. But what thy own thought is, declare." Then I: "What various here above appears, Is caus'd, I deem, by bodies dense or rare." She then resum'd: "Thou certainly wilt see In falsehood thy belief o'erwhelm'd, if well Thou listen to the arguments, which I Shall bring to face it. The eighth sphere displays Numberless lights, the which in kind and size May be remark'd of different aspects; If rare or dense of that were cause alone, One single virtue then would be in all, Alike distributed, or more, or less. Different virtues needs must be the fruits Of formal principles, and these, save one, Will by thy reasoning be destroy'd. Beside, If rarity were of that dusk the cause, Which thou inquirest, either in some part That planet must throughout be void, nor fed With its own matter; or, as bodies share Their fat and leanness, in like manner this Must in its volume change the leaves. The first, If it were true, had through the sun's eclipse Been manifested, by transparency Of light, as through aught rare beside effus'd. But this is not. Therefore remains to see The other cause: and if the other fall, Erroneous so must prove what seem'd to thee. If not from side to side this rarity Pass through, there needs must be a limit, whence Its contrary no further lets it pass. And hence the beam, that from without proceeds, Must be pour'd back, as colour comes, through glass Reflected, which behind it lead conceals. Now wilt thou say, that there of murkier hue Than in the other part the ray is shown, By being thence refracted farther back. From this perplexity will free thee soon Experience, if thereof thou trial make, The fountain whence your arts derive their streame. Three mirrors shalt thou take, and two remove From thee alike, and more remote the third. Betwixt the former pair, shall meet thine eyes; Then turn'd toward them, cause behind thy back A light to stand, that on the three shall shine, And thus reflected come to thee from all. Though that beheld most distant do not stretch A space so ample, yet in brightness thou Will own it equaling the rest. But now, As under snow the ground, if the warm ray Smites it, remains dismantled of the hue And cold, that cover'd it before, so thee, Dismantled in thy mind, I will inform With light so lively, that the tremulous beam Shall quiver where it falls. Within the heaven, Where peace divine inhabits, circles round A body, in whose virtue dies the being Of all that it contains. The following heaven, That hath so many lights, this being divides, Through different essences, from it distinct, And yet contain'd within it. The other orbs Their separate distinctions variously Dispose, for their own seed and produce apt. Thus do these organs of the world proceed, As thou beholdest now, from step to step, Their influences from above deriving, And thence transmitting downwards. Mark me well, How through this passage to the truth I ford, The truth thou lov'st, that thou henceforth alone, May'st know to keep the shallows, safe, untold. "The virtue and motion of the sacred orbs, As mallet by the workman's hand, must needs By blessed movers be inspir'd. This heaven, Made beauteous by so many luminaries, From the deep spirit, that moves its circling sphere, Its image takes an impress as a seal: And as the soul, that dwells within your dust, Through members different, yet together form'd, In different pow'rs resolves itself; e'en so The intellectual efficacy unfolds Its goodness multiplied throughout the stars; On its own unity revolving still. Different virtue compact different Makes with the precious body it enlivens, With which it knits, as life in you is knit. From its original nature full of joy, The virtue mingled through the body shines, As joy through pupil of the living eye. From hence proceeds, that which from light to light Seems different, and not from dense or rare. This is the formal cause, that generates Proportion'd to its power, the dusk or clear." CANTO III That sun, which erst with love my bosom warm'd Had of fair truth unveil'd the sweet aspect, By proof of right, and of the false reproof; And I, to own myself convinc'd and free Of doubt, as much as needed, rais'd my head Erect for speech. But soon a sight appear'd, Which, so intent to mark it, held me fix'd, That of confession I no longer thought. As through translucent and smooth glass, or wave Clear and unmov'd, and flowing not so deep As that its bed is dark, the shape returns So faint of our impictur'd lineaments, That on white forehead set a pearl as strong Comes to the eye: such saw I many a face, All stretch'd to speak, from whence I straight conceiv'd Delusion opposite to that, which rais'd Between the man and fountain, amorous flame. Sudden, as I perceiv'd them, deeming these Reflected semblances to see of whom They were, I turn'd mine eyes, and nothing saw; Then turn'd them back, directed on the light Of my sweet guide, who smiling shot forth beams From her celestial eyes. "Wonder not thou," She cry'd, "at this my smiling, when I see Thy childish judgment; since not yet on truth It rests the foot, but, as it still is wont, Makes thee fall back in unsound vacancy. True substances are these, which thou behold'st, Hither through failure of their vow exil'd. But speak thou with them; listen, and believe, That the true light, which fills them with desire, Permits not from its beams their feet to stray." Straight to the shadow which for converse seem'd Most earnest, I addressed me, and began, As one by over-eagerness perplex'd: "O spirit, born for joy! who in the rays Of life eternal, of that sweetness know'st The flavour, which, not tasted, passes far All apprehension, me it well would please, If thou wouldst tell me of thy name, and this Your station here." Whence she, with kindness prompt, And eyes glist'ning with smiles: "Our charity, To any wish by justice introduc'd, Bars not the door, no more than she above, Who would have all her court be like herself. I was a virgin sister in the earth; And if thy mind observe me well, this form, With such addition grac'd of loveliness, Will not conceal me long, but thou wilt know Piccarda, in the tardiest sphere thus plac'd, Here 'mid these other blessed also blest. Our hearts, whose high affections burn alone With pleasure, from the Holy Spirit conceiv'd, Admitted to his order dwell in joy. And this condition, which appears so low, Is for this cause assign'd us, that our vows Were in some part neglected and made void." Whence I to her replied: "Something divine Beams in your countenance, wond'rous fair, From former knowledge quite transmuting you. Therefore to recollect was I so slow. But what thou sayst hath to my memory Given now such aid, that to retrace your forms Is easier. Yet inform me, ye, who here Are happy, long ye for a higher place More to behold, and more in love to dwell?" She with those other spirits gently smil'd, Then answer'd with such gladness, that she seem'd With love's first flame to glow: "Brother! our will Is in composure settled by the power Of charity, who makes us will alone What we possess, and nought beyond desire; If we should wish to be exalted more, Then must our wishes jar with the high will Of him, who sets us here, which in these orbs Thou wilt confess not possible, if here To be in charity must needs befall, And if her nature well thou contemplate. Rather it is inherent in this state Of blessedness, to keep ourselves within The divine will, by which our wills with his Are one. So that as we from step to step Are plac'd throughout this kingdom, pleases all, E'en as our King, who in us plants his will; And in his will is our tranquillity; It is the mighty ocean, whither tends Whatever it creates and nature makes." Then saw I clearly how each spot in heav'n Is Paradise, though with like gracious dew The supreme virtue show'r not over all. But as it chances, if one sort of food Hath satiated, and of another still The appetite remains, that this is ask'd, And thanks for that return'd; e'en so did I In word and motion, bent from her to learn What web it was, through which she had not drawn The shuttle to its point. She thus began: "Exalted worth and perfectness of life The Lady higher up enshrine in heaven, By whose pure laws upon your nether earth The robe and veil they wear, to that intent, That e'en till death they may keep watch or sleep With their great bridegroom, who accepts each vow, Which to his gracious pleasure love conforms. from the world, to follow her, when young Escap'd; and, in her vesture mantling me, Made promise of the way her sect enjoins. Thereafter men, for ill than good more apt, Forth snatch'd me from the pleasant cloister's pale. God knows how after that my life was fram'd. This other splendid shape, which thou beholdst At my right side, burning with all the light Of this our orb, what of myself I tell May to herself apply. From her, like me A sister, with like violence were torn The saintly folds, that shaded her fair brows. E'en when she to the world again was brought In spite of her own will and better wont, Yet not for that the bosom's inward veil Did she renounce. This is the luminary Of mighty Constance, who from that loud blast, Which blew the second over Suabia's realm, That power produc'd, which was the third and last." She ceas'd from further talk, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and with that song Vanish'd, as heavy substance through deep wave. Mine eye, that far as it was capable, Pursued her, when in dimness she was lost, Turn'd to the mark where greater want impell'd, And bent on Beatrice all its gaze. But she as light'ning beam'd upon my looks: So that the sight sustain'd it not at first. Whence I to question her became less prompt. CANTO IV Between two kinds of food, both equally Remote and tempting, first a man might die Of hunger, ere he one could freely choose. E'en so would stand a lamb between the maw Of two fierce wolves, in dread of both alike: E'en so between two deer a dog would stand, Wherefore, if I was silent, fault nor praise I to myself impute, by equal doubts Held in suspense, since of necessity It happen'd. Silent was I, yet desire Was painted in my looks; and thus I spake My wish more earnestly than language could. As Daniel, when the haughty king he freed From ire, that spurr'd him on to deeds unjust And violent; so look'd Beatrice then. "Well I discern," she thus her words address'd, "How contrary desires each way constrain thee, So that thy anxious thought is in itself Bound up and stifled, nor breathes freely forth. Thou arguest; if the good intent remain; What reason that another's violence Should stint the measure of my fair desert? "Cause too thou findst for doubt, in that it seems, That spirits to the stars, as Plato deem'd, Return. These are the questions which thy will Urge equally; and therefore I the first Of that will treat which hath the more of gall. Of seraphim he who is most ensky'd, Moses and Samuel, and either John, Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self, Have not in any other heav'n their seats, Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st; Nor more or fewer years exist; but all Make the first circle beauteous, diversely Partaking of sweet life, as more or less Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them. Here were they shown thee, not that fate assigns This for their sphere, but for a sign to thee Of that celestial furthest from the height. Thus needs, that ye may apprehend, we speak: Since from things sensible alone ye learn That, which digested rightly after turns To intellectual. For no other cause The scripture, condescending graciously To your perception, hands and feet to God Attributes, nor so means: and holy church Doth represent with human countenance Gabriel, and Michael, and him who made Tobias whole. Unlike what here thou seest, The judgment of Timaeus, who affirms Each soul restor'd to its particular star, Believing it to have been taken thence, When nature gave it to inform her mold: Since to appearance his intention is E'en what his words declare: or else to shun Derision, haply thus he hath disguis'd His true opinion. If his meaning be, That to the influencing of these orbs revert The honour and the blame in human acts, Perchance he doth not wholly miss the truth. This principle, not understood aright, Erewhile perverted well nigh all the world; So that it fell to fabled names of Jove, And Mercury, and Mars. That other doubt, Which moves thee, is less harmful; for it brings No peril of removing thee from me. "That, to the eye of man, our justice seems Unjust, is argument for faith, and not For heretic declension. To the end This truth may stand more clearly in your view, I will content thee even to thy wish "If violence be, when that which suffers, nought Consents to that which forceth, not for this These spirits stood exculpate. For the will, That will not, still survives unquench'd, and doth As nature doth in fire, tho' violence Wrest it a thousand times; for, if it yield Or more or less, so far it follows force. And thus did these, whom they had power to seek The hallow'd place again. In them, had will Been perfect, such as once upon the bars Held Laurence firm, or wrought in Scaevola To his own hand remorseless, to the path, Whence they were drawn, their steps had hasten'd back, When liberty return'd: but in too few Resolve so steadfast dwells. And by these words If duly weigh'd, that argument is void, Which oft might have perplex'd thee still. But now Another question thwarts thee, which to solve Might try thy patience without better aid. I have, no doubt, instill'd into thy mind, That blessed spirit may not lie; since near The source of primal truth it dwells for aye: And thou might'st after of Piccarda learn That Constance held affection to the veil; So that she seems to contradict me here. Not seldom, brother, it hath chanc'd for men To do what they had gladly left undone, Yet to shun peril they have done amiss: E'en as Alcmaeon, at his father's suit Slew his own mother, so made pitiless Not to lose pity. On this point bethink thee, That force and will are blended in such wise As not to make the' offence excusable. Absolute will agrees not to the wrong, That inasmuch as there is fear of woe From non-compliance, it agrees. Of will Thus absolute Piccarda spake, and I Of th' other; so that both have truly said." Such was the flow of that pure rill, that well'd From forth the fountain of all truth; and such The rest, that to my wond'ring thoughts I found. "O thou of primal love the prime delight! Goddess!" I straight reply'd, "whose lively words Still shed new heat and vigour through my soul! Affection fails me to requite thy grace With equal sum of gratitude: be his To recompense, who sees and can reward thee. Well I discern, that by that truth alone Enlighten'd, beyond which no truth may roam, Our mind can satisfy her thirst to know: Therein she resteth, e'en as in his lair The wild beast, soon as she hath reach'd that bound, And she hath power to reach it; else desire Were given to no end. And thence doth doubt Spring, like a shoot, around the stock of truth; And it is nature which from height to height On to the summit prompts us. This invites, This doth assure me, lady, rev'rently To ask thee of other truth, that yet Is dark to me. I fain would know, if man By other works well done may so supply The failure of his vows, that in your scale They lack not weight." I spake; and on me straight Beatrice look'd with eyes that shot forth sparks Of love celestial in such copious stream, That, virtue sinking in me overpower'd, I turn'd, and downward bent confus'd my sight. CANTO V "If beyond earthly wont, the flame of love Illume me, so that I o'ercome thy power Of vision, marvel not: but learn the cause In that perfection of the sight, which soon As apprehending, hasteneth on to reach The good it apprehends. I well discern, How in thine intellect already shines The light eternal, which to view alone Ne'er fails to kindle love; and if aught else Your love seduces, 't is but that it shows Some ill-mark'd vestige of that primal beam. "This would'st thou know, if failure of the vow By other service may be so supplied, As from self-question to assure the soul." Thus she her words, not heedless of my wish, Began; and thus, as one who breaks not off Discourse, continued in her saintly strain. "Supreme of gifts, which God creating gave Of his free bounty, sign most evident Of goodness, and in his account most priz'd, Was liberty of will, the boon wherewith All intellectual creatures, and them sole He hath endow'd. Hence now thou mayst infer Of what high worth the vow, which so is fram'd That when man offers, God well-pleas'd accepts; For in the compact between God and him, This treasure, such as I describe it to thee, He makes the victim, and of his own act. What compensation therefore may he find? If that, whereof thou hast oblation made, By using well thou think'st to consecrate, Thou would'st of theft do charitable deed. Thus I resolve thee of the greater point. "But forasmuch as holy church, herein Dispensing, seems to contradict the truth I have discover'd to thee, yet behooves Thou rest a little longer at the board, Ere the crude aliment, which thou hast taken, Digested fitly to nutrition turn. Open thy mind to what I now unfold, And give it inward keeping. Knowledge comes Of learning well retain'd, unfruitful else. "This sacrifice in essence of two things Consisteth; one is that, whereof 't is made, The covenant the other. For the last, It ne'er is cancell'd if not kept: and hence I spake erewhile so strictly of its force. For this it was enjoin'd the Israelites, Though leave were giv'n them, as thou know'st, to change The offering, still to offer. Th' other part, The matter and the substance of the vow, May well be such, to that without offence It may for other substance be exchang'd. But at his own discretion none may shift The burden on his shoulders, unreleas'd By either key, the yellow and the white. Nor deem of any change, as less than vain, If the last bond be not within the new Included, as the quatre in the six. No satisfaction therefore can be paid For what so precious in the balance weighs, That all in counterpoise must kick the beam. Take then no vow at random: ta'en, with faith Preserve it; yet not bent, as Jephthah once, Blindly to execute a rash resolve, Whom better it had suited to exclaim, 'I have done ill,' than to redeem his pledge By doing worse or, not unlike to him In folly, that great leader of the Greeks: Whence, on the alter, Iphigenia mourn'd Her virgin beauty, and hath since made mourn Both wise and simple, even all, who hear Of so fell sacrifice. Be ye more staid, O Christians, not, like feather, by each wind Removable: nor think to cleanse ourselves In every water. Either testament, The old and new, is yours: and for your guide The shepherd of the church let this suffice To save you. When by evil lust entic'd, Remember ye be men, not senseless beasts; Nor let the Jew, who dwelleth in your streets, Hold you in mock'ry. Be not, as the lamb, That, fickle wanton, leaves its mother's milk, To dally with itself in idle play." Such were the words that Beatrice spake: These ended, to that region, where the world Is liveliest, full of fond desire she turn'd. Though mainly prompt new question to propose, Her silence and chang'd look did keep me dumb. And as the arrow, ere the cord is still, Leapeth unto its mark; so on we sped Into the second realm. There I beheld The dame, so joyous enter, that the orb Grew brighter at her smiles; and, if the star Were mov'd to gladness, what then was my cheer, Whom nature hath made apt for every change! As in a quiet and clear lake the fish, If aught approach them from without, do draw Towards it, deeming it their food; so drew Full more than thousand splendours towards us, And in each one was heard: "Lo! one arriv'd To multiply our loves!" and as each came The shadow, streaming forth effulgence new, Witness'd augmented joy. Here, reader! think, If thou didst miss the sequel of my tale, To know the rest how sorely thou wouldst crave; And thou shalt see what vehement desire Possess'd me, as soon as these had met my view, To know their state. "O born in happy hour! Thou to whom grace vouchsafes, or ere thy close Of fleshly warfare, to behold the thrones Of that eternal triumph, know to us The light communicated, which through heaven Expatiates without bound. Therefore, if aught Thou of our beams wouldst borrow for thine aid, Spare not; and of our radiance take thy fill." Thus of those piteous spirits one bespake me; And Beatrice next: "Say on; and trust As unto gods!"--"How in the light supreme Thou harbour'st, and from thence the virtue bring'st, That, sparkling in thine eyes, denotes thy joy, I mark; but, who thou art, am still to seek; Or wherefore, worthy spirit! for thy lot This sphere assign'd, that oft from mortal ken Is veil'd by others' beams." I said, and turn'd Toward the lustre, that with greeting, kind Erewhile had hail'd me. Forthwith brighter far Than erst, it wax'd: and, as himself the sun Hides through excess of light, when his warm gaze Hath on the mantle of thick vapours prey'd; Within its proper ray the saintly shape Was, through increase of gladness, thus conceal'd; And, shrouded so in splendour answer'd me, E'en as the tenour of my song declares. CANTO VI "After that Constantine the eagle turn'd Against the motions of the heav'n, that roll'd Consenting with its course, when he of yore, Lavinia's spouse, was leader of the flight, A hundred years twice told and more, his seat At Europe's extreme point, the bird of Jove Held, near the mountains, whence he issued first. There, under shadow of his sacred plumes Swaying the world, till through successive hands To mine he came devolv'd. Caesar I was, And am Justinian; destin'd by the will Of that prime love, whose influence I feel, From vain excess to clear th' encumber'd laws. Or ere that work engag'd me, I did hold Christ's nature merely human, with such faith Contented. But the blessed Agapete, Who was chief shepherd, he with warning voice To the true faith recall'd me. I believ'd His words: and what he taught, now plainly see, As thou in every contradiction seest The true and false oppos'd. Soon as my feet Were to the church reclaim'd, to my great task, By inspiration of God's grace impell'd, I gave me wholly, and consign'd mine arms To Belisarius, with whom heaven's right hand Was link'd in such conjointment, 't was a sign That I should rest. To thy first question thus I shape mine answer, which were ended here, But that its tendency doth prompt perforce To some addition; that thou well, mayst mark What reason on each side they have to plead, By whom that holiest banner is withstood, Both who pretend its power and who oppose. "Beginning from that hour, when Pallas died To give it rule, behold the valorous deeds Have made it worthy reverence. Not unknown To thee, how for three hundred years and more It dwelt in Alba, up to those fell lists Where for its sake were met the rival three; Nor aught unknown to thee, which it achiev'd Down to the Sabines' wrong to Lucrece' woe, With its sev'n kings conqu'ring the nation round; Nor all it wrought, by Roman worthies home 'Gainst Brennus and th' Epirot prince, and hosts Of single chiefs, or states in league combin'd Of social warfare; hence Torquatus stern, And Quintius nam'd of his neglected locks, The Decii, and the Fabii hence acquir'd Their fame, which I with duteous zeal embalm. By it the pride of Arab hordes was quell'd, When they led on by Hannibal o'erpass'd The Alpine rocks, whence glide thy currents, Po! Beneath its guidance, in their prime of days Scipio and Pompey triumph'd; and that hill, Under whose summit thou didst see the light, Rued its stern bearing. After, near the hour, When heav'n was minded that o'er all the world His own deep calm should brood, to Caesar's hand Did Rome consign it; and what then it wrought From Var unto the Rhine, saw Isere's flood, Saw Loire and Seine, and every vale, that fills The torrent Rhone. What after that it wrought, When from Ravenna it came forth, and leap'd The Rubicon, was of so bold a flight, That tongue nor pen may follow it. Tow'rds Spain It wheel'd its bands, then tow'rd Dyrrachium smote, And on Pharsalia with so fierce a plunge, E'en the warm Nile was conscious to the pang; Its native shores Antandros, and the streams Of Simois revisited, and there Where Hector lies; then ill for Ptolemy His pennons shook again; lightning thence fell On Juba; and the next upon your west, At sound of the Pompeian trump, return'd. "What following and in its next bearer's gripe It wrought, is now by Cassius and Brutus Bark'd off in hell, and by Perugia's sons And Modena's was mourn'd. Hence weepeth still Sad Cleopatra, who, pursued by it, Took from the adder black and sudden death. With him it ran e'en to the Red Sea coast; With him compos'd the world to such a peace, That of his temple Janus barr'd the door. "But all the mighty standard yet had wrought, And was appointed to perform thereafter, Throughout the mortal kingdom which it sway'd, Falls in appearance dwindled and obscur'd, If one with steady eye and perfect thought On the third Caesar look; for to his hands, The living Justice, in whose breath I move, Committed glory, e'en into his hands, To execute the vengeance of its wrath. "Hear now and wonder at what next I tell. After with Titus it was sent to wreak Vengeance for vengeance of the ancient sin, And, when the Lombard tooth, with fangs impure, Did gore the bosom of the holy church, Under its wings victorious, Charlemagne Sped to her rescue. Judge then for thyself Of those, whom I erewhile accus'd to thee, What they are, and how grievous their offending, Who are the cause of all your ills. The one Against the universal ensign rears The yellow lilies, and with partial aim That to himself the other arrogates: So that 't is hard to see which more offends. Be yours, ye Ghibellines, to veil your arts Beneath another standard: ill is this Follow'd of him, who severs it and justice: And let not with his Guelphs the new-crown'd Charles Assail it, but those talons hold in dread, Which from a lion of more lofty port Have rent the easing. Many a time ere now The sons have for the sire's transgression wail'd; Nor let him trust the fond belief, that heav'n Will truck its armour for his lilied shield. "This little star is furnish'd with good spirits, Whose mortal lives were busied to that end, That honour and renown might wait on them: And, when desires thus err in their intention, True love must needs ascend with slacker beam. But it is part of our delight, to measure Our wages with the merit; and admire The close proportion. Hence doth heav'nly justice Temper so evenly affection in us, It ne'er can warp to any wrongfulness. Of diverse voices is sweet music made: So in our life the different degrees Render sweet harmony among these wheels. "Within the pearl, that now encloseth us, Shines Romeo's light, whose goodly deed and fair Met ill acceptance. But the Provencals, That were his foes, have little cause for mirth. Ill shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong Of other's worth. Four daughters were there born To Raymond Berenger, and every one Became a queen; and this for him did Romeo, Though of mean state and from a foreign land. Yet envious tongues incited him to ask A reckoning of that just one, who return'd Twelve fold to him for ten. Aged and poor He parted thence: and if the world did know The heart he had, begging his life by morsels, 'T would deem the praise, it yields him, scantly dealt." CANTO VII "Hosanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright With fourfold lustre to its orb again, Revolving; and the rest unto their dance With it mov'd also; and like swiftest sparks, In sudden distance from my sight were veil'd. Me doubt possess'd, and "Speak," it whisper'd me, "Speak, speak unto thy lady, that she quench Thy thirst with drops of sweetness." Yet blank awe, Which lords it o'er me, even at the sound Of Beatrice's name, did bow me down As one in slumber held. Not long that mood Beatrice suffer'd: she, with such a smile, As might have made one blest amid the flames, Beaming upon me, thus her words began: "Thou in thy thought art pond'ring (as I deem), And what I deem is truth how just revenge Could be with justice punish'd: from which doubt I soon will free thee; so thou mark my words; For they of weighty matter shall possess thee. "That man, who was unborn, himself condemn'd, And, in himself, all, who since him have liv'd, His offspring: whence, below, the human kind Lay sick in grievous error many an age; Until it pleas'd the Word of God to come Amongst them down, to his own person joining The nature, from its Maker far estrang'd, By the mere act of his eternal love. Contemplate here the wonder I unfold. The nature with its Maker thus conjoin'd, Created first was blameless, pure and good; But through itself alone was driven forth From Paradise, because it had eschew'd The way of truth and life, to evil turn'd. Ne'er then was penalty so just as that Inflicted by the cross, if thou regard The nature in assumption doom'd: ne'er wrong So great, in reference to him, who took Such nature on him, and endur'd the doom. God therefore and the Jews one sentence pleased: So different effects flow'd from one act, And heav'n was open'd, though the earth did quake. Count it not hard henceforth, when thou dost hear That a just vengeance was by righteous court Justly reveng'd. But yet I see thy mind By thought on thought arising sore perplex'd, And with how vehement desire it asks Solution of the maze. What I have heard, Is plain, thou sayst: but wherefore God this way For our redemption chose, eludes my search. "Brother! no eye of man not perfected, Nor fully ripen'd in the flame of love, May fathom this decree. It is a mark, In sooth, much aim'd at, and but little kenn'd: And I will therefore show thee why such way Was worthiest. The celestial love, that spume All envying in its bounty, in itself With such effulgence blazeth, as sends forth All beauteous things eternal. What distils Immediate thence, no end of being knows, Bearing its seal immutably impress'd. Whatever thence immediate falls, is free, Free wholly, uncontrollable by power Of each thing new: by such conformity More grateful to its author, whose bright beams, Though all partake their shining, yet in those Are liveliest, which resemble him the most. These tokens of pre-eminence on man Largely bestow'd, if any of them fail, He needs must forfeit his nobility, No longer stainless. Sin alone is that, Which doth disfranchise him, and make unlike To the chief good; for that its light in him Is darken'd. And to dignity thus lost Is no return; unless, where guilt makes void, He for ill pleasure pay with equal pain. Your nature, which entirely in its seed Trangress'd, from these distinctions fell, no less Than from its state in Paradise; nor means Found of recovery (search all methods out As strickly as thou may) save one of these, The only fords were left through which to wade, Either that God had of his courtesy Releas'd him merely, or else man himself For his own folly by himself aton'd. "Fix now thine eye, intently as thou canst, On th' everlasting counsel, and explore, Instructed by my words, the dread abyss. "Man in himself had ever lack'd the means Of satisfaction, for he could not stoop Obeying, in humility so low, As high he, disobeying, thought to soar: And for this reason he had vainly tried Out of his own sufficiency to pay The rigid satisfaction. Then behooved That God should by his own ways lead him back Unto the life, from whence he fell, restor'd: By both his ways, I mean, or one alone. But since the deed is ever priz'd the more, The more the doer's good intent appears, Goodness celestial, whose broad signature Is on the universe, of all its ways To raise ye up, was fain to leave out none, Nor aught so vast or so magnificent, Either for him who gave or who receiv'd Between the last night and the primal day, Was or can be. For God more bounty show'd. Giving himself to make man capable Of his return to life, than had the terms Been mere and unconditional release. And for his justice, every method else Were all too scant, had not the Son of God Humbled himself to put on mortal flesh. "Now, to fulfil each wish of thine, remains I somewhat further to thy view unfold. That thou mayst see as clearly as myself. "I see, thou sayst, the air, the fire I see, The earth and water, and all things of them Compounded, to corruption turn, and soon Dissolve. Yet these were also things create, Because, if what were told me, had been true They from corruption had been therefore free. "The angels, O my brother! and this clime Wherein thou art, impassible and pure, I call created, as indeed they are In their whole being. But the elements, Which thou hast nam'd, and what of them is made, Are by created virtue' inform'd: create Their substance, and create the' informing virtue In these bright stars, that round them circling move The soul of every brute and of each plant, The ray and motion of the sacred lights, With complex potency attract and turn. But this our life the' eternal good inspires Immediate, and enamours of itself; So that our wishes rest for ever here. "And hence thou mayst by inference conclude Our resurrection certain, if thy mind Consider how the human flesh was fram'd, When both our parents at the first were made." CANTO VIII The world was in its day of peril dark Wont to believe the dotage of fond love From the fair Cyprian deity, who rolls In her third epicycle, shed on men By stream of potent radiance: therefore they Of elder time, in their old error blind, Not her alone with sacrifice ador'd And invocation, but like honours paid To Cupid and Dione, deem'd of them Her mother, and her son, him whom they feign'd To sit in Dido's bosom: and from her, Whom I have sung preluding, borrow'd they The appellation of that star, which views, Now obvious and now averse, the sun. I was not ware that I was wafted up Into its orb; but the new loveliness That grac'd my lady, gave me ample proof That we had entered there. And as in flame A sparkle is distinct, or voice in voice Discern'd, when one its even tenour keeps, The other comes and goes; so in that light I other luminaries saw, that cours'd In circling motion, rapid more or less, As their eternal phases each impels. Never was blast from vapour charged with cold, Whether invisible to eye or no, Descended with such speed, it had not seem'd To linger in dull tardiness, compar'd To those celestial lights, that tow'rds us came, Leaving the circuit of their joyous ring, Conducted by the lofty seraphim. And after them, who in the van appear'd, Such an hosanna sounded, as hath left Desire, ne'er since extinct in me, to hear Renew'd the strain. Then parting from the rest One near us drew, and sole began: "We all Are ready at thy pleasure, well dispos'd To do thee gentle service. We are they, To whom thou in the world erewhile didst Sing 'O ye! whose intellectual ministry Moves the third heaven!' and in one orb we roll, One motion, one impulse, with those who rule Princedoms in heaven; yet are of love so full, That to please thee 't will be as sweet to rest." After mine eyes had with meek reverence Sought the celestial guide, and were by her Assur'd, they turn'd again unto the light Who had so largely promis'd, and with voice That bare the lively pressure of my zeal, "Tell who ye are," I cried. Forthwith it grew In size and splendour, through augmented joy; And thus it answer'd: "A short date below The world possess'd me. Had the time been more, Much evil, that will come, had never chanc'd. My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine Around, and shroud me, as an animal In its own silk enswath'd. Thou lov'dst me well, And had'st good cause; for had my sojourning Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee Had put forth more than blossoms. The left bank, That Rhone, when he hath mix'd with Sorga, laves. "In me its lord expected, and that horn Of fair Ausonia, with its boroughs old, Bari, and Croton, and Gaeta pil'd, From where the Trento disembogues his waves, With Verde mingled, to the salt sea-flood. Already on my temples beam'd the crown, Which gave me sov'reignty over the land By Danube wash'd, whenas he strays beyond The limits of his German shores. The realm, Where, on the gulf by stormy Eurus lash'd, Betwixt Pelorus and Pachynian heights, The beautiful Trinacria lies in gloom (Not through Typhaeus, but the vap'ry cloud Bituminous upsteam'd), THAT too did look To have its scepter wielded by a race Of monarchs, sprung through me from Charles and Rodolph; had not ill lording which doth spirit up The people ever, in Palermo rais'd The shout of 'death,' re-echo'd loud and long. Had but my brother's foresight kenn'd as much, He had been warier that the greedy want Of Catalonia might not work his bale. And truly need there is, that he forecast, Or other for him, lest more freight be laid On his already over-laden bark. Nature in him, from bounty fall'n to thrift, Would ask the guard of braver arms, than such As only care to have their coffers fill'd." "My liege, it doth enhance the joy thy words Infuse into me, mighty as it is, To think my gladness manifest to thee, As to myself, who own it, when thou lookst Into the source and limit of all good, There, where thou markest that which thou dost speak, Thence priz'd of me the more. Glad thou hast made me. Now make intelligent, clearing the doubt Thy speech hath raised in me; for much I muse, How bitter can spring up, when sweet is sown." I thus inquiring; he forthwith replied: "If I have power to show one truth, soon that Shall face thee, which thy questioning declares Behind thee now conceal'd. The Good, that guides And blessed makes this realm, which thou dost mount, Ordains its providence to be the virtue In these great bodies: nor th' all perfect Mind Upholds their nature merely, but in them Their energy to save: for nought, that lies Within the range of that unerring bow, But is as level with the destin'd aim, As ever mark to arrow's point oppos'd. Were it not thus, these heavens, thou dost visit, Would their effect so work, it would not be Art, but destruction; and this may not chance, If th' intellectual powers, that move these stars, Fail not, or who, first faulty made them fail. Wilt thou this truth more clearly evidenc'd?" To whom I thus: "It is enough: no fear, I see, lest nature in her part should tire." He straight rejoin'd: "Say, were it worse for man, If he liv'd not in fellowship on earth?" "Yea," answer'd I; "nor here a reason needs." "And may that be, if different estates Grow not of different duties in your life? Consult your teacher, and he tells you 'no."' Thus did he come, deducing to this point, And then concluded: "For this cause behooves, The roots, from whence your operations come, Must differ. Therefore one is Solon born; Another, Xerxes; and Melchisidec A third; and he a fourth, whose airy voyage Cost him his son. In her circuitous course, Nature, that is the seal to mortal wax, Doth well her art, but no distinctions owns 'Twixt one or other household. Hence befalls That Esau is so wide of Jacob: hence Quirinus of so base a father springs, He dates from Mars his lineage. Were it not That providence celestial overrul'd, Nature, in generation, must the path Trac'd by the generator, still pursue Unswervingly. Thus place I in thy sight That, which was late behind thee. But, in sign Of more affection for thee, 't is my will Thou wear this corollary. Nature ever Finding discordant fortune, like all seed Out of its proper climate, thrives but ill. And were the world below content to mark And work on the foundation nature lays, It would not lack supply of excellence. But ye perversely to religion strain Him, who was born to gird on him the sword, And of the fluent phrasemen make your king; Therefore your steps have wander'd from the paths." CANTO IX After solution of my doubt, thy Charles, O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake That must befall his seed: but, "Tell it not," Said he, "and let the destin'd years come round." Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed Of sorrow well-deserv'd shall quit your wrongs. And now the visage of that saintly light Was to the sun, that fills it, turn'd again, As to the good, whose plenitude of bliss Sufficeth all. O ye misguided souls! Infatuate, who from such a good estrange Your hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity, Alas for you!--And lo! toward me, next, Another of those splendent forms approach'd, That, by its outward bright'ning, testified The will it had to pleasure me. The eyes Of Beatrice, resting, as before, Firmly upon me, manifested forth Approval of my wish. "And O," I cried, "Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform'd; And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughts I can reflect on thee." Thereat the light, That yet was new to me, from the recess, Where it before was singing, thus began, As one who joys in kindness: "In that part Of the deprav'd Italian land, which lies Between Rialto, and the fountain-springs Of Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise, But to no lofty eminence, a hill, From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend, That sorely sheet the region. From one root I and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza: And here I glitter, for that by its light This star o'ercame me. Yet I naught repine, Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot, Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive. "This jewel, that is next me in our heaven, Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left, And not to perish, ere these hundred years Five times absolve their round. Consider thou, If to excel be worthy man's endeavour, When such life may attend the first. Yet they Care not for this, the crowd that now are girt By Adice and Tagliamento, still Impenitent, tho' scourg'd. The hour is near, When for their stubbornness at Padua's marsh The water shall be chang'd, that laves Vicena And where Cagnano meets with Sile, one Lords it, and bears his head aloft, for whom The web is now a-warping. Feltro too Shall sorrow for its godless shepherd's fault, Of so deep stain, that never, for the like, Was Malta's bar unclos'd. Too large should be The skillet, that would hold Ferrara's blood, And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it, The which this priest, in show of party-zeal, Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suit The country's custom. We descry above, Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to us Reflected shine the judgments of our God: Whence these our sayings we avouch for good." She ended, and appear'd on other thoughts Intent, re-ent'ring on the wheel she late Had left. That other joyance meanwhile wax'd A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing, Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun, For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes Of gladness, as here laughter: and below, As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. "God seeth all: and in him is thy sight," Said I, "blest Spirit! Therefore will of his Cannot to thee be dark. Why then delays Thy voice to satisfy my wish untold, That voice which joins the inexpressive song, Pastime of heav'n, the which those ardours sing, That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread? I would not wait thy asking, wert thou known To me, as thoroughly I to thee am known." He forthwith answ'ring, thus his words began: "The valley' of waters, widest next to that Which doth the earth engarland, shapes its course, Between discordant shores, against the sun Inward so far, it makes meridian there, Where was before th' horizon. Of that vale Dwelt I upon the shore, 'twixt Ebro's stream And Macra's, that divides with passage brief Genoan bounds from Tuscan. East and west Are nearly one to Begga and my land, Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm. Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco: And I did bear impression of this heav'n, That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flame Glow'd Belus' daughter, injuring alike Sichaeus and Creusa, than did I, Long as it suited the unripen'd down That fledg'd my cheek: nor she of Rhodope, That was beguiled of Demophoon; Nor Jove's son, when the charms of Iole Were shrin'd within his heart. And yet there hides No sorrowful repentance here, but mirth, Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind), But for the virtue, whose o'erruling sway And providence have wrought thus quaintly. Here The skill is look'd into, that fashioneth With such effectual working, and the good Discern'd, accruing to this upper world From that below. But fully to content Thy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth, Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst, Who of this light is denizen, that here Beside me sparkles, as the sun-beam doth On the clear wave. Know then, the soul of Rahab Is in that gladsome harbour, to our tribe United, and the foremost rank assign'd. He to that heav'n, at which the shadow ends Of your sublunar world, was taken up, First, in Christ's triumph, of all souls redeem'd: For well behoov'd, that, in some part of heav'n, She should remain a trophy, to declare The mighty contest won with either palm; For that she favour'd first the high exploit Of Joshua on the holy land, whereof The Pope recks little now. Thy city, plant Of him, that on his Maker turn'd the back, And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung, Engenders and expands the cursed flower, That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs, Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this, The gospel and great teachers laid aside, The decretals, as their stuft margins show, Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals, Intent on these, ne'er journey but in thought To Nazareth, where Gabriel op'd his wings. Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican, And other most selected parts of Rome, That were the grave of Peter's soldiery, Shall be deliver'd from the adult'rous bond." CANTO X Looking into his first-born with the love, Which breathes from both eternal, the first Might Ineffable, whence eye or mind Can roam, hath in such order all dispos'd, As none may see and fail to enjoy. Raise, then, O reader! to the lofty wheels, with me, Thy ken directed to the point, whereat One motion strikes on th' other. There begin Thy wonder of the mighty Architect, Who loves his work so inwardly, his eye Doth ever watch it. See, how thence oblique Brancheth the circle, where the planets roll To pour their wished influence on the world; Whose path not bending thus, in heav'n above Much virtue would be lost, and here on earth, All power well nigh extinct: or, from direct Were its departure distant more or less, I' th' universal order, great defect Must, both in heav'n and here beneath, ensue. Now rest thee, reader! on thy bench, and muse Anticipative of the feast to come; So shall delight make thee not feel thy toil. Lo! I have set before thee, for thyself Feed now: the matter I indite, henceforth Demands entire my thought. Join'd with the part, Which late we told of, the great minister Of nature, that upon the world imprints The virtue of the heaven, and doles out Time for us with his beam, went circling on Along the spires, where each hour sooner comes; And I was with him, weetless of ascent, As one, who till arriv'd, weets not his coming. For Beatrice, she who passeth on So suddenly from good to better, time Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs Have been her brightness! What she was i' th' sun (Where I had enter'd), not through change of hue, But light transparent--did I summon up Genius, art, practice--I might not so speak, It should be e'er imagin'd: yet believ'd It may be, and the sight be justly crav'd. And if our fantasy fail of such height, What marvel, since no eye above the sun Hath ever travel'd? Such are they dwell here, Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire, Who of his spirit and of his offspring shows; And holds them still enraptur'd with the view. And thus to me Beatrice: "Thank, oh thank, The Sun of angels, him, who by his grace To this perceptible hath lifted thee." Never was heart in such devotion bound, And with complacency so absolute Dispos'd to render up itself to God, As mine was at those words: and so entire The love for Him, that held me, it eclips'd Beatrice in oblivion. Naught displeas'd Was she, but smil'd thereat so joyously, That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake And scatter'd my collected mind abroad. Then saw I a bright band, in liveliness Surpassing, who themselves did make the crown, And us their centre: yet more sweet in voice, Than in their visage beaming. Cinctur'd thus, Sometime Latona's daughter we behold, When the impregnate air retains the thread, That weaves her zone. In the celestial court, Whence I return, are many jewels found, So dear and beautiful, they cannot brook Transporting from that realm: and of these lights Such was the song. Who doth not prune his wing To soar up thither, let him look from thence For tidings from the dumb. When, singing thus, Those burning suns that circled round us thrice, As nearest stars around the fixed pole, Then seem'd they like to ladies, from the dance Not ceasing, but suspense, in silent pause, List'ning, till they have caught the strain anew: Suspended so they stood: and, from within, Thus heard I one, who spake: "Since with its beam The grace, whence true love lighteth first his flame, That after doth increase by loving, shines So multiplied in thee, it leads thee up Along this ladder, down whose hallow'd steps None e'er descend, and mount them not again, Who from his phial should refuse thee wine To slake thy thirst, no less constrained were, Than water flowing not unto the sea. Thou fain wouldst hear, what plants are these, that bloom In the bright garland, which, admiring, girds This fair dame round, who strengthens thee for heav'n. I then was of the lambs, that Dominic Leads, for his saintly flock, along the way, Where well they thrive, not sworn with vanity. He, nearest on my right hand, brother was, And master to me: Albert of Cologne Is this: and of Aquinum, Thomas I. If thou of all the rest wouldst be assur'd, Let thine eye, waiting on the words I speak, In circuit journey round the blessed wreath. That next resplendence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who to either forum lent Such help, as favour wins in Paradise. The other, nearest, who adorns our quire, Was Peter, he that with the widow gave To holy church his treasure. The fifth light, Goodliest of all, is by such love inspired, That all your world craves tidings of its doom: Within, there is the lofty light, endow'd With sapience so profound, if truth be truth, That with a ken of such wide amplitude No second hath arisen. Next behold That taper's radiance, to whose view was shown, Clearliest, the nature and the ministry Angelical, while yet in flesh it dwelt. In the other little light serenely smiles That pleader for the Christian temples, he Who did provide Augustin of his lore. Now, if thy mind's eye pass from light to light, Upon my praises following, of the eighth Thy thirst is next. The saintly soul, that shows The world's deceitfulness, to all who hear him, Is, with the sight of all the good, that is, Blest there. The limbs, whence it was driven, lie Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And exile came it here. Lo! further on, Where flames the arduous Spirit of Isidore, Of Bede, and Richard, more than man, erewhile, In deep discernment. Lastly this, from whom Thy look on me reverteth, was the beam Of one, whose spirit, on high musings bent, Rebuk'd the ling'ring tardiness of death. It is the eternal light of Sigebert, Who 'scap'd not envy, when of truth he argued, Reading in the straw-litter'd street." Forthwith, As clock, that calleth up the spouse of God To win her bridegroom's love at matin's hour, Each part of other fitly drawn and urg'd, Sends out a tinkling sound, of note so sweet, Affection springs in well-disposed breast; Thus saw I move the glorious wheel, thus heard Voice answ'ring voice, so musical and soft, It can be known but where day endless shines. CANTO XI O fond anxiety of mortal men! How vain and inconclusive arguments Are those, which make thee beat thy wings below For statues one, and one for aphorisms Was hunting; this the priesthood follow'd, that By force or sophistry aspir'd to rule; To rob another, and another sought By civil business wealth; one moiling lay Tangled in net of sensual delight, And one to witless indolence resign'd; What time from all these empty things escap'd, With Beatrice, I thus gloriously Was rais'd aloft, and made the guest of heav'n. They of the circle to that point, each one. Where erst it was, had turn'd; and steady glow'd, As candle in his socket. Then within The lustre, that erewhile bespake me, smiling With merer gladness, heard I thus begin: "E'en as his beam illumes me, so I look Into the eternal light, and clearly mark Thy thoughts, from whence they rise. Thou art in doubt, And wouldst, that I should bolt my words afresh In such plain open phrase, as may be smooth To thy perception, where I told thee late That 'well they thrive;' and that 'no second such Hath risen,' which no small distinction needs. "The providence, that governeth the world, In depth of counsel by created ken Unfathomable, to the end that she, Who with loud cries was 'spous'd in precious blood, Might keep her footing towards her well-belov'd, Safe in herself and constant unto him, Hath two ordain'd, who should on either hand In chief escort her: one seraphic all In fervency; for wisdom upon earth, The other splendour of cherubic light. I but of one will tell: he tells of both, Who one commendeth which of them so'er Be taken: for their deeds were to one end. "Between Tupino, and the wave, that falls From blest Ubaldo's chosen hill, there hangs Rich slope of mountain high, whence heat and cold Are wafted through Perugia's eastern gate: And Norcera with Gualdo, in its rear Mourn for their heavy yoke. Upon that side, Where it doth break its steepness most, arose A sun upon the world, as duly this From Ganges doth: therefore let none, who speak Of that place, say Ascesi; for its name Were lamely so deliver'd; but the East, To call things rightly, be it henceforth styl'd. He was not yet much distant from his rising, When his good influence 'gan to bless the earth. A dame to whom none openeth pleasure's gate More than to death, was, 'gainst his father's will, His stripling choice: and he did make her his, Before the Spiritual court, by nuptial bonds, And in his father's sight: from day to day, Then lov'd her more devoutly. She, bereav'd Of her first husband, slighted and obscure, Thousand and hundred years and more, remain'd Without a single suitor, till he came. Nor aught avail'd, that, with Amyclas, she Was found unmov'd at rumour of his voice, Who shook the world: nor aught her constant boldness Whereby with Christ she mounted on the cross, When Mary stay'd beneath. But not to deal Thus closely with thee longer, take at large The rovers' titles--Poverty and Francis. Their concord and glad looks, wonder and love, And sweet regard gave birth to holy thoughts, So much, that venerable Bernard first Did bare his feet, and, in pursuit of peace So heavenly, ran, yet deem'd his footing slow. O hidden riches! O prolific good! Egidius bares him next, and next Sylvester, And follow both the bridegroom; so the bride Can please them. Thenceforth goes he on his way, The father and the master, with his spouse, And with that family, whom now the cord Girt humbly: nor did abjectness of heart Weigh down his eyelids, for that he was son Of Pietro Bernardone, and by men In wond'rous sort despis'd. But royally His hard intention he to Innocent Set forth, and from him first receiv'd the seal On his religion. Then, when numerous flock'd The tribe of lowly ones, that trac'd HIS steps, Whose marvellous life deservedly were sung In heights empyreal, through Honorius' hand A second crown, to deck their Guardian's virtues, Was by the eternal Spirit inwreath'd: and when He had, through thirst of martyrdom, stood up In the proud Soldan's presence, and there preach'd Christ and his followers; but found the race Unripen'd for conversion: back once more He hasted (not to intermit his toil), And reap'd Ausonian lands. On the hard rock, 'Twixt Arno and the Tyber, he from Christ Took the last Signet, which his limbs two years Did carry. Then the season come, that he, Who to such good had destin'd him, was pleas'd T' advance him to the meed, which he had earn'd By his self-humbling, to his brotherhood, As their just heritage, he gave in charge His dearest lady, and enjoin'd their love And faith to her: and, from her bosom, will'd His goodly spirit should move forth, returning To its appointed kingdom, nor would have His body laid upon another bier. "Think now of one, who were a fit colleague, To keep the bark of Peter in deep sea Helm'd to right point; and such our Patriarch was. Therefore who follow him, as he enjoins, Thou mayst be certain, take good lading in. But hunger of new viands tempts his flock, So that they needs into strange pastures wide Must spread them: and the more remote from him The stragglers wander, so much mole they come Home to the sheep-fold, destitute of milk. There are of them, in truth, who fear their harm, And to the shepherd cleave; but these so few, A little stuff may furnish out their cloaks. "Now, if my words be clear, if thou have ta'en Good heed, if that, which I have told, recall To mind, thy wish may be in part fulfill'd: For thou wilt see the point from whence they split, Nor miss of the reproof, which that implies, 'That well they thrive not sworn with vanity."' CANTO XII Soon as its final word the blessed flame Had rais'd for utterance, straight the holy mill Began to wheel, nor yet had once revolv'd, Or ere another, circling, compass'd it, Motion to motion, song to song, conjoining, Song, that as much our muses doth excel, Our Sirens with their tuneful pipes, as ray Of primal splendour doth its faint reflex. As when, if Juno bid her handmaid forth, Two arches parallel, and trick'd alike, Span the thin cloud, the outer taking birth From that within (in manner of that voice Whom love did melt away, as sun the mist), And they who gaze, presageful call to mind The compact, made with Noah, of the world No more to be o'erflow'd; about us thus Of sempiternal roses, bending, wreath'd Those garlands twain, and to the innermost E'en thus th' external answered. When the footing, And other great festivity, of song, And radiance, light with light accordant, each Jocund and blythe, had at their pleasure still'd (E'en as the eyes by quick volition mov'd, Are shut and rais'd together), from the heart Of one amongst the new lights mov'd a voice, That made me seem like needle to the star, In turning to its whereabout, and thus Began: "The love, that makes me beautiful, Prompts me to tell of th' other guide, for whom Such good of mine is spoken. Where one is, The other worthily should also be; That as their warfare was alike, alike Should be their glory. Slow, and full of doubt, And with thin ranks, after its banner mov'd The army of Christ (which it so clearly cost To reappoint), when its imperial Head, Who reigneth ever, for the drooping host Did make provision, thorough grace alone, And not through its deserving. As thou heard'st, Two champions to the succour of his spouse He sent, who by their deeds and words might join Again his scatter'd people. In that clime, Where springs the pleasant west-wind to unfold The fresh leaves, with which Europe sees herself New-garmented; nor from those billows far, Beyond whose chiding, after weary course, The sun doth sometimes hide him, safe abides The happy Callaroga, under guard Of the great shield, wherein the lion lies Subjected and supreme. And there was born The loving million of the Christian faith, The hollow'd wrestler, gentle to his own, And to his enemies terrible. So replete His soul with lively virtue, that when first Created, even in the mother's womb, It prophesied. When, at the sacred font, The spousals were complete 'twixt faith and him, Where pledge of mutual safety was exchang'd, The dame, who was his surety, in her sleep Beheld the wondrous fruit, that was from him And from his heirs to issue. And that such He might be construed, as indeed he was, She was inspir'd to name him of his owner, Whose he was wholly, and so call'd him Dominic. And I speak of him, as the labourer, Whom Christ in his own garden chose to be His help-mate. Messenger he seem'd, and friend Fast-knit to Christ; and the first love he show'd, Was after the first counsel that Christ gave. Many a time his nurse, at entering found That he had ris'n in silence, and was prostrate, As who should say, "My errand was for this." O happy father! Felix rightly nam'd! O favour'd mother! rightly nam'd Joanna! If that do mean, as men interpret it. Not for the world's sake, for which now they pore Upon Ostiense and Taddeo's page, But for the real manna, soon he grew Mighty in learning, and did set himself To go about the vineyard, that soon turns To wan and wither'd, if not tended well: And from the see (whose bounty to the just And needy is gone by, not through its fault, But his who fills it basely, he besought, No dispensation for commuted wrong, Nor the first vacant fortune, nor the tenth), That to God's paupers rightly appertain, But, 'gainst an erring and degenerate world, Licence to fight, in favour of that seed, From which the twice twelve cions gird thee round. Then, with sage doctrine and good will to help, Forth on his great apostleship he far'd, Like torrent bursting from a lofty vein; And, dashing 'gainst the stocks of heresy, Smote fiercest, where resistance was most stout. Thence many rivulets have since been turn'd, Over the garden Catholic to lead Their living waters, and have fed its plants. "If such one wheel of that two-yoked car, Wherein the holy church defended her, And rode triumphant through the civil broil. Thou canst not doubt its fellow's excellence, Which Thomas, ere my coming, hath declar'd So courteously unto thee. But the track, Which its smooth fellies made, is now deserted: That mouldy mother is where late were lees. His family, that wont to trace his path, Turn backward, and invert their steps; erelong To rue the gathering in of their ill crop, When the rejected tares in vain shall ask Admittance to the barn. I question not But he, who search'd our volume, leaf by leaf, Might still find page with this inscription on't, 'I am as I was wont.' Yet such were not From Acquasparta nor Casale, whence Of those, who come to meddle with the text, One stretches and another cramps its rule. Bonaventura's life in me behold, From Bagnororegio, one, who in discharge Of my great offices still laid aside All sinister aim. Illuminato here, And Agostino join me: two they were, Among the first of those barefooted meek ones, Who sought God's friendship in the cord: with them Hugues of Saint Victor, Pietro Mangiadore, And he of Spain in his twelve volumes shining, Nathan the prophet, Metropolitan Chrysostom, and Anselmo, and, who deign'd To put his hand to the first art, Donatus. Raban is here: and at my side there shines Calabria's abbot, Joachim, endow'd With soul prophetic. The bright courtesy Of friar Thomas, and his goodly lore, Have mov'd me to the blazon of a peer So worthy, and with me have mov'd this throng." CANTO XIII Let him, who would conceive what now I saw, Imagine (and retain the image firm, As mountain rock, the whilst he hears me speak), Of stars fifteen, from midst the ethereal host Selected, that, with lively ray serene, O'ercome the massiest air: thereto imagine The wain, that, in the bosom of our sky, Spins ever on its axle night and day, With the bright summit of that horn which swells Due from the pole, round which the first wheel rolls, T' have rang'd themselves in fashion of two signs In heav'n, such as Ariadne made, When death's chill seized her; and that one of them Did compass in the other's beam; and both In such sort whirl around, that each should tend With opposite motion and, conceiving thus, Of that true constellation, and the dance Twofold, that circled me, he shall attain As 't were the shadow; for things there as much Surpass our usage, as the swiftest heav'n Is swifter than the Chiana. There was sung No Bacchus, and no Io Paean, but Three Persons in the Godhead, and in one Substance that nature and the human join'd. The song fulfill'd its measure; and to us Those saintly lights attended, happier made At each new minist'ring. Then silence brake, Amid th' accordant sons of Deity, That luminary, in which the wondrous life Of the meek man of God was told to me; And thus it spake: "One ear o' th' harvest thresh'd, And its grain safely stor'd, sweet charity Invites me with the other to like toil. "Thou know'st, that in the bosom, whence the rib Was ta'en to fashion that fair cheek, whose taste All the world pays for, and in that, which pierc'd By the keen lance, both after and before Such satisfaction offer'd, as outweighs Each evil in the scale, whate'er of light To human nature is allow'd, must all Have by his virtue been infus'd, who form'd Both one and other: and thou thence admir'st In that I told thee, of beatitudes A second, there is none, to his enclos'd In the fifth radiance. Open now thine eyes To what I answer thee; and thou shalt see Thy deeming and my saying meet in truth, As centre in the round. That which dies not, And that which can die, are but each the beam Of that idea, which our Soverign Sire Engendereth loving; for that lively light, Which passeth from his brightness; not disjoin'd From him, nor from his love triune with them, Doth, through his bounty, congregate itself, Mirror'd, as 't were in new existences, Itself unalterable and ever one. "Descending hence unto the lowest powers, Its energy so sinks, at last it makes But brief contingencies: for so I name Things generated, which the heav'nly orbs Moving, with seed or without seed, produce. Their wax, and that which molds it, differ much: And thence with lustre, more or less, it shows Th' ideal stamp impress: so that one tree According to his kind, hath better fruit, And worse: and, at your birth, ye, mortal men, Are in your talents various. Were the wax Molded with nice exactness, and the heav'n In its disposing influence supreme, The lustre of the seal should be complete: But nature renders it imperfect ever, Resembling thus the artist in her work, Whose faultering hand is faithless to his skill. Howe'er, if love itself dispose, and mark The primal virtue, kindling with bright view, There all perfection is vouchsafed; and such The clay was made, accomplish'd with each gift, That life can teem with; such the burden fill'd The virgin's bosom: so that I commend Thy judgment, that the human nature ne'er Was or can be, such as in them it was. "Did I advance no further than this point, 'How then had he no peer?' thou might'st reply. But, that what now appears not, may appear Right plainly, ponder, who he was, and what (When he was bidden 'Ask' ), the motive sway'd To his requesting. I have spoken thus, That thou mayst see, he was a king, who ask'd For wisdom, to the end he might be king Sufficient: not the number to search out Of the celestial movers; or to know, If necessary with contingent e'er Have made necessity; or whether that Be granted, that first motion is; or if Of the mid circle can, by art, be made Triangle with each corner, blunt or sharp. "Whence, noting that, which I have said, and this, Thou kingly prudence and that ken mayst learn, At which the dart of my intention aims. And, marking clearly, that I told thee, 'Risen,' Thou shalt discern it only hath respect To kings, of whom are many, and the good Are rare. With this distinction take my words; And they may well consist with that which thou Of the first human father dost believe, And of our well-beloved. And let this Henceforth be led unto thy feet, to make Thee slow in motion, as a weary man, Both to the 'yea' and to the 'nay' thou seest not. For he among the fools is down full low, Whose affirmation, or denial, is Without distinction, in each case alike Since it befalls, that in most instances Current opinion leads to false: and then Affection bends the judgment to her ply. "Much more than vainly doth he loose from shore, Since he returns not such as he set forth, Who fishes for the truth and wanteth skill. And open proofs of this unto the world Have been afforded in Parmenides, Melissus, Bryso, and the crowd beside, Who journey'd on, and knew not whither: so did Sabellius, Arius, and the other fools, Who, like to scymitars, reflected back The scripture-image, by distortion marr'd. "Let not the people be too swift to judge, As one who reckons on the blades in field, Or ere the crop be ripe. For I have seen The thorn frown rudely all the winter long And after bear the rose upon its top; And bark, that all the way across the sea Ran straight and speedy, perish at the last, E'en in the haven's mouth seeing one steal, Another brine, his offering to the priest, Let not Dame Birtha and Sir Martin thence Into heav'n's counsels deem that they can pry: For one of these may rise, the other fall." CANTO XIV From centre to the circle, and so back From circle to the centre, water moves In the round chalice, even as the blow Impels it, inwardly, or from without. Such was the image glanc'd into my mind, As the great spirit of Aquinum ceas'd; And Beatrice after him her words Resum'd alternate: "Need there is (tho' yet He tells it to you not in words, nor e'en In thought) that he should fathom to its depth Another mystery. Tell him, if the light, Wherewith your substance blooms, shall stay with you Eternally, as now: and, if it doth, How, when ye shall regain your visible forms, The sight may without harm endure the change, That also tell." As those, who in a ring Tread the light measure, in their fitful mirth Raise loud the voice, and spring with gladder bound; Thus, at the hearing of that pious suit, The saintly circles in their tourneying And wond'rous note attested new delight. Whoso laments, that we must doff this garb Of frail mortality, thenceforth to live Immortally above, he hath not seen The sweet refreshing, of that heav'nly shower. Him, who lives ever, and for ever reigns In mystic union of the Three in One, Unbounded, bounding all, each spirit thrice Sang, with such melody, as but to hear For highest merit were an ample meed. And from the lesser orb the goodliest light, With gentle voice and mild, such as perhaps The angel's once to Mary, thus replied: "Long as the joy of Paradise shall last, Our love shall shine around that raiment, bright, As fervent; fervent, as in vision blest; And that as far in blessedness exceeding, As it hath grave beyond its virtue great. Our shape, regarmented with glorious weeds Of saintly flesh, must, being thus entire, Show yet more gracious. Therefore shall increase, Whate'er of light, gratuitous, imparts The Supreme Good; light, ministering aid, The better disclose his glory: whence The vision needs increasing, much increase The fervour, which it kindles; and that too The ray, that comes from it. But as the greed Which gives out flame, yet it its whiteness shines More lively than that, and so preserves Its proper semblance; thus this circling sphere Of splendour, shall to view less radiant seem, Than shall our fleshly robe, which yonder earth Now covers. Nor will such excess of light O'erpower us, in corporeal organs made Firm, and susceptible of all delight." So ready and so cordial an "Amen," Followed from either choir, as plainly spoke Desire of their dead bodies; yet perchance Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear, Mothers and sires, and those whom best they lov'd, Ere they were made imperishable flame. And lo! forthwith there rose up round about A lustre over that already there, Of equal clearness, like the brightening up Of the horizon. As at an evening hour Of twilight, new appearances through heav'n Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried; So there new substances, methought began To rise in view; and round the other twain Enwheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. O gentle glitter of eternal beam! With what a such whiteness did it flow, O'erpowering vision in me! But so fair, So passing lovely, Beatrice show'd, Mind cannot follow it, nor words express Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regain'd Power to look up, and I beheld myself, Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss Translated: for the star, with warmer smile Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. With all the heart, and with that tongue which speaks The same in all, an holocaust I made To God, befitting the new grace vouchsaf'd. And from my bosom had not yet upsteam'd The fuming of that incense, when I knew The rite accepted. With such mighty sheen And mantling crimson, in two listed rays The splendours shot before me, that I cried, "God of Sabaoth! that does prank them thus!" As leads the galaxy from pole to pole, Distinguish'd into greater lights and less, Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell; So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars, Those rays describ'd the venerable sign, That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. Here memory mocks the toil of genius. Christ Beam'd on that cross; and pattern fails me now. But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ Will pardon me for that I leave untold, When in the flecker'd dawning he shall spy The glitterance of Christ. From horn to horn, And 'tween the summit and the base did move Lights, scintillating, as they met and pass'd. Thus oft are seen, with ever-changeful glance, Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow, The atomies of bodies, long or short, To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line Checkers the shadow, interpos'd by art Against the noontide heat. And as the chime Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and help With many strings, a pleasant dining makes To him, who heareth not distinct the note; So from the lights, which there appear'd to me, Gather'd along the cross a melody, That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment Possess'd me. Yet I mark'd it was a hymn Of lofty praises; for there came to me "Arise and conquer," as to one who hears And comprehends not. Me such ecstasy O'ercame, that never till that hour was thing That held me in so sweet imprisonment. Perhaps my saying over bold appears, Accounting less the pleasure of those eyes, Whereon to look fulfilleth all desire. But he, who is aware those living seals Of every beauty work with quicker force, The higher they are ris'n; and that there I had not turn'd me to them; he may well Excuse me that, whereof in my excuse I do accuse me, and may own my truth; That holy pleasure here not yet reveal'd, Which grows in transport as we mount aloof. CANTO XV True love, that ever shows itself as clear In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, Silenced that lyre harmonious, and still'd The sacred chords, that are by heav'n's right hand Unwound and tighten'd, flow to righteous prayers Should they not hearken, who, to give me will For praying, in accordance thus were mute? He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief, Who, for the love of thing that lasteth not, Despoils himself forever of that love. As oft along the still and pure serene, At nightfall, glides a sudden trail of fire, Attracting with involuntary heed The eye to follow it, erewhile at rest, And seems some star that shifted place in heav'n, Only that, whence it kindles, none is lost, And it is soon extinct; thus from the horn, That on the dexter of the cross extends, Down to its foot, one luminary ran From mid the cluster shone there; yet no gem Dropp'd from its foil; and through the beamy list Like flame in alabaster, glow'd its course. So forward stretch'd him (if of credence aught Our greater muse may claim) the pious ghost Of old Anchises, in the' Elysian bower, When he perceiv'd his son. "O thou, my blood! O most exceeding grace divine! to whom, As now to thee, hath twice the heav'nly gate Been e'er unclos'd?" so spake the light; whence I Turn'd me toward him; then unto my dame My sight directed, and on either side Amazement waited me; for in her eyes Was lighted such a smile, I thought that mine Had div'd unto the bottom of my grace And of my bliss in Paradise. Forthwith To hearing and to sight grateful alike, The spirit to his proem added things I understood not, so profound he spake; Yet not of choice but through necessity Mysterious; for his high conception scar'd Beyond the mark of mortals. When the flight Of holy transport had so spent its rage, That nearer to the level of our thought The speech descended, the first sounds I heard Were, "Best he thou, Triunal Deity! That hast such favour in my seed vouchsaf'd!" Then follow'd: "No unpleasant thirst, tho' long, Which took me reading in the sacred book, Whose leaves or white or dusky never change, Thou hast allay'd, my son, within this light, From whence my voice thou hear'st; more thanks to her. Who for such lofty mounting has with plumes Begirt thee. Thou dost deem thy thoughts to me From him transmitted, who is first of all, E'en as all numbers ray from unity; And therefore dost not ask me who I am, Or why to thee more joyous I appear, Than any other in this gladsome throng. The truth is as thou deem'st; for in this hue Both less and greater in that mirror look, In which thy thoughts, or ere thou think'st, are shown. But, that the love, which keeps me wakeful ever, Urging with sacred thirst of sweet desire, May be contended fully, let thy voice, Fearless, and frank and jocund, utter forth Thy will distinctly, utter forth the wish, Whereto my ready answer stands decreed." I turn'd me to Beatrice; and she heard Ere I had spoken, smiling, an assent, That to my will gave wings; and I began "To each among your tribe, what time ye kenn'd The nature, in whom naught unequal dwells, Wisdom and love were in one measure dealt; For that they are so equal in the sun, From whence ye drew your radiance and your heat, As makes all likeness scant. But will and means, In mortals, for the cause ye well discern, With unlike wings are fledge. A mortal I Experience inequality like this, And therefore give no thanks, but in the heart, For thy paternal greeting. This howe'er I pray thee, living topaz! that ingemm'st This precious jewel, let me hear thy name." "I am thy root, O leaf! whom to expect Even, hath pleas'd me:" thus the prompt reply Prefacing, next it added; "he, of whom Thy kindred appellation comes, and who, These hundred years and more, on its first ledge Hath circuited the mountain, was my son And thy great grandsire. Well befits, his long Endurance should be shorten'd by thy deeds. "Florence, within her ancient limit-mark, Which calls her still to matin prayers and noon, Was chaste and sober, and abode in peace. She had no armlets and no head-tires then, No purfled dames, no zone, that caught the eye More than the person did. Time was not yet, When at his daughter's birth the sire grew pale. For fear the age and dowry should exceed On each side just proportion. House was none Void of its family; nor yet had come Hardanapalus, to exhibit feats Of chamber prowess. Montemalo yet O'er our suburban turret rose; as much To be surpass in fall, as in its rising. I saw Bellincione Berti walk abroad In leathern girdle and a clasp of bone; And, with no artful colouring on her cheeks, His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw Of Nerli and of Vecchio well content With unrob'd jerkin; and their good dames handling The spindle and the flax; O happy they! Each sure of burial in her native land, And none left desolate a-bed for France! One wak'd to tend the cradle, hushing it With sounds that lull'd the parent's infancy: Another, with her maidens, drawing off The tresses from the distaff, lectur'd them Old tales of Troy and Fesole and Rome. A Salterello and Cianghella we Had held as strange a marvel, as ye would A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. "In such compos'd and seemly fellowship, Such faithful and such fair equality, In so sweet household, Mary at my birth Bestow'd me, call'd on with loud cries; and there In your old baptistery, I was made Christian at once and Cacciaguida; as were My brethren, Eliseo and Moronto. "From Valdipado came to me my spouse, And hence thy surname grew. I follow'd then The Emperor Conrad; and his knighthood he Did gird on me; in such good part he took My valiant service. After him I went To testify against that evil law, Whose people, by the shepherd's fault, possess Your right, usurping. There, by that foul crew Was I releas'd from the deceitful world, Whose base affection many a spirit soils, And from the martyrdom came to this peace." CANTO XVI O slight respect of man's nobility! I never shall account it marvelous, That our infirm affection here below Thou mov'st to boasting, when I could not choose, E'en in that region of unwarp'd desire, In heav'n itself, but make my vaunt in thee! Yet cloak thou art soon shorten'd, for that time, Unless thou be eked out from day to day, Goes round thee with his shears. Resuming then With greeting such, as Rome, was first to bear, But since hath disaccustom'd I began; And Beatrice, that a little space Was sever'd, smil'd reminding me of her, Whose cough embolden'd (as the story holds) To first offence the doubting Guenever. "You are my sire," said I, "you give me heart Freely to speak my thought: above myself You raise me. Through so many streams with joy My soul is fill'd, that gladness wells from it; So that it bears the mighty tide, and bursts not Say then, my honour'd stem! what ancestors Where those you sprang from, and what years were mark'd In your first childhood? Tell me of the fold, That hath Saint John for guardian, what was then Its state, and who in it were highest seated?" As embers, at the breathing of the wind, Their flame enliven, so that light I saw Shine at my blandishments; and, as it grew More fair to look on, so with voice more sweet, Yet not in this our modern phrase, forthwith It answer'd: "From the day, when it was said 'Hail Virgin!' to the throes, by which my mother, Who now is sainted, lighten'd her of me Whom she was heavy with, this fire had come, Five hundred fifty times and thrice, its beams To reilumine underneath the foot Of its own lion. They, of whom I sprang, And I, had there our birth-place, where the last Partition of our city first is reach'd By him, that runs her annual game. Thus much Suffice of my forefathers: who they were, And whence they hither came, more honourable It is to pass in silence than to tell. All those, who in that time were there from Mars Until the Baptist, fit to carry arms, Were but the fifth of them this day alive. But then the citizen's blood, that now is mix'd From Campi and Certaldo and Fighine, Ran purely through the last mechanic's veins. O how much better were it, that these people Were neighbours to you, and that at Galluzzo And at Trespiano, ye should have your bound'ry, Than to have them within, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's hind, and Signa's, him, That hath his eye already keen for bart'ring! Had not the people, which of all the world Degenerates most, been stepdame unto Caesar, But, as a mother, gracious to her son; Such one, as hath become a Florentine, And trades and traffics, had been turn'd adrift To Simifonte, where his grandsire ply'd The beggar's craft. The Conti were possess'd Of Montemurlo still: the Cerchi still Were in Acone's parish; nor had haply From Valdigrieve past the Buondelmonte. The city's malady hath ever source In the confusion of its persons, as The body's, in variety of food: And the blind bull falls with a steeper plunge, Than the blind lamb; and oftentimes one sword Doth more and better execution, Than five. Mark Luni, Urbisaglia mark, How they are gone, and after them how go Chiusi and Sinigaglia; and 't will seem No longer new or strange to thee to hear, That families fail, when cities have their end. All things, that appertain t' ye, like yourselves, Are mortal: but mortality in some Ye mark not, they endure so long, and you Pass by so suddenly. And as the moon Doth, by the rolling of her heav'nly sphere, Hide and reveal the strand unceasingly; So fortune deals with Florence. Hence admire not At what of them I tell thee, whose renown Time covers, the first Florentines. I saw The Ughi, Catilini and Filippi, The Alberichi, Greci and Ormanni, Now in their wane, illustrious citizens: And great as ancient, of Sannella him, With him of Arca saw, and Soldanieri And Ardinghi, and Bostichi. At the poop, That now is laden with new felony, So cumb'rous it may speedily sink the bark, The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprung The County Guido, and whoso hath since His title from the fam'd Bellincione ta'en. Fair governance was yet an art well priz'd By him of Pressa: Galigaio show'd The gilded hilt and pommel, in his house. The column, cloth'd with verrey, still was seen Unshaken: the Sacchetti still were great, Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci, With them who blush to hear the bushel nam'd. Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunk Was in its strength: and to the curule chairs Sizii and Arigucci yet were drawn. How mighty them I saw, whom since their pride Hath undone! and in all her goodly deeds Florence was by the bullets of bright gold O'erflourish'd. Such the sires of those, who now, As surely as your church is vacant, flock Into her consistory, and at leisure There stall them and grow fat. The o'erweening brood, That plays the dragon after him that flees, But unto such, as turn and show the tooth, Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb, Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem'd, That Ubertino of Donati grudg'd His father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe. Already Caponsacco had descended Into the mart from Fesole: and Giuda And Infangato were good citizens. A thing incredible I tell, tho' true: The gateway, named from those of Pera, led Into the narrow circuit of your walls. Each one, who bears the sightly quarterings Of the great Baron (he whose name and worth The festival of Thomas still revives) His knighthood and his privilege retain'd; Albeit one, who borders them With gold, This day is mingled with the common herd. In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt, And Importuni: well for its repose Had it still lack'd of newer neighbourhood. The house, from whence your tears have had their spring, Through the just anger that hath murder'd ye And put a period to your gladsome days, Was honour'd, it, and those consorted with it. O Buondelmonte! what ill counseling Prevail'd on thee to break the plighted bond Many, who now are weeping, would rejoice, Had God to Ema giv'n thee, the first time Thou near our city cam'st. But so was doom'd: On that maim'd stone set up to guard the bridge, At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell. With these and others like to them, I saw Florence in such assur'd tranquility, She had no cause at which to grieve: with these Saw her so glorious and so just, that ne'er The lily from the lance had hung reverse, Or through division been with vermeil dyed." CANTO XVII Such as the youth, who came to Clymene To certify himself of that reproach, Which had been fasten'd on him, (he whose end Still makes the fathers chary to their sons), E'en such was I; nor unobserv'd was such Of Beatrice, and that saintly lamp, Who had erewhile for me his station mov'd; When thus by lady: "Give thy wish free vent, That it may issue, bearing true report Of the mind's impress; not that aught thy words May to our knowledge add, but to the end, That thou mayst use thyself to own thy thirst And men may mingle for thee when they hear." "O plant! from whence I spring! rever'd and lov'd! Who soar'st so high a pitch, thou seest as clear, As earthly thought determines two obtuse In one triangle not contain'd, so clear Dost see contingencies, ere in themselves Existent, looking at the point whereto All times are present, I, the whilst I scal'd With Virgil the soul purifying mount, And visited the nether world of woe, Touching my future destiny have heard Words grievous, though I feel me on all sides Well squar'd to fortune's blows. Therefore my will Were satisfied to know the lot awaits me, The arrow, seen beforehand, slacks its flight." So said I to the brightness, which erewhile To me had spoken, and my will declar'd, As Beatrice will'd, explicitly. Nor with oracular response obscure, Such, as or ere the Lamb of God was slain, Beguil'd the credulous nations; but, in terms Precise and unambiguous lore, replied The spirit of paternal love, enshrin'd, Yet in his smile apparent; and thus spake: "Contingency, unfolded not to view Upon the tablet of your mortal mold, Is all depictur'd in the' eternal sight; But hence deriveth not necessity, More then the tall ship, hurried down the flood, Doth from the vision, that reflects the scene. From thence, as to the ear sweet harmony From organ comes, so comes before mine eye The time prepar'd for thee. Such as driv'n out From Athens, by his cruel stepdame's wiles, Hippolytus departed, such must thou Depart from Florence. This they wish, and this Contrive, and will ere long effectuate, there, Where gainful merchandize is made of Christ, Throughout the livelong day. The common cry, Will, as 't is ever wont, affix the blame Unto the party injur'd: but the truth Shall, in the vengeance it dispenseth, find A faithful witness. Thou shall leave each thing Belov'd most dearly: this is the first shaft Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove How salt the savour is of other's bread, How hard the passage to descend and climb By other's stairs, But that shall gall thee most Will be the worthless and vile company, With whom thou must be thrown into these straits. For all ungrateful, impious all and mad, Shall turn 'gainst thee: but in a little while Theirs and not thine shall be the crimson'd brow Their course shall so evince their brutishness T' have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee. "First refuge thou must find, first place of rest, In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears Upon the ladder perch'd the sacred bird. He shall behold thee with such kind regard, That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that Which falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall Forerun the asking. With him shalt thou see That mortal, who was at his birth impress So strongly from this star, that of his deeds The nations shall take note. His unripe age Yet holds him from observance; for these wheels Only nine years have compass him about. But, ere the Gascon practice on great Harry, Sparkles of virtue shall shoot forth in him, In equal scorn of labours and of gold. His bounty shall be spread abroad so widely, As not to let the tongues e'en of his foes Be idle in its praise. Look thou to him And his beneficence: for he shall cause Reversal of their lot to many people, Rich men and beggars interchanging fortunes. And thou shalt bear this written in thy soul Of him, but tell it not;" and things he told Incredible to those who witness them; Then added: "So interpret thou, my son, What hath been told thee.--Lo! the ambushment That a few circling seasons hide for thee! Yet envy not thy neighbours: time extends Thy span beyond their treason's chastisement." Soon, as the saintly spirit, by his silence, Had shown the web, which I had streteh'd for him Upon the warp, was woven, I began, As one, who in perplexity desires Counsel of other, wise, benign and friendly: "My father! well I mark how time spurs on Toward me, ready to inflict the blow, Which falls most heavily on him, who most Abandoned himself. Therefore 't is good I should forecast, that driven from the place Most dear to me, I may not lose myself All others by my song. Down through the world Of infinite mourning, and along the mount From whose fair height my lady's eyes did lift me, And after through this heav'n from light to light, Have I learnt that, which if I tell again, It may with many woefully disrelish; And, if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear my life may perish among those, To whom these days shall be of ancient date." The brightness, where enclos'd the treasure smil'd, Which I had found there, first shone glisteningly, Like to a golden mirror in the sun; Next answer'd: "Conscience, dimm'd or by its own Or other's shame, will feel thy saying sharp. Thou, notwithstanding, all deceit remov'd, See the whole vision be made manifest. And let them wince who have their withers wrung. What though, when tasted first, thy voice shall prove Unwelcome, on digestion it will turn To vital nourishment. The cry thou raisest, Shall, as the wind doth, smite the proudest summits; Which is of honour no light argument, For this there only have been shown to thee, Throughout these orbs, the mountain, and the deep, Spirits, whom fame hath note of. For the mind Of him, who hears, is loth to acquiesce And fix its faith, unless the instance brought Be palpable, and proof apparent urge." CANTO XVIII CANTO XVIII Now in his word, sole, ruminating, joy'd That blessed spirit; and I fed on mine, Tempting the sweet with bitter: she meanwhile, Who led me unto God, admonish'd: "Muse On other thoughts: bethink thee, that near Him I dwell, who recompenseth every wrong." At the sweet sounds of comfort straight I turn'd; And, in the saintly eyes what love was seen, I leave in silence here: nor through distrust Of my words only, but that to such bliss The mind remounts not without aid. Thus much Yet may I speak; that, as I gaz'd on her, Affection found no room for other wish. While the everlasting pleasure, that did full On Beatrice shine, with second view From her fair countenance my gladden'd soul Contented; vanquishing me with a beam Of her soft smile, she spake: "Turn thee, and list. These eyes are not thy only Paradise." As here we sometimes in the looks may see Th' affection mark'd, when that its sway hath ta'en The spirit wholly; thus the hallow'd light, To whom I turn'd, flashing, bewray'd its will To talk yet further with me, and began: "On this fifth lodgment of the tree, whose life Is from its top, whose fruit is ever fair And leaf unwith'ring, blessed spirits abide, That were below, ere they arriv'd in heav'n, So mighty in renown, as every muse Might grace her triumph with them. On the horns Look therefore of the cross: he, whom I name, Shall there enact, as doth in summer cloud Its nimble fire." Along the cross I saw, At the repeated name of Joshua, A splendour gliding; nor, the word was said, Ere it was done: then, at the naming saw Of the great Maccabee, another move With whirling speed; and gladness was the scourge Unto that top. The next for Charlemagne And for the peer Orlando, two my gaze Pursued, intently, as the eye pursues A falcon flying. Last, along the cross, William, and Renard, and Duke Godfrey drew My ken, and Robert Guiscard. And the soul, Who spake with me among the other lights Did move away, and mix; and with the choir Of heav'nly songsters prov'd his tuneful skill. To Beatrice on my right l bent, Looking for intimation or by word Or act, what next behoov'd; and did descry Such mere effulgence in her eyes, such joy, It past all former wont. And, as by sense Of new delight, the man, who perseveres In good deeds doth perceive from day to day His virtue growing; I e'en thus perceiv'd Of my ascent, together with the heav'n The circuit widen'd, noting the increase Of beauty in that wonder. Like the change In a brief moment on some maiden's cheek, Which from its fairness doth discharge the weight Of pudency, that stain'd it; such in her, And to mine eyes so sudden was the change, Through silvery whiteness of that temperate star, Whose sixth orb now enfolded us. I saw, Within that Jovial cresset, the clear sparks Of love, that reign'd there, fashion to my view Our language. And as birds, from river banks Arisen, now in round, now lengthen'd troop, Array them in their flight, greeting, as seems, Their new-found pastures; so, within the lights, The saintly creatures flying, sang, and made Now D. now I. now L. figur'd I' th' air. First, singing, to their notes they mov'd, then one Becoming of these signs, a little while Did rest them, and were mute. O nymph divine Of Pegasean race! whose souls, which thou Inspir'st, mak'st glorious and long-liv'd, as they Cities and realms by thee! thou with thyself Inform me; that I may set forth the shapes, As fancy doth present them. Be thy power Display'd in this brief song. The characters, Vocal and consonant, were five-fold seven. In order each, as they appear'd, I mark'd. Diligite Justitiam, the first, Both verb and noun all blazon'd; and the extreme Qui judicatis terram. In the M. Of the fifth word they held their station, Making the star seem silver streak'd with gold. And on the summit of the M. I saw Descending other lights, that rested there, Singing, methinks, their bliss and primal good. Then, as at shaking of a lighted brand, Sparkles innumerable on all sides Rise scatter'd, source of augury to th' unwise; Thus more than thousand twinkling lustres hence Seem'd reascending, and a higher pitch Some mounting, and some less; e'en as the sun, Which kindleth them, decreed. And when each one Had settled in his place, the head and neck Then saw I of an eagle, lively Grav'd in that streaky fire. Who painteth there, Hath none to guide him; of himself he guides; And every line and texture of the nest Doth own from him the virtue, fashions it. The other bright beatitude, that seem'd Erewhile, with lilied crowning, well content To over-canopy the M. mov'd forth, Following gently the impress of the bird. Sweet star! what glorious and thick-studded gems Declar'd to me our justice on the earth To be the effluence of that heav'n, which thou, Thyself a costly jewel, dost inlay! Therefore I pray the Sovran Mind, from whom Thy motion and thy virtue are begun, That he would look from whence the fog doth rise, To vitiate thy beam: so that once more He may put forth his hand 'gainst such, as drive Their traffic in that sanctuary, whose walls With miracles and martyrdoms were built. Ye host of heaven! whose glory I survey! O beg ye grace for those, that are on earth All after ill example gone astray. War once had for its instrument the sword: But now 't is made, taking the bread away Which the good Father locks from none. --And thou, That writes but to cancel, think, that they, Who for the vineyard, which thou wastest, died, Peter and Paul live yet, and mark thy doings. Thou hast good cause to cry, "My heart so cleaves To him, that liv'd in solitude remote, And from the wilds was dragg'd to martyrdom, I wist not of the fisherman nor Paul." CANTO XIX Before my sight appear'd, with open wings, The beauteous image, in fruition sweet Gladdening the thronged spirits. Each did seem A little ruby, whereon so intense The sun-beam glow'd that to mine eyes it came In clear refraction. And that, which next Befalls me to portray, voice hath not utter'd, Nor hath ink written, nor in fantasy Was e'er conceiv'd. For I beheld and heard The beak discourse; and, what intention form'd Of many, singly as of one express, Beginning: "For that I was just and piteous, l am exalted to this height of glory, The which no wish exceeds: and there on earth Have I my memory left, e'en by the bad Commended, while they leave its course untrod." Thus is one heat from many embers felt, As in that image many were the loves, And one the voice, that issued from them all. Whence I address them: "O perennial flowers Of gladness everlasting! that exhale In single breath your odours manifold! Breathe now; and let the hunger be appeas'd, That with great craving long hath held my soul, Finding no food on earth. This well I know, That if there be in heav'n a realm, that shows In faithful mirror the celestial Justice, Yours without veil reflects it. Ye discern The heed, wherewith I do prepare myself To hearken; ye the doubt that urges me With such inveterate craving." Straight I saw, Like to a falcon issuing from the hood, That rears his head, and claps him with his wings, His beauty and his eagerness bewraying. So saw I move that stately sign, with praise Of grace divine inwoven and high song Of inexpressive joy. "He," it began, "Who turn'd his compass on the world's extreme, And in that space so variously hath wrought, Both openly, and in secret, in such wise Could not through all the universe display Impression of his glory, that the Word Of his omniscience should not still remain In infinite excess. In proof whereof, He first through pride supplanted, who was sum Of each created being, waited not For light celestial, and abortive fell. Whence needs each lesser nature is but scant Receptacle unto that Good, which knows No limit, measur'd by itself alone. Therefore your sight, of th' omnipresent Mind A single beam, its origin must own Surpassing far its utmost potency. The ken, your world is gifted with, descends In th' everlasting Justice as low down, As eye doth in the sea; which though it mark The bottom from the shore, in the wide main Discerns it not; and ne'ertheless it is, But hidden through its deepness. Light is none, Save that which cometh from the pure serene Of ne'er disturbed ether: for the rest, 'Tis darkness all, or shadow of the flesh, Or else its poison. Here confess reveal'd That covert, which hath hidden from thy search The living justice, of the which thou mad'st Such frequent question; for thou saidst--'A man Is born on Indus' banks, and none is there Who speaks of Christ, nor who doth read nor write, And all his inclinations and his acts, As far as human reason sees, are good, And he offendeth not in word or deed. But unbaptiz'd he dies, and void of faith. Where is the justice that condemns him? where His blame, if he believeth not?'--What then, And who art thou, that on the stool wouldst sit To judge at distance of a thousand miles With the short-sighted vision of a span? To him, who subtilizes thus with me, There would assuredly be room for doubt Even to wonder, did not the safe word Of scripture hold supreme authority. "O animals of clay! O spirits gross I The primal will, that in itself is good, Hath from itself, the chief Good, ne'er been mov'd. Justice consists in consonance with it, Derivable by no created good, Whose very cause depends upon its beam." As on her nest the stork, that turns about Unto her young, whom lately she hath fed, While they with upward eyes do look on her; So lifted I my gaze; and bending so The ever-blessed image wav'd its wings, Lab'ring with such deep counsel. Wheeling round It warbled, and did say: "As are my notes To thee, who understand'st them not, such is Th' eternal judgment unto mortal ken." Then still abiding in that ensign rang'd, Wherewith the Romans over-awed the world, Those burning splendours of the Holy Spirit Took up the strain; and thus it spake again: "None ever hath ascended to this realm, Who hath not a believer been in Christ, Either before or after the blest limbs Were nail'd upon the wood. But lo! of those Who call 'Christ, Christ,' there shall be many found, In judgment, further off from him by far, Than such, to whom his name was never known. Christians like these the Ethiop shall condemn: When that the two assemblages shall part; One rich eternally, the other poor. "What may the Persians say unto your kings, When they shall see that volume, in the which All their dispraise is written, spread to view? There amidst Albert's works shall that be read, Which will give speedy motion to the pen, When Prague shall mourn her desolated realm. There shall be read the woe, that he doth work With his adulterate money on the Seine, Who by the tusk will perish: there be read The thirsting pride, that maketh fool alike The English and Scot, impatient of their bound. There shall be seen the Spaniard's luxury, The delicate living there of the Bohemian, Who still to worth has been a willing stranger. The halter of Jerusalem shall see A unit for his virtue, for his vices No less a mark than million. He, who guards The isle of fire by old Anchises honour'd Shall find his avarice there and cowardice; And better to denote his littleness, The writing must be letters maim'd, that speak Much in a narrow space. All there shall know His uncle and his brother's filthy doings, Who so renown'd a nation and two crowns Have bastardized. And they, of Portugal And Norway, there shall be expos'd with him Of Ratza, who hath counterfeited ill The coin of Venice. O blest Hungary! If thou no longer patiently abid'st Thy ill-entreating! and, O blest Navarre! If with thy mountainous girdle thou wouldst arm thee In earnest of that day, e'en now are heard Wailings and groans in Famagosta's streets And Nicosia's, grudging at their beast, Who keepeth even footing with the rest." CANTO XX When, disappearing, from our hemisphere, The world's enlightener vanishes, and day On all sides wasteth, suddenly the sky, Erewhile irradiate only with his beam, Is yet again unfolded, putting forth Innumerable lights wherein one shines. Of such vicissitude in heaven I thought, As the great sign, that marshaleth the world And the world's leaders, in the blessed beak Was silent; for that all those living lights, Waxing in splendour, burst forth into songs, Such as from memory glide and fall away. Sweet love! that dost apparel thee in smiles, How lustrous was thy semblance in those sparkles, Which merely are from holy thoughts inspir'd! After the precious and bright beaming stones, That did ingem the sixth light, ceas'd the chiming Of their angelic bells; methought I heard The murmuring of a river, that doth fall From rock to rock transpicuous, making known The richness of his spring-head: and as sound Of cistern, at the fret-board, or of pipe, Is, at the wind-hole, modulate and tun'd; Thus up the neck, as it were hollow, rose That murmuring of the eagle, and forthwith Voice there assum'd, and thence along the beak Issued in form of words, such as my heart Did look for, on whose tables I inscrib'd them. "The part in me, that sees, and bears the sun,, In mortal eagles," it began, "must now Be noted steadfastly: for of the fires, That figure me, those, glittering in mine eye, Are chief of all the greatest. This, that shines Midmost for pupil, was the same, who sang The Holy Spirit's song, and bare about The ark from town to town; now doth he know The merit of his soul-impassion'd strains By their well-fitted guerdon. Of the five, That make the circle of the vision, he Who to the beak is nearest, comforted The widow for her son: now doth he know How dear he costeth not to follow Christ, Both from experience of this pleasant life, And of its opposite. He next, who follows In the circumference, for the over arch, By true repenting slack'd the pace of death: Now knoweth he, that the degrees of heav'n Alter not, when through pious prayer below Today's is made tomorrow's destiny. The other following, with the laws and me, To yield the shepherd room, pass'd o'er to Greece, From good intent producing evil fruit: Now knoweth he, how all the ill, deriv'd From his well doing, doth not helm him aught, Though it have brought destruction on the world. That, which thou seest in the under bow, Was William, whom that land bewails, which weeps For Charles and Frederick living: now he knows How well is lov'd in heav'n the righteous king, Which he betokens by his radiant seeming. Who in the erring world beneath would deem, That Trojan Ripheus in this round was set Fifth of the saintly splendours? now he knows Enough of that, which the world cannot see, The grace divine, albeit e'en his sight Reach not its utmost depth." Like to the lark, That warbling in the air expatiates long, Then, trilling out his last sweet melody, Drops satiate with the sweetness; such appear'd That image stampt by the' everlasting pleasure, Which fashions like itself all lovely things. I, though my doubting were as manifest, As is through glass the hue that mantles it, In silence waited not: for to my lips "What things are these?" involuntary rush'd, And forc'd a passage out: whereat I mark'd A sudden lightening and new revelry. The eye was kindled: and the blessed sign No more to keep me wond'ring and suspense, Replied: "I see that thou believ'st these things, Because I tell them, but discern'st not how; So that thy knowledge waits not on thy faith: As one who knows the name of thing by rote, But is a stranger to its properties, Till other's tongue reveal them. Fervent love And lively hope with violence assail The kingdom of the heavens, and overcome The will of the Most high; not in such sort As man prevails o'er man; but conquers it, Because 't is willing to be conquer'd, still, Though conquer'd, by its mercy conquering. "Those, in the eye who live the first and fifth, Cause thee to marvel, in that thou behold'st The region of the angels deck'd with them. They quitted not their bodies, as thou deem'st, Gentiles but Christians, in firm rooted faith, This of the feet in future to be pierc'd, That of feet nail'd already to the cross. One from the barrier of the dark abyss, Where never any with good will returns, Came back unto his bones. Of lively hope Such was the meed; of lively hope, that wing'd The prayers sent up to God for his release, And put power into them to bend his will. The glorious Spirit, of whom I speak to thee, A little while returning to the flesh, Believ'd in him, who had the means to help, And, in believing, nourish'd such a flame Of holy love, that at the second death He was made sharer in our gamesome mirth. The other, through the riches of that grace, Which from so deep a fountain doth distil, As never eye created saw its rising, Plac'd all his love below on just and right: Wherefore of grace God op'd in him the eye To the redemption of mankind to come; Wherein believing, he endur'd no more The filth of paganism, and for their ways Rebuk'd the stubborn nations. The three nymphs, Whom at the right wheel thou beheldst advancing, Were sponsors for him more than thousand years Before baptizing. O how far remov'd, Predestination! is thy root from such As see not the First cause entire: and ye, O mortal men! be wary how ye judge: For we, who see our Maker, know not yet The number of the chosen: and esteem Such scantiness of knowledge our delight: For all our good is in that primal good Concentrate, and God's will and ours are one." So, by that form divine, was giv'n to me Sweet medicine to clear and strengthen sight, And, as one handling skillfully the harp, Attendant on some skilful songster's voice Bids the chords vibrate, and therein the song Acquires more pleasure; so, the whilst it spake, It doth remember me, that I beheld The pair of blessed luminaries move. Like the accordant twinkling of two eyes, Their beamy circlets, dancing to the sounds. CANTO XXI Again mine eyes were fix'd on Beatrice, And with mine eyes my soul, that in her looks Found all contentment. Yet no smile she wore And, "Did I smile," quoth she, "thou wouldst be straight Like Semele when into ashes turn'd: For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs, My beauty, which the loftier it climbs, As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more, So shines, that, were no temp'ring interpos'd, Thy mortal puissance would from its rays Shrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt. Into the seventh splendour are we wafted, That underneath the burning lion's breast Beams, in this hour, commingled with his might, Thy mind be with thine eyes: and in them mirror'd The shape, which in this mirror shall be shown." Whoso can deem, how fondly I had fed My sight upon her blissful countenance, May know, when to new thoughts I chang'd, what joy To do the bidding of my heav'nly guide: In equal balance poising either weight. Within the crystal, which records the name, (As its remoter circle girds the world) Of that lov'd monarch, in whose happy reign No ill had power to harm, I saw rear'd up, In colour like to sun-illumin'd gold. A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain, So lofty was the summit; down whose steps I saw the splendours in such multitude Descending, ev'ry light in heav'n, methought, Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of day Bestirring them to dry their feathers chill, Some speed their way a-field, and homeward some, Returning, cross their flight, while some abide And wheel around their airy lodge; so seem'd That glitterance, wafted on alternate wing, As upon certain stair it met, and clash'd Its shining. And one ling'ring near us, wax'd So bright, that in my thought: said: "The love, Which this betokens me, admits no doubt." Unwillingly from question I refrain, To her, by whom my silence and my speech Are order'd, looking for a sign: whence she, Who in the sight of Him, that seeth all, Saw wherefore I was silent, prompted me T' indulge the fervent wish; and I began: "I am not worthy, of my own desert, That thou shouldst answer me; but for her sake, Who hath vouchsaf'd my asking, spirit blest! That in thy joy art shrouded! say the cause, Which bringeth thee so near: and wherefore, say, Doth the sweet symphony of Paradise Keep silence here, pervading with such sounds Of rapt devotion ev'ry lower sphere?" "Mortal art thou in hearing as in sight;" Was the reply: "and what forbade the smile Of Beatrice interrupts our song. Only to yield thee gladness of my voice, And of the light that vests me, I thus far Descend these hallow'd steps: not that more love Invites me; for lo! there aloft, as much Or more of love is witness'd in those flames: But such my lot by charity assign'd, That makes us ready servants, as thou seest, To execute the counsel of the Highest." "That in this court," said I, "O sacred lamp! Love no compulsion needs, but follows free Th' eternal Providence, I well discern: This harder find to deem, why of thy peers Thou only to this office wert foredoom'd." I had not ended, when, like rapid mill, Upon its centre whirl'd the light; and then The love, that did inhabit there, replied: "Splendour eternal, piercing through these folds, Its virtue to my vision knits, and thus Supported, lifts me so above myself, That on the sov'ran essence, which it wells from, I have the power to gaze: and hence the joy, Wherewith I sparkle, equaling with my blaze The keenness of my sight. But not the soul, That is in heav'n most lustrous, nor the seraph That hath his eyes most fix'd on God, shall solve What thou hast ask'd: for in th' abyss it lies Of th' everlasting statute sunk so low, That no created ken may fathom it. And, to the mortal world when thou return'st, Be this reported; that none henceforth dare Direct his footsteps to so dread a bourn. The mind, that here is radiant, on the earth Is wrapt in mist. Look then if she may do, Below, what passeth her ability, When she is ta'en to heav'n." By words like these Admonish'd, I the question urg'd no more; And of the spirit humbly sued alone T' instruct me of its state. "'Twixt either shore Of Italy, nor distant from thy land, A stony ridge ariseth, in such sort, The thunder doth not lift his voice so high, They call it Catria: at whose foot a cell Is sacred to the lonely Eremite, For worship set apart and holy rites." A third time thus it spake; then added: "There So firmly to God's service I adher'd, That with no costlier viands than the juice Of olives, easily I pass'd the heats Of summer and the winter frosts, content In heav'n-ward musings. Rich were the returns And fertile, which that cloister once was us'd To render to these heavens: now 't is fall'n Into a waste so empty, that ere long Detection must lay bare its vanity Pietro Damiano there was I yclept: Pietro the sinner, when before I dwelt Beside the Adriatic, in the house Of our blest Lady. Near upon my close Of mortal life, through much importuning I was constrain'd to wear the hat that still From bad to worse it shifted.--Cephas came; He came, who was the Holy Spirit's vessel, Barefoot and lean, eating their bread, as chanc'd, At the first table. Modern Shepherd's need Those who on either hand may prop and lead them, So burly are they grown: and from behind Others to hoist them. Down the palfrey's sides Spread their broad mantles, so as both the beasts Are cover'd with one skin. O patience! thou That lookst on this and doth endure so long." I at those accents saw the splendours down From step to step alight, and wheel, and wax, Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round this They came, and stay'd them; uttered them a shout So loud, it hath no likeness here: nor I Wist what it spake, so deaf'ning was the thunder. CANTO XXII Astounded, to the guardian of my steps I turn'd me, like the chill, who always runs Thither for succour, where he trusteth most, And she was like the mother, who her son Beholding pale and breathless, with her voice Soothes him, and he is cheer'd; for thus she spake, Soothing me: "Know'st not thou, thou art in heav'n? And know'st not thou, whatever is in heav'n, Is holy, and that nothing there is done But is done zealously and well? Deem now, What change in thee the song, and what my smile had wrought, since thus the shout had pow'r to move thee. In which couldst thou have understood their prayers, The vengeance were already known to thee, Which thou must witness ere thy mortal hour, The sword of heav'n is not in haste to smite, Nor yet doth linger, save unto his seeming, Who in desire or fear doth look for it. But elsewhere now l bid thee turn thy view; So shalt thou many a famous spirit behold." Mine eyes directing, as she will'd, I saw A hundred little spheres, that fairer grew By interchange of splendour. I remain'd, As one, who fearful of o'er-much presuming, Abates in him the keenness of desire, Nor dares to question, when amid those pearls, One largest and most lustrous onward drew, That it might yield contentment to my wish; And from within it these the sounds I heard. "If thou, like me, beheldst the charity That burns amongst us, what thy mind conceives, Were utter'd. But that, ere the lofty bound Thou reach, expectance may not weary thee, I will make answer even to the thought, Which thou hast such respect of. In old days, That mountain, at whose side Cassino rests, Was on its height frequented by a race Deceived and ill dispos'd: and I it was, Who thither carried first the name of Him, Who brought the soul-subliming truth to man. And such a speeding grace shone over me, That from their impious worship I reclaim'd The dwellers round about, who with the world Were in delusion lost. These other flames, The spirits of men contemplative, were all Enliven'd by that warmth, whose kindly force Gives birth to flowers and fruits of holiness. Here is Macarius; Romoaldo here: And here my brethren, who their steps refrain'd Within the cloisters, and held firm their heart." I answ'ring, thus; "Thy gentle words and kind, And this the cheerful semblance, I behold Not unobservant, beaming in ye all, Have rais'd assurance in me, wakening it Full-blossom'd in my bosom, as a rose Before the sun, when the consummate flower Has spread to utmost amplitude. Of thee Therefore entreat I, father! to declare If I may gain such favour, as to gaze Upon thine image, by no covering veil'd." "Brother!" he thus rejoin'd, "in the last sphere Expect completion of thy lofty aim, For there on each desire completion waits, And there on mine: where every aim is found Perfect, entire, and for fulfillment ripe. There all things are as they have ever been: For space is none to bound, nor pole divides, Our ladder reaches even to that clime, And so at giddy distance mocks thy view. Thither the Patriarch Jacob saw it stretch Its topmost round, when it appear'd to him With angels laden. But to mount it now None lifts his foot from earth: and hence my rule Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves; The walls, for abbey rear'd, turned into dens, The cowls to sacks choak'd up with musty meal. Foul usury doth not more lift itself Against God's pleasure, than that fruit which makes The hearts of monks so wanton: for whate'er Is in the church's keeping, all pertains. To such, as sue for heav'n's sweet sake, and not To those who in respect of kindred claim, Or on more vile allowance. Mortal flesh Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not From the oak's birth, unto the acorn's setting. His convent Peter founded without gold Or silver; I with pray'rs and fasting mine; And Francis his in meek humility. And if thou note the point, whence each proceeds, Then look what it hath err'd to, thou shalt find The white grown murky. Jordan was turn'd back; And a less wonder, then the refluent sea, May at God's pleasure work amendment here." So saying, to his assembly back he drew: And they together cluster'd into one, Then all roll'd upward like an eddying wind. The sweet dame beckon'd me to follow them: And, by that influence only, so prevail'd Over my nature, that no natural motion, Ascending or descending here below, Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. So, reader, as my hope is to return Unto the holy triumph, for the which I ofttimes wail my sins, and smite my breast, Thou hadst been longer drawing out and thrusting Thy finger in the fire, than I was, ere The sign, that followeth Taurus, I beheld, And enter'd its precinct. O glorious stars! O light impregnate with exceeding virtue! To whom whate'er of genius lifteth me Above the vulgar, grateful I refer; With ye the parent of all mortal life Arose and set, when I did first inhale The Tuscan air; and afterward, when grace Vouchsaf'd me entrance to the lofty wheel That in its orb impels ye, fate decreed My passage at your clime. To you my soul Devoutly sighs, for virtue even now To meet the hard emprize that draws me on. "Thou art so near the sum of blessedness," Said Beatrice, "that behooves thy ken Be vigilant and clear. And, to this end, Or even thou advance thee further, hence Look downward, and contemplate, what a world Already stretched under our feet there lies: So as thy heart may, in its blithest mood, Present itself to the triumphal throng, Which through the' etherial concave comes rejoicing." I straight obey'd; and with mine eye return'd Through all the seven spheres, and saw this globe So pitiful of semblance, that perforce It moved my smiles: and him in truth I hold For wisest, who esteems it least: whose thoughts Elsewhere are fix'd, him worthiest call and best. I saw the daughter of Latona shine Without the shadow, whereof late I deem'd That dense and rare were cause. Here I sustain'd The visage, Hyperion! of thy sun; And mark'd, how near him with their circle, round Move Maia and Dione; here discern'd Jove's tempering 'twixt his sire and son; and hence Their changes and their various aspects Distinctly scann'd. Nor might I not descry Of all the seven, how bulky each, how swift; Nor of their several distances not learn. This petty area (o'er the which we stride So fiercely), as along the eternal twins I wound my way, appear'd before me all, Forth from the havens stretch'd unto the hills. Then to the beauteous eyes mine eyes return'd. CANTO XXIII E'en as the bird, who midst the leafy bower Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the night, With her sweet brood, impatient to descry Their wished looks, and to bring home their food, In the fond quest unconscious of her toil: She, of the time prevenient, on the spray, That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze Expects the sun; nor ever, till the dawn, Removeth from the east her eager ken; So stood the dame erect, and bent her glance Wistfully on that region, where the sun Abateth most his speed; that, seeing her Suspense and wand'ring, I became as one, In whom desire is waken'd, and the hope Of somewhat new to come fills with delight. Short space ensued; I was not held, I say, Long in expectance, when I saw the heav'n Wax more and more resplendent; and, "Behold," Cried Beatrice, "the triumphal hosts Of Christ, and all the harvest reap'd at length Of thy ascending up these spheres." Meseem'd, That, while she spake her image all did burn, And in her eyes such fullness was of joy, And I am fain to pass unconstrued by. As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles, In peerless beauty, 'mid th' eternal nympus, That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound In bright pre-eminence so saw I there, O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew Their radiance as from ours the starry train: And through the living light so lustrous glow'd The substance, that my ken endur'd it not. O Beatrice! sweet and precious guide! Who cheer'd me with her comfortable words! "Against the virtue, that o'erpow'reth thee, Avails not to resist. Here is the might, And here the wisdom, which did open lay The path, that had been yearned for so long, Betwixt the heav'n and earth." Like to the fire, That, in a cloud imprison'd doth break out Expansive, so that from its womb enlarg'd, It falleth against nature to the ground; Thus in that heav'nly banqueting my soul Outgrew herself; and, in the transport lost. Holds now remembrance none of what she was. "Ope thou thine eyes, and mark me: thou hast seen Things, that empower thee to sustain my smile." I was as one, when a forgotten dream Doth come across him, and he strives in vain To shape it in his fantasy again, Whenas that gracious boon was proffer'd me, Which never may be cancel'd from the book, Wherein the past is written. Now were all Those tongues to sound, that have on sweetest milk Of Polyhymnia and her sisters fed And fatten'd, not with all their help to boot, Unto the thousandth parcel of the truth, My song might shadow forth that saintly smile, flow merely in her saintly looks it wrought. And with such figuring of Paradise The sacred strain must leap, like one, that meets A sudden interruption to his road. But he, who thinks how ponderous the theme, And that 't is lain upon a mortal shoulder, May pardon, if it tremble with the burden. The track, our ventrous keel must furrow, brooks No unribb'd pinnace, no self-sparing pilot. "Why doth my face," said Beatrice, "thus Enamour thee, as that thou dost not turn Unto the beautiful garden, blossoming Beneath the rays of Christ? Here is the rose, Wherein the word divine was made incarnate; And here the lilies, by whose odour known The way of life was follow'd." Prompt I heard Her bidding, and encounter once again The strife of aching vision. As erewhile, Through glance of sunlight, stream'd through broken cloud, Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen, Though veil'd themselves in shade; so saw I there Legions of splendours, on whom burning rays Shed lightnings from above, yet saw I not The fountain whence they flow'd. O gracious virtue! Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up Thou didst exalt thy glory to give room To my o'erlabour'd sight: when at the name Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke Both morn and eve, my soul, with all her might Collected, on the goodliest ardour fix'd. And, as the bright dimensions of the star In heav'n excelling, as once here on earth Were, in my eyeballs lively portray'd, Lo! from within the sky a cresset fell, Circling in fashion of a diadem, And girt the star, and hov'ring round it wheel'd. Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, And draws the spirit most unto itself, Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder, Compar'd unto the sounding of that lyre, Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays The floor of heav'n, was crown'd. "Angelic Love I am, who thus with hov'ring flight enwheel The lofty rapture from that womb inspir'd, Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so, Lady of Heav'n! will hover; long as thou Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere." Such close was to the circling melody: And, as it ended, all the other lights Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name. The robe, that with its regal folds enwraps The world, and with the nearer breath of God Doth burn and quiver, held so far retir'd Its inner hem and skirting over us, That yet no glimmer of its majesty Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes Unequal to pursue the crowned flame, That rose and sought its natal seed of fire; And like to babe, that stretches forth its arms For very eagerness towards the breast, After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd Their wavy summits all the fervent band, Through zealous love to Mary: then in view There halted, and "Regina Coeli" sang So sweetly, the delight hath left me never. O what o'erflowing plenty is up-pil'd In those rich-laden coffers, which below Sow'd the good seed, whose harvest now they keep. Here are the treasures tasted, that with tears Were in the Babylonian exile won, When gold had fail'd them. Here in synod high Of ancient council with the new conven'd, Under the Son of Mary and of God, Victorious he his mighty triumph holds, To whom the keys of glory were assign'd. CANTO XXIV "O ye! in chosen fellowship advanc'd To the great supper of the blessed Lamb, Whereon who feeds hath every wish fulfill'd! If to this man through God's grace be vouchsaf'd Foretaste of that, which from your table falls, Or ever death his fated term prescribe; Be ye not heedless of his urgent will; But may some influence of your sacred dews Sprinkle him. Of the fount ye alway drink, Whence flows what most he craves." Beatrice spake, And the rejoicing spirits, like to spheres On firm-set poles revolving, trail'd a blaze Of comet splendour; and as wheels, that wind Their circles in the horologe, so work The stated rounds, that to th' observant eye The first seems still, and, as it flew, the last; E'en thus their carols weaving variously, They by the measure pac'd, or swift, or slow, Made me to rate the riches of their joy. From that, which I did note in beauty most Excelling, saw I issue forth a flame So bright, as none was left more goodly there. Round Beatrice thrice it wheel'd about, With so divine a song, that fancy's ear Records it not; and the pen passeth on And leaves a blank: for that our mortal speech, Nor e'en the inward shaping of the brain, Hath colours fine enough to trace such folds. "O saintly sister mine! thy prayer devout Is with so vehement affection urg'd, Thou dost unbind me from that beauteous sphere." Such were the accents towards my lady breath'd From that blest ardour, soon as it was stay'd: To whom she thus: "O everlasting light Of him, within whose mighty grasp our Lord Did leave the keys, which of this wondrous bliss He bare below! tent this man, as thou wilt, With lighter probe or deep, touching the faith, By the which thou didst on the billows walk. If he in love, in hope, and in belief, Be steadfast, is not hid from thee: for thou Hast there thy ken, where all things are beheld In liveliest portraiture. But since true faith Has peopled this fair realm with citizens, Meet is, that to exalt its glory more, Thou in his audience shouldst thereof discourse." Like to the bachelor, who arms himself, And speaks not, till the master have propos'd The question, to approve, and not to end it; So I, in silence, arm'd me, while she spake, Summoning up each argument to aid; As was behooveful for such questioner, And such profession: "As good Christian ought, Declare thee, What is faith?" Whereat I rais'd My forehead to the light, whence this had breath'd, Then turn'd to Beatrice, and in her looks Approval met, that from their inmost fount I should unlock the waters. "May the grace, That giveth me the captain of the church For confessor," said I, "vouchsafe to me Apt utterance for my thoughts!" then added: "Sire! E'en as set down by the unerring style Of thy dear brother, who with thee conspir'd To bring Rome in unto the way of life, Faith of things hop'd is substance, and the proof Of things not seen; and herein doth consist Methinks its essence,"--"Rightly hast thou deem'd," Was answer'd: "if thou well discern, why first He hath defin'd it, substance, and then proof." "The deep things," I replied, "which here I scan Distinctly, are below from mortal eye So hidden, they have in belief alone Their being, on which credence hope sublime Is built; and therefore substance it intends. And inasmuch as we must needs infer From such belief our reasoning, all respect To other view excluded, hence of proof Th' intention is deriv'd." Forthwith I heard: "If thus, whate'er by learning men attain, Were understood, the sophist would want room To exercise his wit." So breath'd the flame Of love: then added: "Current is the coin Thou utter'st, both in weight and in alloy. But tell me, if thou hast it in thy purse." "Even so glittering and so round," said I, "I not a whit misdoubt of its assay." Next issued from the deep imbosom'd splendour: "Say, whence the costly jewel, on the which Is founded every virtue, came to thee." "The flood," I answer'd, "from the Spirit of God Rain'd down upon the ancient bond and new,-- Here is the reas'ning, that convinceth me So feelingly, each argument beside Seems blunt and forceless in comparison." Then heard I: "Wherefore holdest thou that each, The elder proposition and the new, Which so persuade thee, are the voice of heav'n?" "The works, that follow'd, evidence their truth;" I answer'd: "Nature did not make for these The iron hot, or on her anvil mould them." "Who voucheth to thee of the works themselves," Was the reply, "that they in very deed Are that they purport? None hath sworn so to thee." "That all the world," said I, "should have been turn'd To Christian, and no miracle been wrought, Would in itself be such a miracle, The rest were not an hundredth part so great. E'en thou wentst forth in poverty and hunger To set the goodly plant, that from the vine, It once was, now is grown unsightly bramble." That ended, through the high celestial court Resounded all the spheres. "Praise we one God!" In song of most unearthly melody. And when that Worthy thus, from branch to branch, Examining, had led me, that we now Approach'd the topmost bough, he straight resum'd; "The grace, that holds sweet dalliance with thy soul, So far discreetly hath thy lips unclos'd That, whatsoe'er has past them, I commend. Behooves thee to express, what thou believ'st, The next, and whereon thy belief hath grown." "O saintly sire and spirit!" I began, "Who seest that, which thou didst so believe, As to outstrip feet younger than thine own, Toward the sepulchre? thy will is here, That I the tenour of my creed unfold; And thou the cause of it hast likewise ask'd. And I reply: I in one God believe, One sole eternal Godhead, of whose love All heav'n is mov'd, himself unmov'd the while. Nor demonstration physical alone, Or more intelligential and abstruse, Persuades me to this faith; but from that truth It cometh to me rather, which is shed Through Moses, the rapt Prophets, and the Psalms. The Gospel, and that ye yourselves did write, When ye were gifted of the Holy Ghost. In three eternal Persons I believe, Essence threefold and one, mysterious league Of union absolute, which, many a time, The word of gospel lore upon my mind Imprints: and from this germ, this firstling spark, The lively flame dilates, and like heav'n's star Doth glitter in me." As the master hears, Well pleas'd, and then enfoldeth in his arms The servant, who hath joyful tidings brought, And having told the errand keeps his peace; Thus benediction uttering with song Soon as my peace I held, compass'd me thrice The apostolic radiance, whose behest Had op'd lips; so well their answer pleas'd. CANTO XXV If e'er the sacred poem that hath made Both heav'n and earth copartners in its toil, And with lean abstinence, through many a year, Faded my brow, be destin'd to prevail Over the cruelty, which bars me forth Of the fair sheep-fold, where a sleeping lamb The wolves set on and fain had worried me, With other voice and fleece of other grain I shall forthwith return, and, standing up At my baptismal font, shall claim the wreath Due to the poet's temples: for I there First enter'd on the faith which maketh souls Acceptable to God: and, for its sake, Peter had then circled my forehead thus. Next from the squadron, whence had issued forth The first fruit of Christ's vicars on the earth, Toward us mov'd a light, at view whereof My Lady, full of gladness, spake to me: "Lo! lo! behold the peer of mickle might, That makes Falicia throng'd with visitants!" As when the ring-dove by his mate alights, In circles each about the other wheels, And murmuring cooes his fondness; thus saw I One, of the other great and glorious prince, With kindly greeting hail'd, extolling both Their heavenly banqueting; but when an end Was to their gratulation, silent, each, Before me sat they down, so burning bright, I could not look upon them. Smiling then, Beatrice spake: "O life in glory shrin'd!" Who didst the largess of our kingly court Set down with faithful pen! let now thy voice Of hope the praises in this height resound. For thou, who figur'st them in shapes, as clear, As Jesus stood before thee, well can'st speak them." "Lift up thy head, and be thou strong in trust: For that, which hither from the mortal world Arriveth, must be ripen'd in our beam." Such cheering accents from the second flame Assur'd me; and mine eyes I lifted up Unto the mountains that had bow'd them late With over-heavy burden. "Sith our Liege Wills of his grace that thou, or ere thy death, In the most secret council, with his lords Shouldst be confronted, so that having view'd The glories of our court, thou mayst therewith Thyself, and all who hear, invigorate With hope, that leads to blissful end; declare, What is that hope, how it doth flourish in thee, And whence thou hadst it?" Thus proceeding still, The second light: and she, whose gentle love My soaring pennons in that lofty flight Escorted, thus preventing me, rejoin'd: Among her sons, not one more full of hope, Hath the church militant: so 't is of him Recorded in the sun, whose liberal orb Enlighteneth all our tribe: and ere his term Of warfare, hence permitted he is come, From Egypt to Jerusalem, to see. The other points, both which thou hast inquir'd, Not for more knowledge, but that he may tell How dear thou holdst the virtue, these to him Leave I; for he may answer thee with ease, And without boasting, so God give him grace." Like to the scholar, practis'd in his task, Who, willing to give proof of diligence, Seconds his teacher gladly, "Hope," said I, "Is of the joy to come a sure expectance, Th' effect of grace divine and merit preceding. This light from many a star visits my heart, But flow'd to me the first from him, who sang The songs of the Supreme, himself supreme Among his tuneful brethren. 'Let all hope In thee,' so speak his anthem, 'who have known Thy name;' and with my faith who know not that? From thee, the next, distilling from his spring, In thine epistle, fell on me the drops So plenteously, that I on others shower The influence of their dew." Whileas I spake, A lamping, as of quick and vollied lightning, Within the bosom of that mighty sheen, Play'd tremulous; then forth these accents breath'd: "Love for the virtue which attended me E'en to the palm, and issuing from the field, Glows vigorous yet within me, and inspires To ask of thee, whom also it delights; What promise thou from hope in chief dost win." "Both scriptures, new and ancient," I reply'd; "Propose the mark (which even now I view) For souls belov'd of God. Isaias saith, That, in their own land, each one must be clad In twofold vesture; and their proper lands this delicious life. In terms more full, And clearer far, thy brother hath set forth This revelation to us, where he tells Of the white raiment destin'd to the saints." And, as the words were ending, from above, "They hope in thee," first heard we cried: whereto Answer'd the carols all. Amidst them next, A light of so clear amplitude emerg'd, That winter's month were but a single day, Were such a crystal in the Cancer's sign. Like as a virgin riseth up, and goes, And enters on the mazes of the dance, Though gay, yet innocent of worse intent, Than to do fitting honour to the bride; So I beheld the new effulgence come Unto the other two, who in a ring Wheel'd, as became their rapture. In the dance And in the song it mingled. And the dame Held on them fix'd her looks: e'en as the spouse Silent and moveless. "This is he, who lay Upon the bosom of our pelican: This he, into whose keeping from the cross The mighty charge was given." Thus she spake, Yet therefore naught the more remov'd her Sight From marking them, or ere her words began, Or when they clos'd. As he, who looks intent, And strives with searching ken, how he may see The sun in his eclipse, and, through desire Of seeing, loseth power of sight: so I Peer'd on that last resplendence, while I heard: "Why dazzlest thou thine eyes in seeking that, Which here abides not? Earth my body is, In earth: and shall be, with the rest, so long, As till our number equal the decree Of the Most High. The two that have ascended, In this our blessed cloister, shine alone With the two garments. So report below." As when, for ease of labour, or to shun Suspected peril at a whistle's breath, The oars, erewhile dash'd frequent in the wave, All rest; the flamy circle at that voice So rested, and the mingling sound was still, Which from the trinal band soft-breathing rose. I turn'd, but ah! how trembled in my thought, When, looking at my side again to see Beatrice, I descried her not, although Not distant, on the happy coast she stood. CANTO XXVI With dazzled eyes, whilst wond'ring I remain'd, Forth of the beamy flame which dazzled me, Issued a breath, that in attention mute Detain'd me; and these words it spake: "'T were well, That, long as till thy vision, on my form O'erspent, regain its virtue, with discourse Thou compensate the brief delay. Say then, Beginning, to what point thy soul aspires: "And meanwhile rest assur'd, that sight in thee Is but o'erpowered a space, not wholly quench'd: Since thy fair guide and lovely, in her look Hath potency, the like to that which dwelt In Ananias' hand." I answering thus: "Be to mine eyes the remedy or late Or early, at her pleasure; for they were The gates, at which she enter'd, and did light Her never dying fire. My wishes here Are centered; in this palace is the weal, That Alpha and Omega, is to all The lessons love can read me." Yet again The voice which had dispers'd my fear, when daz'd With that excess, to converse urg'd, and spake: "Behooves thee sift more narrowly thy terms, And say, who level'd at this scope thy bow." "Philosophy," said I, ''hath arguments, And this place hath authority enough 'T' imprint in me such love: for, of constraint, Good, inasmuch as we perceive the good, Kindles our love, and in degree the more, As it comprises more of goodness in 't. The essence then, where such advantage is, That each good, found without it, is naught else But of his light the beam, must needs attract The soul of each one, loving, who the truth Discerns, on which this proof is built. Such truth Learn I from him, who shows me the first love Of all intelligential substances Eternal: from his voice I learn, whose word Is truth, that of himself to Moses saith, 'I will make all my good before thee pass.' Lastly from thee I learn, who chief proclaim'st, E'en at the outset of thy heralding, In mortal ears the mystery of heav'n." "Through human wisdom, and th' authority Therewith agreeing," heard I answer'd, "keep The choicest of thy love for God. But say, If thou yet other cords within thee feel'st That draw thee towards him; so that thou report How many are the fangs, with which this love Is grappled to thy soul." I did not miss, To what intent the eagle of our Lord Had pointed his demand; yea noted well Th' avowal, which he led to; and resum'd: "All grappling bonds, that knit the heart to God, Confederate to make fast our clarity. The being of the world, and mine own being, The death which he endur'd that I should live, And that, which all the faithful hope, as I do, To the foremention'd lively knowledge join'd, Have from the sea of ill love sav'd my bark, And on the coast secur'd it of the right. As for the leaves, that in the garden bloom, My love for them is great, as is the good Dealt by th' eternal hand, that tends them all." I ended, and therewith a song most sweet Rang through the spheres; and "Holy, holy, holy," Accordant with the rest my lady sang. And as a sleep is broken and dispers'd Through sharp encounter of the nimble light, With the eye's spirit running forth to meet The ray, from membrane on to the membrane urg'd; And the upstartled wight loathes that he sees; So, at his sudden waking, he misdeems Of all around him, till assurance waits On better judgment: thus the saintly came Drove from before mine eyes the motes away, With the resplendence of her own, that cast Their brightness downward, thousand miles below. Whence I my vision, clearer shall before, Recover'd; and, well nigh astounded, ask'd Of a fourth light, that now with us I saw. And Beatrice: "The first diving soul, That ever the first virtue fram'd, admires Within these rays his Maker." Like the leaf, That bows its lithe top till the blast is blown; By its own virtue rear'd then stands aloof; So I, the whilst she said, awe-stricken bow'd. Then eagerness to speak embolden'd me; And I began: "O fruit! that wast alone Mature, when first engender'd! Ancient father! That doubly seest in every wedded bride Thy daughter by affinity and blood! Devoutly as I may, I pray thee hold Converse with me: my will thou seest; and I, More speedily to hear thee, tell it not." It chanceth oft some animal bewrays, Through the sleek cov'ring of his furry coat. The fondness, that stirs in him and conforms His outside seeming to the cheer within: And in like guise was Adam's spirit mov'd To joyous mood, that through the covering shone, Transparent, when to pleasure me it spake: "No need thy will be told, which I untold Better discern, than thou whatever thing Thou holdst most certain: for that will I see In Him, who is truth's mirror, and Himself Parhelion unto all things, and naught else To him. This wouldst thou hear; how long since God Plac'd me high garden, from whose hounds She led me up in this ladder, steep and long; What space endur'd my season of delight; Whence truly sprang the wrath that banish'd me; And what the language, which I spake and fram'd Not that I tasted of the tree, my son, Was in itself the cause of that exile, But only my transgressing of the mark Assign'd me. There, whence at thy lady's hest The Mantuan mov'd him, still was I debarr'd This council, till the sun had made complete, Four thousand and three hundred rounds and twice, His annual journey; and, through every light In his broad pathway, saw I him return, Thousand save sev'nty times, the whilst I dwelt Upon the earth. The language I did use Was worn away, or ever Nimrod's race Their unaccomplishable work began. For naught, that man inclines to, ere was lasting, Left by his reason free, and variable, As is the sky that sways him. That he speaks, Is nature's prompting: whether thus or thus, She leaves to you, as ye do most affect it. Ere I descended into hell's abyss, El was the name on earth of the Chief Good, Whose joy enfolds me: Eli then 't was call'd And so beseemeth: for, in mortals, use Is as the leaf upon the bough; that goes, And other comes instead. Upon the mount Most high above the waters, all my life, Both innocent and guilty, did but reach From the first hour, to that which cometh next (As the sun changes quarter), to the sixth." CANTO XXVII Then "Glory to the Father, to the Son, And to the Holy Spirit," rang aloud Throughout all Paradise, that with the song My spirit reel'd, so passing sweet the strain: And what I saw was equal ecstasy; One universal smile it seem'd of all things, Joy past compare, gladness unutterable, Imperishable life of peace and love, Exhaustless riches and unmeasur'd bliss. Before mine eyes stood the four torches lit; And that, which first had come, began to wax In brightness, and in semblance such became, As Jove might be, if he and Mars were birds, And interchang'd their plumes. Silence ensued, Through the blest quire, by Him, who here appoints Vicissitude of ministry, enjoin'd; When thus I heard: "Wonder not, if my hue Be chang'd; for, while I speak, these shalt thou see All in like manner change with me. My place He who usurps on earth (my place, ay, mine, Which in the presence of the Son of God Is void), the same hath made my cemetery A common sewer of puddle and of blood: The more below his triumph, who from hence Malignant fell." Such colour, as the sun, At eve or morning, paints an adverse cloud, Then saw I sprinkled over all the sky. And as th' unblemish'd dame, who in herself Secure of censure, yet at bare report Of other's failing, shrinks with maiden fear; So Beatrice in her semblance chang'd: And such eclipse in heav'n methinks was seen, When the Most Holy suffer'd. Then the words Proceeded, with voice, alter'd from itself So clean, the semblance did not alter more. "Not to this end was Christ's spouse with my blood, With that of Linus, and of Cletus fed: That she might serve for purchase of base gold: But for the purchase of this happy life Did Sextus, Pius, and Callixtus bleed, And Urban, they, whose doom was not without Much weeping seal'd. No purpose was of our That on the right hand of our successors Part of the Christian people should be set, And part upon their left; nor that the keys, Which were vouchsaf'd me, should for ensign serve Unto the banners, that do levy war On the baptiz'd: nor I, for sigil-mark Set upon sold and lying privileges; Which makes me oft to bicker and turn red. In shepherd's clothing greedy wolves below Range wide o'er all the pastures. Arm of God! Why longer sleepst thou? Caorsines and Gascona Prepare to quaff our blood. O good beginning To what a vile conclusion must thou stoop! But the high providence, which did defend Through Scipio the world's glory unto Rome, Will not delay its succour: and thou, son, Who through thy mortal weight shall yet again Return below, open thy lips, nor hide What is by me not hidden." As a Hood Of frozen vapours streams adown the air, What time the she-goat with her skiey horn Touches the sun; so saw I there stream wide The vapours, who with us had linger'd late And with glad triumph deck th' ethereal cope. Onward my sight their semblances pursued; So far pursued, as till the space between From its reach sever'd them: whereat the guide Celestial, marking me no more intent On upward gazing, said, "Look down and see What circuit thou hast compass'd." From the hour When I before had cast my view beneath, All the first region overpast I saw, Which from the midmost to the bound'ry winds; That onward thence from Gades I beheld The unwise passage of Laertes' son, And hitherward the shore, where thou, Europa! Mad'st thee a joyful burden: and yet more Of this dim spot had seen, but that the sun, A constellation off and more, had ta'en His progress in the zodiac underneath. Then by the spirit, that doth never leave Its amorous dalliance with my lady's looks, Back with redoubled ardour were mine eyes Led unto her: and from her radiant smiles, Whenas I turn'd me, pleasure so divine Did lighten on me, that whatever bait Or art or nature in the human flesh, Or in its limn'd resemblance, can combine Through greedy eyes to take the soul withal, Were to her beauty nothing. Its boon influence From the fair nest of Leda rapt me forth, And wafted on into the swiftest heav'n. What place for entrance Beatrice chose, I may not say, so uniform was all, Liveliest and loftiest. She my secret wish Divin'd; and with such gladness, that God's love Seem'd from her visage shining, thus began: "Here is the goal, whence motion on his race Starts; motionless the centre, and the rest All mov'd around. Except the soul divine, Place in this heav'n is none, the soul divine, Wherein the love, which ruleth o'er its orb, Is kindled, and the virtue that it sheds; One circle, light and love, enclasping it, As this doth clasp the others; and to Him, Who draws the bound, its limit only known. Measur'd itself by none, it doth divide Motion to all, counted unto them forth, As by the fifth or half ye count forth ten. The vase, wherein time's roots are plung'd, thou seest, Look elsewhere for the leaves. O mortal lust! That canst not lift thy head above the waves Which whelm and sink thee down! The will in man Bears goodly blossoms; but its ruddy promise Is, by the dripping of perpetual rain, Made mere abortion: faith and innocence Are met with but in babes, each taking leave Ere cheeks with down are sprinkled; he, that fasts, While yet a stammerer, with his tongue let loose Gluts every food alike in every moon. One yet a babbler, loves and listens to His mother; but no sooner hath free use Of speech, than he doth wish her in her grave. So suddenly doth the fair child of him, Whose welcome is the morn and eve his parting, To negro blackness change her virgin white. "Thou, to abate thy wonder, note that none Bears rule in earth, and its frail family Are therefore wand'rers. Yet before the date, When through the hundredth in his reck'ning drops Pale January must be shor'd aside From winter's calendar, these heav'nly spheres Shall roar so loud, that fortune shall be fain To turn the poop, where she hath now the prow; So that the fleet run onward; and true fruit, Expected long, shall crown at last the bloom!" CANTO XXVII So she who doth imparadise my soul, Had drawn the veil from off our pleasant life, And bar'd the truth of poor mortality; When lo! as one who, in a mirror, spies The shining of a flambeau at his back, Lit sudden ore he deem of its approach, And turneth to resolve him, if the glass Have told him true, and sees the record faithful As note is to its metre; even thus, I well remember, did befall to me, Looking upon the beauteous eyes, whence love Had made the leash to take me. As I turn'd; And that, which, in their circles, none who spies, Can miss of, in itself apparent, struck On mine; a point I saw, that darted light So sharp, no lid, unclosing, may bear up Against its keenness. The least star we view From hence, had seem'd a moon, set by its side, As star by side of star. And so far off, Perchance, as is the halo from the light Which paints it, when most dense the vapour spreads, There wheel'd about the point a circle of fire, More rapid than the motion, which first girds The world. Then, circle after circle, round Enring'd each other; till the seventh reach'd Circumference so ample, that its bow, Within the span of Juno's messenger, lied scarce been held entire. Beyond the sev'nth, Follow'd yet other two. And every one, As more in number distant from the first, Was tardier in motion; and that glow'd With flame most pure, that to the sparkle' of truth Was nearest, as partaking most, methinks, Of its reality. The guide belov'd Saw me in anxious thought suspense, and spake: "Heav'n, and all nature, hangs upon that point. The circle thereto most conjoin'd observe; And know, that by intenser love its course Is to this swiftness wing'd." To whom I thus: "It were enough; nor should I further seek, Had I but witness'd order, in the world Appointed, such as in these wheels is seen. But in the sensible world such diff'rence is, That is each round shows more divinity, As each is wider from the centre. Hence, If in this wondrous and angelic temple, That hath for confine only light and love, My wish may have completion I must know, Wherefore such disagreement is between Th' exemplar and its copy: for myself, Contemplating, I fail to pierce the cause." "It is no marvel, if thy fingers foil'd Do leave the knot untied: so hard 't is grown For want of tenting." Thus she said: "But take," She added, "if thou wish thy cure, my words, And entertain them subtly. Every orb Corporeal, doth proportion its extent Unto the virtue through its parts diffus'd. The greater blessedness preserves the more. The greater is the body (if all parts Share equally) the more is to preserve. Therefore the circle, whose swift course enwheels The universal frame answers to that, Which is supreme in knowledge and in love Thus by the virtue, not the seeming, breadth Of substance, measure, thou shalt see the heav'ns, Each to the' intelligence that ruleth it, Greater to more, and smaller unto less, Suited in strict and wondrous harmony." As when the sturdy north blows from his cheek A blast, that scours the sky, forthwith our air, Clear'd of the rack, that hung on it before, Glitters; and, With his beauties all unveil'd, The firmament looks forth serene, and smiles; Such was my cheer, when Beatrice drove With clear reply the shadows back, and truth Was manifested, as a star in heaven. And when the words were ended, not unlike To iron in the furnace, every cirque Ebullient shot forth scintillating fires: And every sparkle shivering to new blaze, In number did outmillion the account Reduplicate upon the chequer'd board. Then heard I echoing on from choir to choir, "Hosanna," to the fixed point, that holds, And shall for ever hold them to their place, From everlasting, irremovable. Musing awhile I stood: and she, who saw by inward meditations, thus began: "In the first circles, they, whom thou beheldst, Are seraphim and cherubim. Thus swift Follow their hoops, in likeness to the point, Near as they can, approaching; and they can The more, the loftier their vision. Those, That round them fleet, gazing the Godhead next, Are thrones; in whom the first trine ends. And all Are blessed, even as their sight descends Deeper into the truth, wherein rest is For every mind. Thus happiness hath root In seeing, not in loving, which of sight Is aftergrowth. And of the seeing such The meed, as unto each in due degree Grace and good-will their measure have assign'd. The other trine, that with still opening buds In this eternal springtide blossom fair, Fearless of bruising from the nightly ram, Breathe up in warbled melodies threefold Hosannas blending ever, from the three Transmitted. hierarchy of gods, for aye Rejoicing, dominations first, next then Virtues, and powers the third. The next to whom Are princedoms and archangels, with glad round To tread their festal ring; and last the band Angelical, disporting in their sphere. All, as they circle in their orders, look Aloft, and downward with such sway prevail, That all with mutual impulse tend to God. These once a mortal view beheld. Desire In Dionysius so intently wrought, That he, as I have done rang'd them; and nam'd Their orders, marshal'd in his thought. From him Dissentient, one refus'd his sacred read. But soon as in this heav'n his doubting eyes Were open'd, Gregory at his error smil'd Nor marvel, that a denizen of earth Should scan such secret truth; for he had learnt Both this and much beside of these our orbs, From an eye-witness to heav'n's mysteries." CANTO XXIX No longer than what time Latona's twins Cover'd of Libra and the fleecy star, Together both, girding the' horizon hang, In even balance from the zenith pois'd, Till from that verge, each, changing hemisphere, Part the nice level; e'en so brief a space Did Beatrice's silence hold. A smile Bat painted on her cheek; and her fix'd gaze Bent on the point, at which my vision fail'd: When thus her words resuming she began: "I speak, nor what thou wouldst inquire demand; For I have mark'd it, where all time and place Are present. Not for increase to himself Of good, which may not be increas'd, but forth To manifest his glory by its beams, Inhabiting his own eternity, Beyond time's limit or what bound soe'er To circumscribe his being, as he will'd, Into new natures, like unto himself, Eternal Love unfolded. Nor before, As if in dull inaction torpid lay. For not in process of before or aft Upon these waters mov'd the Spirit of God. Simple and mix'd, both form and substance, forth To perfect being started, like three darts Shot from a bow three-corded. And as ray In crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire, E'en at the moment of its issuing; thus Did, from th' eternal Sovran, beam entire His threefold operation, at one act Produc'd coeval. Yet in order each Created his due station knew: those highest, Who pure intelligence were made: mere power The lowest: in the midst, bound with strict league, Intelligence and power, unsever'd bond. Long tract of ages by the angels past, Ere the creating of another world, Describ'd on Jerome's pages thou hast seen. But that what I disclose to thee is true, Those penmen, whom the Holy Spirit mov'd In many a passage of their sacred book Attest; as thou by diligent search shalt find And reason in some sort discerns the same, Who scarce would grant the heav'nly ministers Of their perfection void, so long a space. Thus when and where these spirits of love were made, Thou know'st, and how: and knowing hast allay'd Thy thirst, which from the triple question rose. Ere one had reckon'd twenty, e'en so soon Part of the angels fell: and in their fall Confusion to your elements ensued. The others kept their station: and this task, Whereon thou lookst, began with such delight, That they surcease not ever, day nor night, Their circling. Of that fatal lapse the cause Was the curst pride of him, whom thou hast seen Pent with the world's incumbrance. Those, whom here Thou seest, were lowly to confess themselves Of his free bounty, who had made them apt For ministries so high: therefore their views Were by enlight'ning grace and their own merit Exalted; so that in their will confirm'd They stand, nor feel to fall. For do not doubt, But to receive the grace, which heav'n vouchsafes, Is meritorious, even as the soul With prompt affection welcometh the guest. Now, without further help, if with good heed My words thy mind have treasur'd, thou henceforth This consistory round about mayst scan, And gaze thy fill. But since thou hast on earth Heard vain disputers, reasoners in the schools, Canvas the' angelic nature, and dispute Its powers of apprehension, memory, choice; Therefore, 't is well thou take from me the truth, Pure and without disguise, which they below, Equivocating, darken and perplex. "Know thou, that, from the first, these substances, Rejoicing in the countenance of God, Have held unceasingly their view, intent Upon the glorious vision, from the which Naught absent is nor hid: where then no change Of newness with succession interrupts, Remembrance there needs none to gather up Divided thought and images remote "So that men, thus at variance with the truth Dream, though their eyes be open; reckless some Of error; others well aware they err, To whom more guilt and shame are justly due. Each the known track of sage philosophy Deserts, and has a byway of his own: So much the restless eagerness to shine And love of singularity prevail. Yet this, offensive as it is, provokes Heav'n's anger less, than when the book of God Is forc'd to yield to man's authority, Or from its straightness warp'd: no reck'ning made What blood the sowing of it in the world Has cost; what favour for himself he wins, Who meekly clings to it. The aim of all Is how to shine: e'en they, whose office is To preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep, And pass their own inventions off instead. One tells, how at Christ's suffering the wan moon Bent back her steps, and shadow'd o'er the sun With intervenient disk, as she withdrew: Another, how the light shrouded itself Within its tabernacle, and left dark The Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew. Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears, Bandied about more frequent, than the names Of Bindi and of Lapi in her streets. The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, return From pasture, fed with wind: and what avails For their excuse, they do not see their harm? Christ said not to his first conventicle, 'Go forth and preach impostures to the world,' But gave them truth to build on; and the sound Was mighty on their lips; nor needed they, Beside the gospel, other spear or shield, To aid them in their warfare for the faith. The preacher now provides himself with store Of jests and gibes; and, so there be no lack Of laughter, while he vents them, his big cowl Distends, and he has won the meed he sought: Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the while Of that dark bird which nestles in his hood, They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said. Which now the dotards hold in such esteem, That every counterfeit, who spreads abroad The hands of holy promise, finds a throng Of credulous fools beneath. Saint Anthony Fattens with this his swine, and others worse Than swine, who diet at his lazy board, Paying with unstamp'd metal for their fare. "But (for we far have wander'd) let us seek The forward path again; so as the way Be shorten'd with the time. No mortal tongue Nor thought of man hath ever reach'd so far, That of these natures he might count the tribes. What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal'd With finite number infinite conceals. The fountain at whose source these drink their beams, With light supplies them in as many modes, As there are splendours, that it shines on: each According to the virtue it conceives, Differing in love and sweet affection. Look then how lofty and how huge in breadth The' eternal might, which, broken and dispers'd Over such countless mirrors, yet remains Whole in itself and one, as at the first." CANTO XXX Noon's fervid hour perchance six thousand miles From hence is distant; and the shadowy cone Almost to level on our earth declines; When from the midmost of this blue abyss By turns some star is to our vision lost. And straightway as the handmaid of the sun Puts forth her radiant brow, all, light by light, Fade, and the spangled firmament shuts in, E'en to the loveliest of the glittering throng. Thus vanish'd gradually from my sight The triumph, which plays ever round the point, That overcame me, seeming (for it did) Engirt by that it girdeth. Wherefore love, With loss of other object, forc'd me bend Mine eyes on Beatrice once again. If all, that hitherto is told of her, Were in one praise concluded, 't were too weak To furnish out this turn. Mine eyes did look On beauty, such, as I believe in sooth, Not merely to exceed our human, but, That save its Maker, none can to the full Enjoy it. At this point o'erpower'd I fail, Unequal to my theme, as never bard Of buskin or of sock hath fail'd before. For, as the sun doth to the feeblest sight, E'en so remembrance of that witching smile Hath dispossess my spirit of itself. Not from that day, when on this earth I first Beheld her charms, up to that view of them, Have I with song applausive ever ceas'd To follow, but not follow them no more; My course here bounded, as each artist's is, When it doth touch the limit of his skill. She (such as I bequeath her to the bruit Of louder trump than mine, which hasteneth on, Urging its arduous matter to the close), Her words resum'd, in gesture and in voice Resembling one accustom'd to command: "Forth from the last corporeal are we come Into the heav'n, that is unbodied light, Light intellectual replete with love, Love of true happiness replete with joy, Joy, that transcends all sweetness of delight. Here shalt thou look on either mighty host Of Paradise; and one in that array, Which in the final judgment thou shalt see." As when the lightning, in a sudden spleen Unfolded, dashes from the blinding eyes The visive spirits dazzled and bedimm'd; So, round about me, fulminating streams Of living radiance play'd, and left me swath'd And veil'd in dense impenetrable blaze. Such weal is in the love, that stills this heav'n; For its own flame the torch this fitting ever! No sooner to my list'ning ear had come The brief assurance, than I understood New virtue into me infus'd, and sight Kindled afresh, with vigour to sustain Excess of light, however pure. I look'd; And in the likeness of a river saw Light flowing, from whose amber-seeming waves Flash'd up effulgence, as they glided on 'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring, Incredible how fair; and, from the tide, There ever and anon, outstarting, flew Sparkles instinct with life; and in the flow'rs Did set them, like to rubies chas'd in gold; Then, as if drunk with odors, plung'd again Into the wondrous flood; from which, as one Re'enter'd, still another rose. "The thirst Of knowledge high, whereby thou art inflam'd, To search the meaning of what here thou seest, The more it warms thee, pleases me the more. But first behooves thee of this water drink, Or ere that longing be allay'd." So spake The day-star of mine eyes; then thus subjoin'd: "This stream, and these, forth issuing from its gulf, And diving back, a living topaz each, With all this laughter on its bloomy shores, Are but a preface, shadowy of the truth They emblem: not that, in themselves, the things Are crude; but on thy part is the defect, For that thy views not yet aspire so high." Never did babe, that had outslept his wont, Rush, with such eager straining, to the milk, As I toward the water, bending me, To make the better mirrors of mine eyes In the refining wave; and, as the eaves Of mine eyelids did drink of it, forthwith Seem'd it unto me turn'd from length to round, Then as a troop of maskers, when they put Their vizors off, look other than before, The counterfeited semblance thrown aside; So into greater jubilee were chang'd Those flowers and sparkles, and distinct I saw Before me either court of heav'n displac'd. O prime enlightener! thou who crav'st me strength On the high triumph of thy realm to gaze! Grant virtue now to utter what I kenn'd, There is in heav'n a light, whose goodly shine Makes the Creator visible to all Created, that in seeing him alone Have peace; and in a circle spreads so far, That the circumference were too loose a zone To girdle in the sun. All is one beam, Reflected from the summit of the first, That moves, which being hence and vigour takes, And as some cliff, that from the bottom eyes Its image mirror'd in the crystal flood, As if 't admire its brave appareling Of verdure and of flowers: so, round about, Eyeing the light, on more than million thrones, Stood, eminent, whatever from our earth Has to the skies return'd. How wide the leaves Extended to their utmost of this rose, Whose lowest step embosoms such a space Of ample radiance! Yet, nor amplitude Nor height impeded, but my view with ease Took in the full dimensions of that joy. Near or remote, what there avails, where God Immediate rules, and Nature, awed, suspends Her sway? Into the yellow of the rose Perennial, which in bright expansiveness, Lays forth its gradual blooming, redolent Of praises to the never-wint'ring sun, As one, who fain would speak yet holds his peace, Beatrice led me; and, "Behold," she said, "This fair assemblage! stoles of snowy white How numberless! The city, where we dwell, Behold how vast! and these our seats so throng'd Few now are wanting here! In that proud stall, On which, the crown, already o'er its state Suspended, holds thine eyes--or ere thyself Mayst at the wedding sup,--shall rest the soul Of the great Harry, he who, by the world Augustas hail'd, to Italy must come, Before her day be ripe. But ye are sick, And in your tetchy wantonness as blind, As is the bantling, that of hunger dies, And drives away the nurse. Nor may it be, That he, who in the sacred forum sways, Openly or in secret, shall with him Accordant walk: Whom God will not endure I' th' holy office long; but thrust him down To Simon Magus, where Magna's priest Will sink beneath him: such will be his meed." CANTO XXXI In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then Before my view the saintly multitude, Which in his own blood Christ espous'd. Meanwhile That other host, that soar aloft to gaze And celebrate his glory, whom they love, Hover'd around; and, like a troop of bees, Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, Now, clustering, where their fragrant labour glows, Flew downward to the mighty flow'r, or rose From the redundant petals, streaming back Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold; The rest was whiter than the driven snow. And as they flitted down into the flower, From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, Whisper'd the peace and ardour, which they won From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast Interposition of such numerous flight Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, Wherever merited, celestial light Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. All there, who reign in safety and in bliss, Ages long past or new, on one sole mark Their love and vision fix'd. O trinal beam Of individual star, that charmst them thus, Vouchsafe one glance to gild our storm below! If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roam'd, (Where helice, forever, as she wheels, Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son) Stood in mute wonder 'mid the works of Rome, When to their view the Lateran arose In greatness more than earthly; I, who then From human to divine had past, from time Unto eternity, and out of Florence To justice and to truth, how might I choose But marvel too? 'Twixt gladness and amaze, In sooth no will had I to utter aught, Or hear. And, as a pilgrim, when he rests Within the temple of his vow, looks round In breathless awe, and hopes some time to tell Of all its goodly state: e'en so mine eyes Cours'd up and down along the living light, Now low, and now aloft, and now around, Visiting every step. Looks I beheld, Where charity in soft persuasion sat, Smiles from within and radiance from above, And in each gesture grace and honour high. So rov'd my ken, and its general form All Paradise survey'd: when round I turn'd With purpose of my lady to inquire Once more of things, that held my thought suspense, But answer found from other than I ween'd; For, Beatrice, when I thought to see, I saw instead a senior, at my side, Rob'd, as the rest, in glory. Joy benign Glow'd in his eye, and o'er his cheek diffus'd, With gestures such as spake a father's love. And, "Whither is she vanish'd?" straight I ask'd. "By Beatrice summon'd," he replied, "I come to aid thy wish. Looking aloft To the third circle from the highest, there Behold her on the throne, wherein her merit Hath plac'd her." Answering not, mine eyes I rais'd, And saw her, where aloof she sat, her brow A wreath reflecting of eternal beams. Not from the centre of the sea so far Unto the region of the highest thunder, As was my ken from hers; and yet the form Came through that medium down, unmix'd and pure, "O Lady! thou in whom my hopes have rest! Who, for my safety, hast not scorn'd, in hell To leave the traces of thy footsteps mark'd! For all mine eyes have seen, I, to thy power And goodness, virtue owe and grace. Of slave, Thou hast to freedom brought me; and no means, For my deliverance apt, hast left untried. Thy liberal bounty still toward me keep. That, when my spirit, which thou madest whole, Is loosen'd from this body, it may find Favour with thee." So I my suit preferr'd: And she, so distant, as appear'd, look'd down, And smil'd; then tow'rds th' eternal fountain turn'd. And thus the senior, holy and rever'd: "That thou at length mayst happily conclude Thy voyage (to which end I was dispatch'd, By supplication mov'd and holy love) Let thy upsoaring vision range, at large, This garden through: for so, by ray divine Kindled, thy ken a higher flight shall mount; And from heav'n's queen, whom fervent I adore, All gracious aid befriend us; for that I Am her own faithful Bernard." Like a wight, Who haply from Croatia wends to see Our Veronica, and the while 't is shown, Hangs over it with never-sated gaze, And, all that he hath heard revolving, saith Unto himself in thought: "And didst thou look E'en thus, O Jesus, my true Lord and God? And was this semblance thine?" So gaz'd I then Adoring; for the charity of him, Who musing, in the world that peace enjoy'd, Stood lively before me. "Child of grace!" Thus he began: "thou shalt not knowledge gain Of this glad being, if thine eyes are held Still in this depth below. But search around The circles, to the furthest, till thou spy Seated in state, the queen, that of this realm Is sovran." Straight mine eyes I rais'd; and bright, As, at the birth of morn, the eastern clime Above th' horizon, where the sun declines; To mine eyes, that upward, as from vale To mountain sped, at th' extreme bound, a part Excell'd in lustre all the front oppos'd. And as the glow burns ruddiest o'er the wave, That waits the sloping beam, which Phaeton Ill knew to guide, and on each part the light Diminish'd fades, intensest in the midst; So burn'd the peaceful oriflame, and slack'd On every side the living flame decay'd. And in that midst their sportive pennons wav'd Thousands of angels; in resplendence each Distinct, and quaint adornment. At their glee And carol, smil'd the Lovely One of heav'n, That joy was in the eyes of all the blest. Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich, As is the colouring in fancy's loom, 'T were all too poor to utter the least part Of that enchantment. When he saw mine eyes Intent on her, that charm'd him, Bernard gaz'd With so exceeding fondness, as infus'd Ardour into my breast, unfelt before. CANTO XXXII Freely the sage, though wrapt in musings high, Assum'd the teacher's part, and mild began: "The wound, that Mary clos'd, she open'd first, Who sits so beautiful at Mary's feet. The third in order, underneath her, lo! Rachel with Beatrice. Sarah next, Judith, Rebecca, and the gleaner maid, Meek ancestress of him, who sang the songs Of sore repentance in his sorrowful mood. All, as I name them, down from deaf to leaf, Are in gradation throned on the rose. And from the seventh step, successively, Adown the breathing tresses of the flow'r Still doth the file of Hebrew dames proceed. For these are a partition wall, whereby The sacred stairs are sever'd, as the faith In Christ divides them. On this part, where blooms Each leaf in full maturity, are set Such as in Christ, or ere he came, believ'd. On th' other, where an intersected space Yet shows the semicircle void, abide All they, who look'd to Christ already come. And as our Lady on her glorious stool, And they who on their stools beneath her sit, This way distinction make: e'en so on his, The mighty Baptist that way marks the line (He who endur'd the desert and the pains Of martyrdom, and for two years of hell, Yet still continued holy), and beneath, Augustin, Francis, Benedict, and the rest, Thus far from round to round. So heav'n's decree Forecasts, this garden equally to fill. With faith in either view, past or to come, Learn too, that downward from the step, which cleaves Midway the twain compartments, none there are Who place obtain for merit of their own, But have through others' merit been advanc'd, On set conditions: spirits all releas'd, Ere for themselves they had the power to choose. And, if thou mark and listen to them well, Their childish looks and voice declare as much. "Here, silent as thou art, I know thy doubt; And gladly will I loose the knot, wherein Thy subtle thoughts have bound thee. From this realm Excluded, chalice no entrance here may find, No more shall hunger, thirst, or sorrow can. A law immutable hath establish'd all; Nor is there aught thou seest, that doth not fit, Exactly, as the finger to the ring. It is not therefore without cause, that these, O'erspeedy comers to immortal life, Are different in their shares of excellence. Our Sovran Lord--that settleth this estate In love and in delight so absolute, That wish can dare no further--every soul, Created in his joyous sight to dwell, With grace at pleasure variously endows. And for a proof th' effect may well suffice. And 't is moreover most expressly mark'd In holy scripture, where the twins are said To, have struggled in the womb. Therefore, as grace Inweaves the coronet, so every brow Weareth its proper hue of orient light. And merely in respect to his prime gift, Not in reward of meritorious deed, Hath each his several degree assign'd. In early times with their own innocence More was not wanting, than the parents' faith, To save them: those first ages past, behoov'd That circumcision in the males should imp The flight of innocent wings: but since the day Of grace hath come, without baptismal rites In Christ accomplish'd, innocence herself Must linger yet below. Now raise thy view Unto the visage most resembling Christ: For, in her splendour only, shalt thou win The pow'r to look on him." Forthwith I saw Such floods of gladness on her visage shower'd, From holy spirits, winging that profound; That, whatsoever I had yet beheld, Had not so much suspended me with wonder, Or shown me such similitude of God. And he, who had to her descended, once, On earth, now hail'd in heav'n; and on pois'd wing. "Ave, Maria, Gratia Plena," sang: To whose sweet anthem all the blissful court, From all parts answ'ring, rang: that holier joy Brooded the deep serene. "Father rever'd: Who deign'st, for me, to quit the pleasant place, Wherein thou sittest, by eternal lot! Say, who that angel is, that with such glee Beholds our queen, and so enamour'd glows Of her high beauty, that all fire he seems." So I again resorted to the lore Of my wise teacher, he, whom Mary's charms Embellish'd, as the sun the morning star; Who thus in answer spake: "In him are summ'd, Whatever of buxomness and free delight May be in Spirit, or in angel, met: And so beseems: for that he bare the palm Down unto Mary, when the Son of God Vouchsaf'd to clothe him in terrestrial weeds. Now let thine eyes wait heedful on my words, And note thou of this just and pious realm The chiefest nobles. Those, highest in bliss, The twain, on each hand next our empress thron'd, Are as it were two roots unto this rose. He to the left, the parent, whose rash taste Proves bitter to his seed; and, on the right, That ancient father of the holy church, Into whose keeping Christ did give the keys Of this sweet flow'r: near whom behold the seer, That, ere he died, saw all the grievous times Of the fair bride, who with the lance and nails Was won. And, near unto the other, rests The leader, under whom on manna fed Th' ungrateful nation, fickle and perverse. On th' other part, facing to Peter, lo! Where Anna sits, so well content to look On her lov'd daughter, that with moveless eye She chants the loud hosanna: while, oppos'd To the first father of your mortal kind, Is Lucia, at whose hest thy lady sped, When on the edge of ruin clos'd thine eye. "But (for the vision hasteneth so an end) Here break we off, as the good workman doth, That shapes the cloak according to the cloth: And to the primal love our ken shall rise; That thou mayst penetrate the brightness, far As sight can bear thee. Yet, alas! in sooth Beating thy pennons, thinking to advance, Thou backward fall'st. Grace then must first be gain'd; Her grace, whose might can help thee. Thou in prayer Seek her: and, with affection, whilst I sue, Attend, and yield me all thy heart." He said, And thus the saintly orison began. CANTO XXXIII "O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son, Created beings all in lowliness Surpassing, as in height, above them all, Term by th' eternal counsel pre-ordain'd, Ennobler of thy nature, so advanc'd In thee, that its great Maker did not scorn, Himself, in his own work enclos'd to dwell! For in thy womb rekindling shone the love Reveal'd, whose genial influence makes now This flower to germin in eternal peace! Here thou to us, of charity and love, Art, as the noon-day torch: and art, beneath, To mortal men, of hope a living spring. So mighty art thou, lady! and so great, That he who grace desireth, and comes not To thee for aidance, fain would have desire Fly without wings. Nor only him who asks, Thy bounty succours, but doth freely oft Forerun the asking. Whatsoe'er may be Of excellence in creature, pity mild, Relenting mercy, large munificence, Are all combin'd in thee. Here kneeleth one, Who of all spirits hath review'd the state, From the world's lowest gap unto this height. Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring grace For virtue, yet more high to lift his ken Toward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne'er Coveted sight, more fondly, for myself, Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer, (And pray they be not scant) that thou wouldst drive Each cloud of his mortality away; That on the sovran pleasure he may gaze. This also I entreat of thee, O queen! Who canst do what thou wilt! that in him thou Wouldst after all he hath beheld, preserve Affection sound, and human passions quell. Lo! Where, with Beatrice, many a saint Stretch their clasp'd hands, in furtherance of my suit!" The eyes, that heav'n with love and awe regards, Fix'd on the suitor, witness'd, how benign She looks on pious pray'rs: then fasten'd they On th' everlasting light, wherein no eye Of creature, as may well be thought, so far Can travel inward. I, meanwhile, who drew Near to the limit, where all wishes end, The ardour of my wish (for so behooved), Ended within me. Beck'ning smil'd the sage, That I should look aloft: but, ere he bade, Already of myself aloft I look'd; For visual strength, refining more and more, Bare me into the ray authentical Of sovran light. Thenceforward, what I saw, Was not for words to speak, nor memory's self To stand against such outrage on her skill. As one, who from a dream awaken'd, straight, All he hath seen forgets; yet still retains Impression of the feeling in his dream; E'en such am I: for all the vision dies, As 't were, away; and yet the sense of sweet, That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart. Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unseal'd; Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lost The Sybil's sentence. O eternal beam! (Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?) Yield me again some little particle Of what thou then appearedst, give my tongue Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, Unto the race to come, that shall not lose Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught Of memory in me, and endure to hear The record sound in this unequal strain. Such keenness from the living ray I met, That, if mine eyes had turn'd away, methinks, I had been lost; but, so embolden'd, on I pass'd, as I remember, till my view Hover'd the brink of dread infinitude. O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav'st Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken On th' everlasting splendour, that I look'd, While sight was unconsum'd, and, in that depth, Saw in one volume clasp'd of love, whatever The universe unfolds; all properties Of substance and of accident, beheld, Compounded, yet one individual light The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw The universal form: for that whenever I do but speak of it, my soul dilates Beyond her proper self; and, till I speak, One moment seems a longer lethargy, Than five-and-twenty ages had appear'd To that emprize, that first made Neptune wonder At Argo's shadow darkening on his flood. With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, Wond'ring I gaz'd; and admiration still Was kindled, as I gaz'd. It may not be, That one, who looks upon that light, can turn To other object, willingly, his view. For all the good, that will may covet, there Is summ'd; and all, elsewhere defective found, Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe's That yet is moisten'd at his mother's breast. Not that the semblance of the living light Was chang'd (that ever as at first remain'd) But that my vision quickening, in that sole Appearance, still new miracles descry'd, And toil'd me with the change. In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd methought, Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound: And, from another, one reflected seem'd, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem'd fire, breath'd equally from both. Oh speech How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth! Yet this to what I saw Is less than little. Oh eternal light! Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyself Sole understood, past, present, or to come! Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in thee Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mus'd; For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: steadfastly I therefore por'd upon the view. As one Who vers'd in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not; e'en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How plac'd: but the flight was not for my wing; Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And in the spleen unfolded what it sought. Here vigour fail'd the tow'ring fantasy: But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the Love impell'd, That moves the sun in heav'n and all the stars. 
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31303	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIÆVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro" etc._ VOL. I. WALTER PATER, IN APPRECIATION OF THAT WHICH, IN EXPOUNDING THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PAST, HE HAS ADDED TO THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PRESENT. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Introduction The Sacrifice The Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists The Out-Door Poetry Symmetria Prisca INTRODUCTION. _Faustus is therefore a parable of the impotent yearnings of the Middle Ages--its passionate aspiration, its conscience-stricken desire, its fettered curiosity amid the tramping limits of imperfect knowledge and irrational dogmatism. The indestructible beauty of Greek art,--whereof Helen was an emblem, became, through the discovery of classic poetry and sculpture, the possession of the modern world. Mediævalism took this Helen to wife, and their offspring, the Euphorion of Goethe's drama, is the spirit of the modern world._--J.A. Symonds, "Renaissance In Italy," vol. ii. p. 54. Euphorion is the name given by Goethe to the marvellous child born of the mystic marriage of Faust and Helena. Who Faust is, and who Helena, we all know. Faust, of whom no man can remember the youth or childhood, seems to have come into the world by some evil spell, already old and with the faintness of body and of mind which are the heritage of age; and every additional year of mysterious study and abortive effort has made him more vacillating of step and uncertain of sight, but only more hungry of soul. Postponed and repressed by reclusion from the world, and desperate tension over insoluble problems; diverted into the channels of mere thought and vision; there boils within him the energy, the passion, of retarded youth: its appetites and curiosities, which, cramped by the intolerant will, and foiled by many a sudden palsy of limb and mind, torment him with mad visions of unreal worlds, mock him with dreams of superhuman powers, from which he awakes in impotent and apathetic anguish. But these often-withstood and often-baffled cravings are not those merely of scholar or wizard, they are those of soldier and poet and monk, of the mere man: lawless desires which he seeks to divert, but fails, from the things of the flesh and of the world to the things of the reason; supersensuous desires for the beautiful and intangible, which he strives to crush, but in vain, with the cynical scepticism of science, which derides the things it cannot grasp. In this strange Faustus, made up of so many and conflicting instincts; in this old man with ever-budding and ever-nipped feelings of youthfulness, muddling the hard-won secrets of nature in search after impossibilities; in him so all-sided, and yet so wilfully narrowed, so restlessly active, yet so often palsied and apathetic; in this Faustus, who has laboured so much and succeeded in so little, feeling himself at the end, when he has summed up all his studies, as foolish as before--which of us has not learned to recognize the impersonated Middle Ages? And Helena, we know her also, she is the spirit of Antiquity. Personified, but we dare scarcely say, embodied; for she is a ghost raised by the spells of Faustus, a simulacrum of a thing long dead; yet with such continuing semblance of life, nay, with all life's real powers, that she seems the real, vital, living one, and Faustus yonder, thing as he is of the present, little better than a spectre. Yet Helena has been ages before Faust ever was; nay, by an awful mystery like those which involve the birth of Pagan gods, she whom he has evoked to be the mother of his only son has given, centuries before, somewhat of her life to make this self-same Faust. A strange mystery of Fate's necromancy this, and with strange anomalies. For opposite this living, decrepit Faust, Helena, the long dead, is young; and she is all that which Faust is not. Knowing much less than he, who has plunged his thoughts like his scalpel into all the mysteries of life and death, she yet knows much more, can tell him of the objects and aims of men and things; nay, with little more than the unconscious faithfulness to instinct of the clean-limbed, placid brute, she can give peace to his tormented conscience; and, while he has suffered and struggled and lashed himself for every seeming baseness of desire, and loathed himself for every imagined microscopic soiling, she has walked through good and evil, letting the vileness of sin trickle off her unhidden soul, so quietly and majestically that all thought of evil vanishes; and the self-tormenting wretch, with macerated flesh hidden beneath the heavy garments of mysticism and philosophy, suddenly feels, in the presence of her unabashed nakedness, that he, like herself, is chaste. Such are the parents, Faustus and Helena; we know them; but who is this son Euphorion? To me it seems as if there could be but one answer--the Renaissance. Goethe indeed has told us (though, with his rejuvenation of Faustus, unknown to the old German legend and to our Marlowe, in how bungling a manner!) the tale of that mystic marriage; but Goethe could not tell us rightly, even had he attempted, the real name of its offspring. For even so short a time ago, the Middle Ages were only beginning to be more than a mere historical expression, Antiquity was being only then critically discovered; and the Renaissance, but vaguely seen and quite unformulated by the first men, Gibbon and Roscoe, who perceived it at all, was still virtually unknown. To Goethe, therefore, it might easily have seemed as if the antique Helena had only just been evoked, and as if of her union with the worn-out century of his birth, a real Euphorion, the age in which ourselves are living, might have been born. But, at the distance of additional time, and from the undreamed-of height upon which recent historical science has enabled us to stand, we can easily see that in this he would have been mistaken. Not only is our modern culture no child of Faustus and Helena, but it is the complex descendant, strangely featured by atavism from various sides, of many and various civilizations; and the eighteenth century, so far from being a Faustus evoking as his bride the long dead Helen of Antiquity, was in itself a curiously varied grandchild or great-grandchild of such a marriage, its every moral feature, its every intellectual movement proclaiming how much of its being was inherited from Antiquity. No allegory, I well know, and least of all no historical allegory, can ever be strained to fit quite tight--the lives of individuals and those of centuries, their modes of intermixture, genesis, and inheritance are far different; but if an allegory is to possess any meaning at all, we must surely apply it wherever it will fit most easily and completely; and the beautiful allegory prepared by the tradition of the sixteenth century for the elaborating genius of Goethe, can have a real meaning only if we explain Faust as representing the Middle Ages, Helena as Antiquity, and Euphorion as that child of the Middle Ages, taking life and reality from them, but born of and curiously nurtured by the spirit of Antiquity, to which significant accident has given the name of Renaissance. After Euphorion I have therefore christened this book; and this not from any irrational conceit of knowing more (when I am fully aware that I know infinitely less) than other writers about the life and character of this wonderful child of Helena and Faustus, but merely because it is more particularly as the offspring of this miraculous marriage, and with reference to the harmonies and anomalies which therefrom resulted, that Euphorion has exercised my thoughts. The Renaissance has interested and interests me, not merely for what it is, but even more for what it sprang from, and for the manner in which the many things inherited from both Middle Ages and Renaissance, the tendencies and necessities inherent in every special civilization, acted and reacted upon each other, united in concord or antagonism; forming, like the gases of the chemist, new things, sometimes like and sometimes unlike themselves and each other; producing now some unknown substance of excellence and utility, at other times some baneful element, known but too well elsewhere, but unexpected here. But not the watching of the often tragic meeting of these great fatalities of inherited spirit and habit only: for equally fascinating almost has been the watching of the elaboration by this double-natured period of things of little weight, mere trifles of artistic material bequeathed to it by one or by the other of its spiritual parents. The charm for me--a charm sometimes pleasurable, but sometimes also painful, like the imperious necessity which we sometimes feel to see again and examine, seemingly uselessly, some horrible evil--the charm, I mean the involuntary compulsion of attention, has often been as great in following the vicissitudes of a mere artistic item, like the Carolingian stories or the bucolic element, as it has been in looking on at the dissolution of moral and social elements. And in this, that I have tried to understand only where my curiosity was awakened, tried to reconstruct only where my fancy was taken; in short, studied of this Renaissance civilization only as much or as little as I cared, depends all the incompleteness and irrelevancy and unsatisfactoriness of this book, and depends also whatever addition to knowledge or pleasure it may afford; Were I desirous of giving a complete, clear notion of the very complex civilization of the Renaissance, a kind of encyclopædic atlas of that period, where (by a double power which history alone possesses) you could see at once the whole extent and shape of this historical territory, and at the same time, with all its bosses of mountain and furrows of valley, the exact composition of all its various earths and waters, the exact actual colour and shape of all its different vegetations, not to speak of its big towns and dotting villages;--were I desirous of doing this, I should not merely be attempting a work completely beyond my faculties, but a work moreover already carried out with all the perfection due to specially adapted gifts, to infinite patience and ingenuity, occasionally amounting almost to genius. Such is not at all within my wishes, as it assuredly would be totally without my powers. But besides such marvels of historic mapping as I have described, where every one can find at a glance whatever he may be looking for, and get the whole topography, geological and botanical, of an historic tract at his fingers' ends, there are yet other kinds of work which may be done. For a period in history is like a more or less extended real landscape: it has, if you will, actual, chemically defined colours in this and that, if you consider this and that separate and unaffected by any kind of visual medium; and measurable distances also between this point and the other, if you look down upon it as from a balloon. But, like a real landscape, it may also be seen from different points of view, and under different lights; then, according as you stand, the features of the scene will group themselves--this ridge will disappear behind that, this valley will open out before you, that other will be closed. Similarly, according to the light wherein the landscape is seen, the relative scale of colours and tints of objects, due to pervading light and to distances--what painters call the values--will alter: the scene will possess one or two predominant effects, it will produce also one or, at most, two or three (in which case co-ordinated) impressions. The art which deals with impressions, which tries to seize the real relative values of colours and tints at a given moment, is what you call new-fangled: its doctrines and works are still subject to the reproach of charlatanry. Yet it is the only truly realistic art, and it only, by giving you a thing as it appears at a given moment, gives it you as it really ever is; all the rest is the result of cunning abstraction, and representing the scene as it is always, represents it (by striking an average) as it never is at all. I do not pretend that in questions of history we can proceed upon the principles of modern landscape painting: we do not know what were the elevations which made perspective, what were the effects of light which created scales of tints, in that far distant country of the past; and it is safer certainly, and doubtless much more useful, to strike an average, and represent the past as seen neither from here nor from there, neither in this light nor that, and let each man imagine his historical perspective and colour value to the best of his powers. Yet it is nevertheless certain that the past, to the people who were in it, was not a miraculous map or other marvellous diagram constructed on the principle of getting at the actual qualities of things by analysis; that it must have been, to its inhabitants, but a series of constantly varied perspectives and constantly varied schemes of colour, according to the position of each individual, and the light in which that individual viewed it. To attempt to reconstruct those various perspective-making heights, to rearrange those various value-determining lights, would be to the last degree disastrous; we should have valleys where there existed mountains, and brilliant warm schemes of colour where there may have been all harmonies of pale and neutral tints. Still the perspective and colour valuation of individual minds there must have been; and since it is not given to us to reproduce those of the near spectator in a region which we can never enter, we may yet sometimes console ourselves for the too melancholy abstractness and averageness of scientific representations, by painting that distant historic country as distant indeed, but as its far-off hill ranges and shimmering plains really appear in their combination of form and colour, from the height of an individual interest of our own, and beneath the light of our individual character. We see only very little at a time, and that little is not what it appeared to the men of the past; but we see at least, if not the same things, yet in the same manner in which they saw, as we see from the standpoints of personal interest and in the light of personal temper. Scientifically we doubtless lose; but is the past to be treated only scientifically? and can it not give us, and do we not owe it, something more than a mere understanding of why and how? Is it a thing so utterly dead as to be fit only for the scalpel and the microscope? Surely not so. The past can give us, and should give us, not merely ideas, but emotions: healthy pleasure which may make us more light of spirit, and pain which may make us more earnest of mind; the one, it seems to me, as necessary for our individual worthiness as is the other. For to each of us, as we watch the past, as we lie passive and let it slowly circulate around us, there must come sights which, in their reality or in their train of associations, and to the mind of each differently, must gladden as with a sense of beauty, or put us all into a sullen moral ache. I should hate to be misunderstood in this more, perhaps, than in anything else in the world. I speak not of any dramatic emotion, of such egotistic, half-artistic pleasure as some may get from the alternation of cheerfulness and terror, from the excitement caused by evil from which we are as safely separated as are those who look on from the enfuriate bulls in an arena. To such, history, and the history especially of the Renaissance, has been made to pander up but too much. The pain I speak of is the pain which must come to every morally sentient creature with the contemplation of some one of the horrible tangles of evil, of the still fouler intermeshing of evil with good, which history brings up ever and anon. Evil which is past, it is true, but of which the worst evil almost of all, the fact of its having been, can never be past, must ever remain present; and our trouble and indignation at which is holy, our pain is healthy: holy and healthy, because every vibration of such pain as that makes our moral fibre more sensitive; because every immunity from such sensation deadens our higher nature: holy and healthy also because, just as no image of pleasurable things can pass before us without gathering about it other images of some beauty which have long lain by in each individual mind, so also no thought of great injustice of man or of accident, of signal whitewashing of evil or befouling of good, but must, in striking into our soul, put in motion there the salutary thought of some injustice or lying legitimation or insidious pollution, smaller indeed perhaps, but perhaps also nearer to ourselves. Be not therefore too hard upon me if in what I have written of the Renaissance, there is too little attempt to make matters scientifically complete, and too much giving way to personal and perhaps sometimes irrelevant impressions of pleasure and of pain; if I have followed up those pleasurable and painful impressions rather more than sought to discover the exact geography of the historical tract which gave them. Consider, moreover, that this very cause of deficiency may have been also the cause of my having succeeded in achieving anything at all. Personal impression has led me, perhaps, sometimes away from the direct road; but had it not beckoned me to follow, I should most likely have simply not stirred. Pleasant impression and painful, as I have said; and sometimes the painful has been more efficacious than the other. I do not know whether the interest which I have always taken in the old squabble of real and ideal has enabled me to make at all clearer the different characteristics of painting and sculpture in Renaissance portraiture, the relation of the art of Raphael to the art of Velasquez and the art of Whistler. I can scarcely judge whether the pleasure which I owe to the crowding together, the moving about in my fancy, of the heroes and wizards and hippogriffs of the old tales of Oberon and Ogier; the association with the knights and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, of this or that figure out of a fresco of Pinturicchio, or a picture by Dosso, has made it easier or more difficult for me to sum up the history of mediæval romance in Renaissance Italy; nor whether the recollection of certain Tuscan farms, the well-known scent of the sun-dried fennel and mint under the vine-trellis, the droning song of the contadino ploughing or pruning unseen in the valley, the snatches of peasants' rhymes, the outlines of peasants' faces--things all these of this our own time, of yesterday or to-day; whether all this, running in my mind like so many scribbly illustrations and annotations along the margin of Lorenzo dei Medici's poems, has made my studies of rustic poetry more clear or more confused. But this much I know as a certainty, that never should I have tried to unravel the causes of the Renaissance's horrible anomaly of improvement and degradation, had not that anomaly returned and returned to make me wretched with its loathsome mixture of good and evil; its detestable alternative of endurance of vile solidarities in the souls of our intellectual forefathers, or of unjust turning away from the men and the times whose moral degradation paid the price of our moral dignity. I also have the further certainty of its having been this long-endured moral sickening at the sight of this moral anomaly, which enabled me to realize the feelings of such of our nobler Elizabethan playwrights as sought to epitomize in single tales of horror the strange impressions left by the accomplished and infamous Italy of their day; and which made it possible for me to express perhaps some of the trouble which filled the mind of Webster and of Tourneur merely by expressing the trouble which filled my own. The following studies are not samples, fragments at which one tries one's hand, of some large and methodical scheme of work. They are mere impressions developed by means of study: not merely currents of thought and feeling which I have singled out from the multifold life of the Renaissance; but currents of thought and feeling in myself, which have found and swept along with them certain items of Renaissance lore. For the Renaissance has been to me, in the small measure in which it has been anything, not so much a series of studies as a series of impressions. I have not mastered the history and literature of the Renaissance (first-hand or second-hand, perfectly or imperfectly), abstract and exact, and then sought out the places and things which could make that abstraction somewhat more concrete in my mind; I have seen the concrete things, and what I might call the concrete realities of thought and feeling left behind by the Renaissance, and then tried to obtain from books some notion of the original shape and manner of wearing these relics, rags and tatters of a past civilization. For Italy, beggared and maimed (by her own unthrift, by the rapacity of others, by the order of Fate) at the beginning of the sixteenth century, was never able to weave for herself a new, a modern civilization, as did the nations who had shattered her looms on which such woofs are made, and carried off her earnings with which such things may be bought; and she had, accordingly, to go through life in the old garments, still half mediæval in shape, which had been fashioned for her during the Renaissance: apparel of the best that could then be made, beautiful and strong in many ways, so beautiful and strong indeed as to impose on people for a good long time, and make French, and Germans, and Spaniards, and English believe (comparing these brilliant tissues with the homespun they were providing for themselves) that it must be all brand new, and of the very latest fashion. But the garments left to Italy by those latest Middle Ages which we call Renaissance, were not eternal: wear and tear, new occupations, and the rough usage of other nations, rent them most sorely; their utter neglect by the long seventeenth century, their hasty patchings up (with bits of odd stuff and all manner of coloured thread and string, so that a harlequin's jacket could not look queerer) by the happy-go-lucky practicalness of the eighteenth century and the Revolution, reduced them thoroughly to rags; and with these rags of Renaissance civilization, Italy may still be seen to drape herself. Not perhaps in the great centres, where the garments of modern civilization, economical, unpicturesque, intended to be worn but a short time, have been imported from other countries; but yet in many places. Yes, you may still see those rags of the Renaissance as plainly as you see the tattered linen fluttering from the twisted iron hooks (made for the display of precious brocades and carpets on pageant days) which still remain in the stained whitewash, the seams of battered bricks of the solid old escutcheoned palaces; see them sometimes displayed like the worm-eaten squares of discoloured embroidery which the curiosity dealers take out of their musty oak presses; and sometimes dragging about mere useless and befouled odds and ends, like the torn shreds which lie among the decaying kitchen refuse, the broken tiles and plaster, the nameless filth and ooze which attracts the flies under every black archway, in every steep bricked lane descending precipitously between the high old houses. Old palaces, almost strongholds, and which are still inhabited by those too poor to pull them down and build some plastered bandbox instead; poems and prose tales written or told five hundred years ago, edited and re-edited by printers to whom there come no modern poems or prose tales worth editing instead; half-pagan, mediæval priest lore, believed in by men and women who have not been given anything to believe instead; easy-going, all-permitting fifteenth century scepticism, not yet replaced by the scientific and socialistic disbelief which is puritanic and iconoclastic; sly and savage habits of vengeance still doing service among the lower classes instead of the orderly chicanery of modern justice;--these are the things, and a hundred others besides, concrete and spiritual, things too magnificent, too sordid, too irregular, too nauseous, too beautiful, and, above all, too utterly unpractical and old-fashioned for our times, which I call the rags of the Renaissance, and with which Italy still ekes out her scanty apparel of modern thoughts and things. It is living among such things, turn by turn delighted by their beauty and offended by their foulness, that one acquires the habit of spending a part only of one's intellectual and moral life in the present, and the rest in the past. Impressions are not derived from description, and thoughts are not suggested by books. The juxtaposition of concrete objects invites the making of a theory as the jutting out of two branches invites the spinning of a spider's web. You find everywhere your facts without opening a book. The explanation which I have tried to give of the exact manner in which mediæval art was influenced by the remains of antiquity, came like a flash during a rainy morning in the Pisan Campo Santo; the working out and testing of that explanation in its details was a matter of going from one church or gallery to the other, a reference or two to Vasari for some date or fact being the only necessary reading; and should any one at this moment ask me for substantiation of that theory, instead of opening books I would take that person to this Sienese Cathedral, and there bid him compare the griffins and arabesques, the delicate figure and foliage ornaments carved in wood and marble by the latter Middle Ages, with the griffins and arabesques, the boldly bossed horsemen, the exquisite fruit garlands of a certain antique altar stone which the builders of the church used as a base to a pillar, and which must have been a never-ceasing-object of study to every draughtsman and stoneworker in Siena. Nor are such everywhere-scattered facts ready for working into theoretic shape, the most which Italy still affords to make the study of the Renaissance an almost involuntary habit. In certain places where only decay has altered things from what they were four centuries ago, Perugia, Orvieto, S. Gimignano, in the older quarters of Florence, Venice, and Verona, but nowhere I think so much as in this city of Siena (as purely mediæval as the suits of rusted armour which its townsfolk patch up and bury themselves in during their August pageants), we are subjected to receive impressions of the past so startlingly lifelike as to get quite interwoven with our impressions of the present; and from that moment the past must share, in a measure, some of the everyday thoughts which we give to the present. In such a city as this, the sudden withdrawal, by sacristan or beggar-crone, of the curtain from before an altar-piece is many a time much more than the mere displaying of a picture: it is the sudden bringing us face to face with the real life of the Renaissance. We have ourselves, perhaps not an hour before, sauntered through squares and dawdled beneath porticos like those which we see filled with the red-robed and plumed citizens and patricians, the Jews and ruffians whom Pinturicchio's parti-coloured men-at-arms are dispersing to make room for the followers of Æneas Sylvius; or clambered up rough lanes, hedged in between oak woods and oliveyards, which we might almost swear were the very ones through which are winding Sodoma's cavalcades of gallantly dressed gentlemen, with their hawks and hounds, and negro jesters and apes and beautiful pages, cantering along on shortnecked little horses with silver bits and scarlet trappings, on the pretence of being the Kings from the East, carrying gold and myrrh to the infant Christ. It seems as if all were astoundingly real, as if, by some magic, we were actually going to mix in the life of the past. But it is in reality but a mere delusion, a deceit like those dioramas which we have all been into as children, and where, by paying your shilling, you were suddenly introduced into an oasis of the desert, or into a recent battle-field: things which surprised us, real palm trunks and Arabian water jars, or real fascines and cannon balls, lying about for us to touch; roads opening on all sides into this simulated desert, through this simulated battle-field. So also with these seeming realities of Renaissance life. We can touch the things scattered on the foreground, can handle the weapons, the furniture, the books and musical instruments; we can see, or think we see, most plainly the streets and paths, the faces and movements of that Renaissance world; but when we try to penetrate into it, we shall find that there is but a slip of solid ground beneath us, that all around us is but canvas and painted wall, perspectived and lit up by our fancy; and that when we try to approach to touch one of those seemingly so real men and women, our eyes find only daubs of paint, our hands meet only flat and chilly stucco. Turn we to our books, and seek therein the spell whereby to make this simulacrum real; and I think the plaster will still remain plaster, the stones still remain stone. Out of the Renaissance, out of the Middle Ages, we must never hope to evoke any spectres which can talk with us and we with them; nothing of the kind of those dim but familiar ghosts, often grotesque rather than heroic, who come to us from out of the books, the daubed portraits of times nearer our own, and sit opposite us, making us laugh, and also cry, with humdrum stories and humdrum woes so very like our own. No; such ghosts the Renaissance has not left behind it. From out of it there come to us no familiars. They are all faces--those which meet us in the pages of chronicles and in the frames of pictures: they are painted records of the past--we may understand them by scanning well their features, but they cannot understand, they cannot perceive us. Such, when all is said, are my impressions of the Renaissance. The moral atmosphere of those days is as impossible for us to breathe as would be the physical atmosphere of the moon: could we, for a moment, penetrate into it, we should die of asphyxia. Say what we may against both Protestant reformation and Catholic reaction, these two began to make an atmosphere (pure or foul) different from that of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, an atmosphere in which lived creatures like ourselves, into which ourselves might penetrate. A crotchet this, perhaps, of my own; but it is my feeling, nevertheless. The Renaissance is, I say again, no period out of which we must try and evoke ghostly companions. Let us not waste our strength in seeking to do so; but be satisfied if it teaches us strange truths, scientific and practical; if its brilliant and solemn personalities, its bright and majestic art can give us pleasure; if its evils and wrongs, its inevitable degradation, can move us to pity and to indignation. Siena, _September_, 1882. THE SACRIFICE. Ihr führt ins Leben uns hinein; Ihr lässt den armen schuldig werden; Dann übergiebt Ihr ihm der Pein, Denn alle Schuld rächt sich auf Erden. At the end of the fifteenth century, Italy was the centre of European civilization: while the other nations were still plunged in a feudal barbarism which seems almost as far removed from all our sympathies as is the condition of some American or Polynesian savages, the Italians appear to us as possessing habits of thought, a mode of life, political, social, and literary institutions, not unlike those of to-day; as men whom we can thoroughly understand, whose ideas and aims, whose general views, resemble our own in that main, indefinable characteristic of being modern. They had shaken off the morbid monastic ways of feeling, they had thrown aside the crooked scholastic modes of thinking, they had trampled under foot the feudal institutions of the Middle Ages; no symbolical mists made them see things vague, strange, and distorted; their intellectual atmosphere was as clear as our own, and, if they saw less than we do, what they did see appeared to them in its true shape and proportions. Almost for the first time since the ruin of antique civilization, they could show well-organized, well-defined States; artistically disciplined armies; rationally devised laws; scientifically conducted agriculture; and widely extended, intelligently undertaken commerce. For the first time, also, they showed regularly built, healthy, and commodious towns; well-drained fields; and, more important than all, hundreds of miles of country owned not by feudal lords, but by citizens; cultivated not by serfs, but by free peasants. While in the rest of Europe men were floundering among the stagnant ideas and crumbling institutions of the effete Middle Ages, with but a vague half-consciousness of their own nature, the Italians walked calmly through a life as well arranged as their great towns, bold, inquisitive, and sceptical: modern administrators, modern soldiers, modern politicians, modern financiers, scholars, and thinkers. Towards the end of the fifteenth century, Italy seemed to have obtained the philosophic, literary, and artistic inheritance of Greece; the administrative, legal, and military inheritance of Rome, increased threefold by her own strong, original, essentially modern activities. Yet, at that very time, and almost in proportion as all these advantages developed, the moral vitality of the Italians was rapidly decreasing, and a horrible moral gangrene beginning to spread: liberty was extinguished; public good faith seemed to be dying out; even private morality flickered ominously; every free State became subject to a despot, always unscrupulous and often infamous; warfare became a mere pretext for the rapine and extortions of mercenaries; diplomacy grew to be a mere swindle; the humanists inoculated literature with the filthiest refuse cast up by antiquity; nay, even civic and family ties were loosened; assassinations and fratricides began to abound, and all law, human and divine, to be set at defiance. The nations who came into contact with the Italians opened their eyes with astonishment, with mingled admiration and terror; and we, people of the nineteenth century, are filled with the same feeling, only much stronger and more defined, as we watch the strange ebullition of the Renaissance, seething with good and evil, as we contemplate the enigmatic picture drawn by the puzzled historian, the picture of a people moving on towards civilization and towards chaos. Our first feeling is perplexity; our second feeling, anger; we do not at first know whether we ought to believe in such an anomaly; when once we do believe in it, we are indignant at its existence. We accuse these Italians of the Renaissance of having wilfully and shamefully perverted their own powers, of having wantonly corrupted their own civilization, of having cynically destroyed their own national existence, of having boldly called down the vengeance of Heaven; we lament and we accuse, naturally enough, but perhaps not justly. Let us ask ourselves what the Renaissance really was, and what was its use; how it was produced, and how it necessarily ended. Let us try to understand its inherent nature, and the nature of what surrounded it, which, taken together, constitute its inevitable fate; let us seek the explanation of that strange, anomalous civilization, of that life in death, and death in life. The Renaissance, inasmuch as it is something which we can define, and not a mere vague name for a certain epoch, is not a period, but a condition; and if we apply the word to any period in particular, it is because in it that condition was peculiarly marked. The Renaissance may be defined as being that phase in mediæval history in which the double influence, feudal and ecclesiastic, which had gradually crushed the spontaneous life of the early mediæval revival, and reduced all to a dead, sterile mass, was neutralized by the existence of democratic and secular communities; that phase in which, while there existed not yet any large nations, or any definite national feeling, there existed free towns and civic democracies. In this sense the Renaissance began to exist with the earliest mediæval revival, but its peculiar mission could be carried out only when that general revival had come to an end. In this sense, also, the Renaissance did not exist all over Italy, and it existed outside Italy; but in Italy it was far more universal than elsewhere: there it was the rule, elsewhere the exception. There was no Renaissance in Savoy, nor in Naples, nor even in Rome; but north of the Alps there was Renaissance only in individual towns like Nürnberg, Augsburg, Bruges, Ghent, &c. In the North the Renaissance is dotted about amidst the stagnant Middle Ages; in Italy the Middle Ages intersect and interrupt the Renaissance here and there: the consequence was that in the North the Renaissance was crushed by the Middle Ages, whereas in Italy the Middle Ages were crushed by the Renaissance. Wherever there was a free town, without direct dependence on feudal or ecclesiastical institutions, governed by its own citizens, subsisting by its own industry and commerce; wherever the burghers built walls, slung chains across their streets, and raised their own cathedral; wherever, be it in Germany, in Flanders, or in England, there was a suspension of the deadly influences of the later Middle Ages; there, to greater or less extent, was the Renaissance. But in the North this rudimentary Renaissance was never suffered to spread beyond the walls of single towns; it was hemmed in on all sides by feudal and ecclesiastical institutions, which restrained it within definite limits. The free towns of Germany were mostly dependent upon their bishops or archbishops; the more politically important cities of Flanders were under the suzerainty of a feudal family; they were subject to constant vexations from their suzerains, and their very existence was endangered by an attempt at independence; Liege was well-nigh destroyed by the supporters of her bishop, and Ghent was ruined by the revenge of the Duke of Burgundy. In these northern cities, therefore, the commonwealth was restricted to a sort of mercantile corporation--powerful within the town, but powerless without it; while outside the town reigned feudalism, with its robber nobles, free companies, and bands of outlawed peasants, from whom the merchant princes of Bruges and Nürnberg could scarcely protect their wares. To this political feebleness and narrowness corresponded an intellectual weakness and pettiness: the burghers were mere self-ruling tradesfolk; their interests did not extend far beyond their shops and their houses; literature was cramped in guilds, and reflection and imagination were confined within the narrow limits of town life. Everything was on a small scale; the Renaissance was moderate and inefficient, running no great dangers and achieving no great conquests. There was not enough action to produce reaction; and, while the Italian free States were ground down by foreign tyrannies, the German and Flemish cities insensibly merged into the vast empire of the House of Austria. While also the Italians of the sixteenth century rushed into moral and religious confusion, which only Jesuitism could discipline, the Germans of the same time quietly and comfortably adopted the Reformation. The main cause of this difference, the main explanation of the fact that while in the North the Renaissance was cramped and enfeebled, in Italy it carried everything before it, lies in the circumstance that feudalism never took deep root in Italy. The conquered Latin race was enfeebled, it is true, but it was far more civilized than the conquering Teutonic peoples; the Barbarians came down, not on to a previous layer of Barbarians, but on to a deep layer of civilized men; the nomads of the North found in Italy a people weakened and corrupt, but with a long and inextinguishable habit of independence, of order, of industry. The country had been cultivated for centuries, the Barbarians could not turn it into a desert; the inhabitants had been organized as citizens for a thousand years, the Barbarians could not reorganize them feudally. The Barbarians who settled in Italy, especially the latest of them, the Lombards, were not only in a minority, but at an immense disadvantage. They founded kingdoms and dukedoms, where German was spoken and German laws were enacted; but whenever they tried to communicate with their Italian subjects, they found themselves forced to adopt the Latin language, manners, and laws; their domination became real only in proportion as it ceased to be Teutonic, and the Barbarian element was swallowed up by what remained of Roman civilization. Little by little these Lombard monarchies, without roots in the soil, and surrounded by hostile influences, died out, and there remained of the invaders only a certain number of nobles, those whose descendants were to bear the originally German names of Gherardesca, Rolandinghi, Soffredinghi, Lambertazzi, Guidi, and whose suzerains were the Bavarian and Swabian dukes and marquises of Tuscan. Meanwhile the Latin element revived; towns were rebuilt; a new Latin language was formed; and the burghers of these young communities gradually wrested franchises and privileges from the weak Teutonic rulers, who required Italian agriculture, industry, and commerce, without which they and their feudal retainers would have starved. Feudalism became speedily limited to the hilly country; the plain became the property of the cities which it surrounded; the nobles turned into mere robber chieftains, then into mercenary soldiers, and finally, as the towns gained importance, they gradually descended into the cities and begged admission into the guilds of artizans and tradesfolk. Thus they grew into citizens and Italians; but for a long time they kept hankering after feudalism, and looking towards the German emperors who claimed the inheritance of the Lombard kings. The struggle between Guelphs and Ghibellines, between the German feudal element and the Latin civic one, ended in the complete annihilation of the former in all the north and centre of Italy. The nobles sank definitely into merchants, and those who persisted in keeping their castles were speedily ousted by the commissaries of the free towns. Such is the history of feudalism in Italy--the history of Barbarian minority engulphed in Latin civilization; of Teutonic counts and dukes turned into robber nobles, hunted into the hills by the townsfolk, and finally seeking admission into the guilds of wool-spinners or money-changers; and in it is the main explanation of the fact that the Italian republics, instead of remaining restricted within their city walls like those of the North, spread over whole provinces, and became real politically organized States. And in such States having a free political, military, and commercial life, uncramped by ecclesiastic or feudal influence, in them alone could the great revival of human intelligence and character thoroughly succeed. The commune was the only species of free government possible during the Middle Ages, the only form which could resist that utterly prostrating action of later mediævalism. Feudalism stamped out civilization; monasticism warped it; in the open country it was burnt, trampled on, and uprooted; in the cloister it withered and shrank and perished; only within the walls of a city, protected from the storm without, and yet in the fresh atmosphere of life, could it develope, flourish, and bear fruit. But this system of the free town contained in itself, as does every other institution, the seed of death--contained it in that expanding element which developes, ripens, rots, and finally dissolves all living organisms. A little town is formed in the midst of some feudal state, as Pisa, Florence, Lucca, and Bologna were formed in the dominions of the lords of Tuscany; the _elders_ govern it; it is protected from without; it obtains privileges from its suzerain, always glad to oppose anything to his vassals, and who, unlike them, is too far removed in the feudal scale to injure the commune, which is under his supreme jurisdiction but not in his land. The town can thus develope regularly, governing itself, taxing itself, defending itself against encroaching neighbours; it gradually extends beyond its own walls, liberates its peasantry, extends its commerce, extinguishes feudalism, beats back its suzerain or buys privileges from him; in short, lives the vigorous young life of the early Italian commonwealths. But now the danger begins. The original system of government, where every head of a family is a power in the State, where every man helps to govern, without representation or substitution, could exist only as long as the commune remained small enough for the individual to be in proportion with it; as long as the State remained small enough for all its citizens to assemble in the market-place and vote, for every man to know every detail of the administration, every inch of the land. When the limits were extended, the burgher had to deal with towns and villages and men and things which he did not know, and which he probably hated, as every small community hated its neighbour; witness the horrible war, lasting centuries, between the two little towns of Dinant and Bouvines on the Meuse. Still more was this the case with an important city: the subjugated town was hated all the more for being a rival centre; the burghers of Florence, inspired only by their narrow town interest, treated Pisa according to its dictates, that is, tried to stamp it out. Thence the victorious communes came to be surrounded by conquered communes, which they dared not trust with any degree of power; and which, instead of being so many allies in case of invasion, were merely focuses of revolt, or at best inert impediments. Similarly, when the communes enlarged, and found it indispensable to delegate special men, who could attend to political matters more thoroughly than the other citizens, they were constantly falling under the tyranny of their _captains of the people_, of their _gonfalonieri_, and of all other heads of the State; or else, as in Florence, they were frightened by this continual danger into a system of perpetual interference with the executive, which was thus rendered well-nigh helpless. To this rule Venice forms the only exception, on account of her exceptional position and history: the earliest burghers turning into an intensely conservative and civic aristocracy, while everywhere else the feudal nobles turned into petty burghers, entirely subversive of communal interests. Venice had the yet greater safeguard of being protected both from her victorious enemies and her own victorious generals; who, however powerful on the mainland, could not seriously endanger the city itself, which thus remained a centre of reorganization in time of disaster. In this Venice was entirely unique, as she was unique in the duration of her institutions and independence. In the other towns of Italy, where there existed no naturally governing family or class, where every citizen had an equal share in government, and there existed no distinction save that of wealth and influence, there was a constant tendency to the illegitimate preponderance of every man or every family that rose above the average; and in a democratic, mercantile State, not a day passed without some such elevation. In a systematic, consolidated State, where the power is in the hands of a hereditary sovereign or aristocracy, a rich merchant remains a rich merchant, a victorious general remains a victorious general, an eloquent orator remains an eloquent orator; but in a shapeless, flunctuating democracy like those of Italy, the man who has influence over his fellow-citizens, whether by his money, his soldiers, or his eloquence, necessarily becomes the head of the State; everything is free and unoccupied, only a little superior strength is required to push into it. Cosimo de' Medici has many clients, many correspondents, many debtors; he can bind people by pecuniary obligations: he becomes prince. Sforza has a victorious army, whom he can either hound on to the city or restrain into a protection of its interests: he becomes prince. Savonarola has eloquence that makes the virtuous start up and the wicked tremble: he becomes prince. The history of the Italian commonwealths shows us but one thing: the people, the only legal possessors of political power, giving it over to their bankers (Medici, Pepoli); to their generals (Della Torre, Visconti, Scaligeri); to their monkish reformers (Fra Bussolaro, Fra Giovanni da Vincenza, Savonarola). Here then we have the occasional but inevitable usurpers, who either momentarily or finally disorganize the State. But this is not all. In such a State every family hate, every mercantile hostility, means a corresponding political division. The guilds are sure to be rivals, the larger wishing to exclude the smaller from government: the lower working classes (the _ciompi_ of Florence) wish to upset the guilds completely; the once feudal nobles wish to get back military power; the burghers wish entirely to extirpate the feudal nobles; the older families wish to limit the Government, the newer prefer democracy and Cæsarism. Add to this the complications of private interests, the personal jealousies and aversions, the private warfare, inevitable in a town where legal justice is not always to be had, while forcible retaliation is always within reach; and the result is constant party spirit, insults, scuffles, conspiracies: the feudal nobles build towers in the streets, the burghers pull them down; the lower artizans set fire to the warehouses of the guilds, the magistrates take part in the contest; blood is spilt, magistrates are beheaded or thrown out of windows, a foreign State is entreated to interfere, and a number of citizens are banished by the victorious party. This latter result creates a new and terrible danger for the State, in the persons of so many exiles, ready to do anything, to join with any one, in order to return to the city and drive out their enemies in their turn. The end of such constant upheavings is that the whole population is disarmed, no party suffering its rival to have any means of offence or defence. Moreover, as industry and commerce develope, the citizens become unwilling to fight, while on the other hand the invention of firearms, subverting the whole system of warfare, renders special military training more and more necessary. In the days of the Lombard League, of Campaldino and Montaperti, the citizens could fight, hand to hand, round their _carroccio_ or banner, without much discipline being required; but when it came to fortifying towns against cannon, to drilling bodies of heavily armed cavalry, acting by the mere dexterity of their movements; when war became a science and an art, then the citizen had necessarily to be left out, and adventurers and poor nobles had to form armies of mercenaries, making warfare their sole profession. This system of mercenary troops, so bitterly inveighed against by Machiavelli (who, of course, entirely overlooked its inevitable origin and viewed it as a voluntarily incurred pest), added yet another and, perhaps, the very worst danger to civil liberty. It gave enormous, irresistible power to adventurers unscrupulous by nature and lawless by education, the sole object of whose career it became to obtain possession of States; by no means a difficult enterprise, considering that they and their fellows were the sole possessors of military force in the country. At the same time, this system of mercenaries perfected the condition of utter defencelessness in which the gradual subjection of rival cities, the violent party spirit, and the general disarming of the burghers, had placed the great Italian cities. For these troops, being wholly indifferent as to the cause for which they were fighting, turned war into the merest game of dodges--half-a-dozen men being killed at a great battle like that of Anghiari--and they at the same time protracted campaigns beyond every limit, without any decisive action taking place. The result of all these inevitable causes of ruin, was that most of the commonwealths fell into the hands of despots; while those that did not were paralyzed by interior factions, by a number of rebellious subject towns, and by generals who, even if they did not absolutely betray their employers, never efficiently served them. Such a condition of civic disorder lasted throughout the Middle Ages, until the end of the fifteenth century, without any further evils arising from it. The Italians made endless wars with each other, conquered each other, changed their government without end, fell into the power of tyrants; but throughout these changes their civilization developed unimpeded; because, although one of the centres of national life might be momentarily crushed, the others remained in activity, and infused vitality even into the feeble one, which would otherwise have perished. All these ups and downs seemed but to stir the life in the country: and no vital danger appeared to threaten it; nor did any, so long as the surrounding countries--France, Germany, and Spain--remained mere vast feudal nebulae, formless, weightless, immovable. The Italians feared nothing from them; they would call down the King of France or the Emperor of Germany without a moment's hesitation, because they knew that the king could not bring France, nor the emperor bring Germany, but only a few miserable, hungry retainers with him; but Florence would watch the growth of the petty State of the Scaligers, and Venice look with terror at the Duke of Milan, because they knew that _there_ there was concentrated life, and an organization which could be wielded as' perfectly as a sword by the head of the State. In the last decade of the fifteenth century the Italians called in the French to put down their private enemies: Lodovico of Milan called down Charles VIII. to rid him of his nephew and of the Venetians; the Venetians to rid them of Lodovico: the Medici to establish them firmly in Florence; the party of freedom to drive out the Medici. Each State intended to use the French to serve their purpose, and then to send back Charles VIII. with a little money and a great deal of derision, as they had done with kings and emperors of earlier days. But Italian politicians suddenly discovered that they had made a fatal mistake; that they had reckoned in ignorance, and that instead of an army they had called down a nation: for during the interval since their last appeal to foreign interference, that great movement had taken place which had consolidated the heterogeneous feudal nebulae into homogeneous and compact kingdoms. Single small States, relying upon mercenary troops, could not for a moment resist the shock of such an agglomeration of soldiery as that of the French, and of their successors the Spaniards and Germans. Sismondi asks indignantly, Why did the Italians not form a federation as soon as the strangers appeared? He might as well ask, Why did the commonwealths not turn into a modern monarchy? The habit of security from abroad and of jealousy within; the essential nature of a number of rival trading centres, made such a thing not only impossible of execution, but for a while impossible of conception; confederacies had become possible only when Burlamacchi was decapitated by the imperialists; popular resistance had become a reality only when Feruccio was massacred by the Spaniards; a change of national institutions was feasible only when all national institutions had been destroyed; when the Italians, having recognized the irresistible force of their adversaries, had ceased to form independent States and larger and smaller guilds; when all the characteristics of Italian civilization had been destroyed; when, in short, it was too late to do anything save theorize with Machiavelli and Guicciardini as to what ought to have been done. We must not hastily accuse the volition of the Italians of the Renaissance; they may have been egotistic and timid, but had they been (as some most certainly were) heroic and self-sacrificing to the utmost degree, they could not have averted the catastrophe. The nature of their civilization prevented not only their averting the peril, but even their conceiving its existence; the very nature of their political forms necessitated such a dissolution of them. The commune grows from within; it is a little speck which gradually extends its circumference, and the further this may be from the original centre, the less do its parts coalesce. The modern monarchy grows from external pressure, and towards the centre; it is a huge mass consolidating into a hard, distinct shape. Thence it follows that the more the commonwealth developes, the weaker it grows, because its tendency is to spread and fall to pieces; whereas the more the monarchy developes, the stronger it becomes, because it fills up towards the centre, and becomes more vigorously knit together. The city ceases to be a city when extended over hundreds of miles; the nation becomes all the more a nation for being compressed towards a central point. The entire political collapse of Italy in the sixteenth century was not only inevitable, from the essential nature of the civilization of the Renaissance, but it was also indispensable in order that this civilization might fulfil its mission. Civilization cannot spread so long as it is contained within a national mould, and only a vanquished nation can civilize its victors. The Greece of Pericles could not Hellenize Rome, but the Greece of the weak successors of Alexander could; the Rome of Cæsar did not Romanize the Teutonic races as did the Rome of Theodosius; no amount of colonizing among the vanquished can ever produce the effect of a victorious army, of a whole nation, suddenly finding itself in the midst of the superior civilization of a conquered people. Michelet may well call the campaign of Charles VIII. the discovery of Italy. His imaginative mind seized at once the vast importance of this descent of the French into Italy, which other historians have been too prone to view in the same light as any other invasion. It is from this moment that dates the _modernisation_, if we may so express ourselves, of the North. The barbarous soldiers of Gaston de Foix, of Frundsberg, and of Gonsalvo, were the unconscious bearers of the seeds of the ages of Elizabeth, of Louis XIV., and of Goethe. These stupid and rapacious ruffians, while they wantonly destroyed the works of Italian civilization, rendered possible the existence of a Montaigne, a Shakespeare, and a Cervantes. Italy was as a vast store-house, sheltered from all the dangers of mediæval destruction; in which, while all other nations were blindly and fiercely working out their national existence, the inheritance of Antiquity and the produce of the earliest modern civilization had been peaceably garnered up. When the store-house was full, its gates had to be torn open and its riches plundered and disseminated by the intellectual starvelings of the North; thus only could the rest of mankind feed on these riches, regain and develope their mental life. What were those intellectual riches of the Renaissance? What was that strong intellectual food which revived the energies and enriched the blood of the Barbarians of the sixteenth century? The Renaissance possessed the germs of every modern thing, and much that was far more than a mere germ: it possessed the habit of equality before the law, of civic organization, of industry and commerce developed to immense and superb proportions. It possessed science, literature, and art; above all, that which at once produced and was produced by all these--thorough perception of what exists, thorough consciousness of our own freedom and powers: self-cognizance. In Italy there was intellectual light, enabling men to see and judge all around them, enabling them to act wittingly and deliberately. In this lies the immense greatness of the Renaissance; to this are due all its achievements in literature and science, and, above all, in art: that, for the first time since the dissolution of antique civilization, men were free agents, both in thought and in deed; that there was an end of that palsying slavery of the Middle Ages, slavery of body and of mind, slavery to stultified ideas and effete forms, which made men endure every degree of evil and believe every degree of absurdity. For the first time since Antiquity, man walks free of all political and intellectual trammels, erect, conscious of his own thoughts, master of his own actions; ready to seek for truth across the ocean like Columbus, or across the heavens like Copernicus; to seek it in criticism and analysis like Machiavelli or Guicciardini, boldly to reproduce it in its highest, widest sense like Michael Angelo and Raphael. The men of the Renaissance had to pay a heavy price for this intellectual freedom and self-cognizance which they not only enjoyed themselves, but transmitted to the rest of the world; the price was the loss of all moral standard, of all fixed public feeling. They had thrown aside all accepted rules and criteria, they had cast away all faith in traditional institutions, they had destroyed, and could not yet rebuild. In their instinctive and universal disbelief in all that had been taught them, they lost all respect for opinion, for rule, for what had been called right and wrong. Could it be otherwise? Had they not discovered that what had been called right had often been unnatural, and what had been called wrong often natural? Moral teachings, remonstrances, and judgments belonged to that dogmatism from which they had broken loose; to those schools and churches where the foolish and the unnatural had been taught and worshipped; to those priests and monks who themselves most shamefully violated their teachings. To profess morality was to be a hypocrite; to reprobate others was to be narrow-minded. There was so much error mixed up with truth that truth had to share the discredit of error; so many innocent things had been denounced as sins that sinful ones at length ceased to be reprobated; people had so often found themselves sympathizing with supposed criminals, that they soon lost their horror of real ones. Damnation came to be disassociated from moral indignation: it was the retribution, not of the unnatural and immoral, but of the unlawful; and unlawful with respect to a law made without reference to reason and instinct. As reason and instinct were thus set at defiance, but could not be silenced, the law was soon acquiesced in without being morally supported; thus, little by little, moral feeling became warped. This was already the case in Dante's day. Farinata is condemned to the most horrible punishment, which to Dante seems just, because in accordance with an accepted code; yet Dante cannot but admire him and cannot really hate him, for there is nothing in him to hate; he is a criminal and yet respected--fatal combination! Dante punishes Francesca, Pier delle Vigne, and Brunetto Latini, but he shows no personal horror of them; in the one case his moral instinct refrains from censuring the comparatively innocent, in the other it has ceased to revolt from the really infamous. Where Dante does feel real indignation, is most often in cases unprovided for by the religious codes, as with those low, grovelling, timid natures (the very same with whom Machiavelli, the admirer of great villains, fairly loses patience), those creatures whom Dante personally despises, whom he punishes with filthy devices of his own, whom he passes by with words such as he never addresses to Semiramis, Brutus, or Capaneus. This toleration of vice, while acquiescing in its legal punishment, increased in proportion to the development of individual judgment, and did not cease till all the theories of the lawful and unlawful had been so completely demolished as to permit of their being rebuilt on solid bases. This work of demolition had not yet ceased in the beginning of the sixteenth century; and the moral confusion due to it was increased by various causes dependent on political and other circumstances. The despots in whose hands it was the inevitable fate of the various commonwealths to fall, were by their very position immoral in all their dealings: violent, fraudulent, suspicious, and, from their life of constant unnatural tension of the feelings, prone to every species of depravity; while, on the other hand, in the feudal parts of Italy--which had merely received a superficial Renaissance varnish imported from other places with painters and humanists--in Naples, Rome, and the greater part of Umbria and the Marches, the upper classes had got into that monstrous condition which seems to have been the inevitable final product of feudalism, and which, while it gave France her Armagnacs, her Foix, and her Retz, gave Italy their counterparts in her hideously depraved princelets, the Malatestas, Varanos, Vitelli, and Baglioni. Both these classes of men, despots and feudal nobles, had a wide field for their ambition among the necessarily dissolved civic institutions; and their easy success contributed to confirm the general tendency of the day to say with Commines, "Qui a le succès a l'honneur," and to confound these two words and ideas. Nor was this yet all: the men of the Renaissance discovered the antique world, and in their wild, blind enthusiasm, in their ardent, insatiable thirst for its literature, swallowed it eagerly, dregs and all, till they were drunk and poisoned. These are the main causes of the immorality of the Renaissance: first, the general disbelief in all accepted doctrines, due to the falseness and unnaturalness of those hitherto prevalent; secondly, the success of unscrupulous talent in a condition of political disorder; thirdly, the wholesale and unjudging enthusiasm for all that remained of Antiquity, good or bad. These three great causes, united in a general intellectual ebullition, are the explanation of the worst feature of the Renaissance: not the wickedness of numberless single individuals, but the universal toleration of it by the people at large. Men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Sixtus IV., Alexander VI., and Cæsar Borgia might be passed over as exceptions, as monstrous aberrations which cannot affect our judgment of their time and nation; but the general indifference towards their vices shown by their contemporaries and countrymen is a conclusive and terrible proof of the moral chaos of the Renaissance. It is just the presence of so much instinctive simplicity and virtue, of childlike devotion to great objects, of patriarchal simplicity of manners, of all that is loveable in the books of men like Vespasiano da Bisticci and Leon Battista Albert; of so much that seems like the realization of the idyllic home and merchant life of Schiller's "Song of the Bell," by the side of all the hideous lawlessness and vice of the despots and humanists; that makes the Renaissance so drearily painful a spectacle. The presence of the good does not console us for that of the evil, because it neither mitigates nor even shrinks from it; we merely lose our pleasure in the good nature and simplicity of Æneas Sylvius when we see his cool admiration for a man of fraud and violence like Sforza; we begin to mistrust the purity and integrity of the upright Guarino da Verona when we hear his lenient judgment of the infamous Beccadelli; we require of the virtuous that they should not only be incapable of vice, but abhorrent of it; and this is what even the best men of the Renaissance rarely were. Such a state of moral chaos there has constantly been when an old effete mode of thought required to be destroyed. Such work is always attended, in greater or less degree, by this subversion of all recognized authority, this indifference to evil, this bold tasting of the forbidden. In the eighteenth century France plays the same part that was played in the fifteenth by Italy: again we meet the rebellion against all that has been consecrated by time and belief, the toleration of evil, the praise of the abominable, in the midst of the search for the good. These two have been the great fever epochs of modern history; fever necessary for a subsequent steady growth. Both gave back truth to man, and man to nature, at the expense of temporary moral uncertainty and ruthless destruction. The Renaissance reinstated the individual in his human dignity, as a thinking, feeling, and acting being; the Eighteenth Century reconstructed society as a homogeneous free existence; both at the expense of individual degradation and social disorder. Both were moments of ebullition in which horrible things rose to the surface, but after which what remained was purer than it had ever been before. This is no plea for the immorality of the Renaissance: evil is none the less evil for being inevitable and necessary; but it is nevertheless well that we should understand its necessity. It certainly is a terrible admission, but one which must be made, that evil is part of the mechanism for producing good; and had the arrangement of the universe been entrusted to us, benevolent and equitable people of an enlightened age, there would doubtless have been invented some system of evolution and progression differing from the one which includes such machinery as hurricanes and pestilences, carnage and misery, superstition and license, Renaissance and Eighteenth Century. But unfortunately Nature was organized in a less charitable and intelligent fashion; and, among other evils required for the final attainment of good, we find that of whole generations of men being condemned to moral uncertainty and error in order that other generations may enjoy knowledge peacefully and guiltlessly. Let us remember this, and let us be more generous towards the men who were wicked that we might be enlightened. Above all, let us bear in mind, in judging the Renaissance, that the sacrifice which it represents could be useful only in so far as it was complete and irretrievable. Let us remember that the communal system of government, on whose development the Renaissance mainly depended, inevitably perished in proportion as it developed; that the absolute subjugation of Italy by Barbarous nations was requisite to the dissemination of the civilization thus obtained; that the Italians were politically annihilated before they had time to recover a normal condition, and were given up crushed and broken spirited, to be taught righteousness by Spaniards and Jesuits. That, in short, while the morality of the Italians was sacrificed to obtain the knowledge on which modern society depends, the political existence of Italy was sacrificed to the diffusion of that knowledge, and that the nation was not only doomed to immorality, but doomed also to the inability to reform. Perhaps, if we think of all this, and weigh the tremendous sacrifice to which we owe our present intellectual advantages, we may still feel sad, but sad rather with remorse than with indignation, in contemplating the condition of Italy in the first years of the sixteenth century; in looking down from our calm, safe, scientific position, on the murder of the Italian Renaissance: great and noble at heart, cut off pitilessly at its prime; denied even an hour to repent and amend; hurried off before the tribunal of posterity, suddenly, unexpectedly, and still bearing its weight of unexpiated, unrecognized guilt. THE ITALY OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS. I. The chroniclers of the last years of the fifteenth century have recorded how the soldiery of Charles VIII. of France amused the tedious leisure of their sullen and suspicious occupation of Rome, by erecting in the camp a stage of planks, and performing thereon a rude mystery-play. The play thus improvised by a handful of troopers before this motley invading army: before the feudal cavalry of Burgundy, strange steel monsters, half bird, half reptile, with steel beaked and winged helmets and claw-like steel shoes, and jointed steel corselet and rustling steel mail coat; before the infantry of Gascony, rapid and rapacious with their tattered doublets and rag-bound feet; before the over-fed, immensely plumed, and slashed and furbelowed giants of Switzerland, and the starved, half-naked savages of Brittany and the Marches--before this multifaced, many-speeched army, gathered from the rich cities of the North and the devastated fields of the South, and the wilds and rocks of the West and the East, alike in nothing save in its wonder and dread and delight and horror at this strange invaded Italy--the play performed for the entertainment of this encamped army was no ordinary play. No clerkly allegorical morality; no mouthing and capering market-place farce; no history of Joseph and his brethren, of the birth of the Saviour, or of the temptations of St. Anthony. It was the half-allegorical, half-dramatic representation of the reigning Borgia pope and his children; it was the rude and hesitating moulding into dramatic shape of those terrible rumours of simony and poison, of lust and of violence, of mysterious death and abominable love, which had met the invaders as they had first set their feet in Italy; which had become louder and clearer with every onward step through the peninsula, and now circulated around them, with frightful distinctness, in the very capital of Christ's vicar on earth. This blundering mystery-play of the French troopers is the earliest imaginative fruit of that first terrified and fascinated glimpse of the men of the barbarous North at the strange Italy of the Renaissance; it is the first manifestation of that strong tragic impulse due to the sudden sight, by rude and imaginative young nations, of the splendid and triumphant wickedness of Italy. The French saw, wondered, shuddered, and played upon their camp stage the tragedy of the Borgias. But the French remained in Italy, became familiar with its ways, and soon merely shrugged their shoulders and smiled where they had once stared in horror. They served under the flags of Sforzas, Borgias, Baglionis, and Vitellis, by the side of the bravos of Naples and Umbria; they saw their princes wed the daughters of evil-famed Italian sovereigns, and their princes' children, their own Valois and Guises, develope into puny, ambiguous, and ominous Medicis and Gonzagas, surrounded by Italian minions and poison distillers, and buffoons and money-lenders. The French of the sixteenth century, during their long Neapolitan and Lombard wars and negotiations, and time to learn all that Italy could teach; to become refined, subtle, indifferent, and cynical: bastard Italians, with the bastard Italian art of Goujon and Philibert Delorme, and the bastard Italian poetry of Du Bellay and Ronsard. The French of the sixteenth century therefore translated Machiavel and Ariosto and Bandello; but they never again attempted such another play as that which they had improvised while listening to the tales of Alexander VI. and Cæsar and Lucrezia, in their camp in the meadows behind Sant' Angelo. The Spaniards then came to Italy, and the Germans: strong mediæval nations, like the French, with the creative power of the Middle Ages still in them, refreshed by the long rest of the dull fifteenth century. But Spaniards and Germans came as mere greedy and besotten and savage mercenaries: the scum of their countries, careless of Italian sights and deeds, thinking only of torturing for hidden treasure, or swilling southern wines; and they returned to Spain and to Germany, to persecutions of Moriscos and plundering of abbeys, as savage and as dull as they had arrived. A smattering of Italian literature, art, and manners was carried back to Spain and Germany by Spanish and German princes and governors, to be transmitted to a few courtiers and humanists; but the imagination of the lower classes of Spain and of Germany, absorbed in the Quixotic Catholicism of Loyola and the biblical contemplation of Luther, never came into fertilizing contact with the decaying Italy of the Renaissance. The mystery-play of the soldiers of Charles VIII. seemed destined to remain an isolated and abortive attempt. But it was not so. The invasions had exhausted themselves; the political organization of Italy was definitely broken up; its material wealth was exhausted; the French, Germans, and Spaniards had come and gone, and returned and gone again; they had left nothing to annex or to pillage; when, about the middle of the sixteenth century, the country began to be overrun by a new horde of barbarians: the English. The English came neither as invaders nor as marauders; they were peaceable students and rich noblemen, who, so far from trying to extort money or annex territory, rather profited the ruined Italians by the work which they did and the money which they squandered. Yet these quiet and profitable travellers, before whom the Italians might safely display their remaining wealth, were in reality as covetous of the possessions of Italy and as resolute to return home enriched as any tattered Gascon men-at-arms or gluttonous Swiss or grinding Spaniards. They were, one and all, consciously and unconsciously, dragged to Italy by the irresistible instinct that Italy possessed that which they required; by the greed of intellectual gain. That which they thus instinctively knew that Italy possessed, that which they must obtain, was a mode of thought, a habit of form; philosophy, art, civilization: all the materials for intellectual manipulation. For, in the sixteenth century, on awakening from its long evil sleep, haunted by the nightmare of civil war, of the fifteenth century, the English mind had started up in the vigour of well-nigh mature youth, fed up and rested by the long inactivity in which it had slept through its period of assimilation and growth. It had awakened at the first touch of foreign influence, and had grown with every fresh contact with the outer world: with the first glance at Plato and Xenophon suddenly opened by Erasmus and Colet, at the Bible suddenly opened by Cranmer; it had grown with its sob of indignation at the sight of the burning faggots surrounding the martyrs, with its joyous heart-throbs at the sight of the seas and islands of the New World; it had grown with the sudden passionate strain of every nerve and every muscle when the galleys of Philip had been sighted in the Channel. And when it had paused, taken breath, and looked calmly around it, after the tumult of all these sights and sounds and actions, the English mind, in the time of Elizabeth, had found itself of a sudden full-grown and blossomed out into superb manhood, with burning activities and indefatigable powers. But it had found itself without materials for work. Of the scholastic philosophy and the chivalric poetry of the Middle Ages there remained but little that could be utilized: the few bungled formulæ, the few half-obsolete rhymes still remaining, were as unintelligible, in their spirit of feudalism and monasticism and mysticism, as were the Angevin English and the monkish Latin in which they were written to these men of the sixteenth century. All the intellectual wealth of England remained to be created; but it could not be created out of nothing. Spenser, Shakespeare, and Bacon could not be produced out of the half-effete and scattered fragments of Chaucer, of Scotus, and of Wycliffe. The materials on which English genius was to work must be sought abroad, and abroad they could be found only in Italy. For in the demolished Italy of the sixteenth century lay the whole intellectual wealth of the world: the great legacy of Antiquity, the great work of the Middle Ages had been stored up, and had been increased threefold, and sorted and classified by the Renaissance; and now that the national edifice had been dismantled and dilapidated, and the national activity was languishing, it all lay in confusion, awaiting only the hand of those who would carry it away and use it once more. To Italy therefore Englishmen of thought and fancy were dragged by an impulse of adventure and greed as irresistible as that which dragged to Antwerp and the Hanse ports, to India and America, the seekers for gold and for soil. To Italy they flocked and through Italy they rambled, prying greedily into each cranny and mound of the half-broken civilization, upturning with avid curiosity all the rubbish and filth; seeking with aching eyes and itching fingers for the precious fragments of intellectual splendour; lingering with fascinated glance over the broken remnants and deep, mysterious gulfs of a crumbling and devastated civilization. And then, impatient of their intoxicating and tantalizing search, suddenly grown desperate, they clutched and stored away everything, and returned home tattered, soiled, bedecked with gold and with tinsel, laden with an immense uncouth burden of jewels, and broken wealth, and refuse and ordure, with pseudo-antique philosophy, with half-mediæval Dantesque and Petrarchesque poetry, with Renaissance science, with humanistic pedantry and obscenity, with euphuistic conceits and casuistic quibble, with art, politics, metaphysics--civilization embedded in all manner of rubbish and abomination, soiled with all manner of ominous stains. All this did they carry home and throw helter-skelter into the new-kindled fire of English intellectual life, mingling with it many a humble-seeming Northern alloy; cleaning and compounding, casting into shapes, mediæval and English, this strange Corinthian brass made of all these heterogeneous remnants, classical, Italian, Saxon, and Christian. A strange Corinthian brass indeed; and as various in tint, in weight, and in tone, in manifold varieties of mixture, as were the moulds into which it was cast: the white and delicate silver settling down in the gracious poetic moulds of Sidney and Spenser; the glittering gold, which can buy and increase, in the splendid, heavy mould of Bacon's prose; and the copper, the iron, the silver and gold in wondrous mixture, with wondrous iridescences of colour and wondrous scale of tone, all poured into the manifold moulds, fantastic and beautiful and grand, of Shakespeare. And as long as all this dross and ore and filth brought from the ruins of Italy was thus mingling in the heat of English genius, while it was yet but imperfectly fused, while already its purest and best compounded portion was being poured in Shakespeare's mould, and when already there remained only a seething residue; as long as there remained aught of the glowing fire and the molten mass, some of it all, of the pure metal bubbling up, of the scum frothing round, nay, of the very used-up dregs, was ever and anon being ladled out--gold, dross, filth, all indiscriminately--and cast into shapes severe, graceful, or uncouth. And this somewhat, thus pilfered from what was to make, or was making, or had made, the works of Shakespeare; this base and noble, still unfused or already exhausted alloy, became the strange heterogeneous works of the Elizabethan dramatists: of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, of Ben Jonson, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of their minor brethren; from the splendid ore of Marlowe, only half molten and half freed from dross, down to the shining metal, smooth and silvery as only tinsel can be, of Massinger. In all the works of our Elizabethans, we see not only the assimilated intellectual wealth of Italy, but we see the deep impression, the indelible picture in the memory, of Italy itself; the positive, unallegorical, essentially secular mode of thought; the unascetic, æsthetic, eminently human mode of feeling; the artistic desire of clear and harmonious form; the innumerable tendencies and habits which sever the Elizabethans so completely from the Middle Ages, and bring them so near at once to ourselves and to the ancients, making them at once antique and modern, in opposition to mediæval; these essential characters and the vast bulk of absolute scientific fact and formula, of philosophic opinion, of artistic shape, of humanistic learning, are only one-half of the debt of our sixteenth century to the Italy of the Renaissance. The delicate form of the Italian sonnet, as copied by Sidney from Bembo and Molza and Costanzo, contained within it the exotic and exquisite ideal passion of the "Vita Nuova" and Petrarch. With the bright, undulating stanza Spenser received from Ariosto and Tasso the richly coloured spirit of the Italian descriptive epic. With the splendid involutions of Machiavelli's and Guicciardini's prose Bacon learned their cool and disimpassioned philosophy. From the reading of Politian and Lorenzo dei Medici, from the sight of the Psyche of Raphael, the Europa of Veronese, the Ariadne of Tintoret, men like Greene and Dorset learned that revival of a more luscious and pictorial antique which was brought to perfection in Shakespeare's "Venus and Adonis" and Marlowe's "Sestiad." From the Platonists and Epicureans of Renaissance Italy our greatest dramatists learned that cheerful and serious love of life, that solemn and manly facing of death, that sense of the finiteness of man, the inexhaustibleness of nature, which shines out in such grand, paganism, with such Olympian serenity, as of the bent brows and smiling lips of an antique Zeus, in Shakespeare, in Marlowe, in Beaumont and Fletcher, even in the sad and savage Webster. But with the abstract, with the imbibed modes of thought and feeling, with the imitated forms, the Elizabethans brought back from Italy the concrete, the individual, the personal. They filled their works with Italian things: from the whole plot of a play borrowed from an Italian novel, to the mere passing allusion to an Italian habit, or the mere quotation of an Italian word; from the full-length picture of the actions of Italian men and women, down to the mere sketch, in two or three words, of a bit of Italian garden or a group of Italian figures; nay, to the innumerable scraps of tiny detail, grotesque, graceful, or richly coloured, which they stuffed into all their works: allusions to the buffoons of the mask comedy, to the high-voiced singers, to the dress of the Venetian merchants, to the step of a dance; to the pomegranate in the garden or the cypress on the hillside; mere names of Italian things: the _lavolta_ and _corranto_ dances, the _Traglietto_ ferry, the Rialto bridge; countless little touches, trifling to us, but which brought home to the audience at the Globe or at Blackfriars that wonderful Italy which every man of the day had travelled through at least in spirit, and had loved at least in imagination. And of this wonderful Italy the Englishmen of the days of Elizabeth and of James knew yet another side; were familiar, whether travelled or untravelled, with yet other things besides the buffoons and singers and dancers, the scholars and learned ladies, the pomegranates, and cypresses and roses and nightingales; were fascinated by something besides the green lagoons, the clear summer nights, the soft spring evenings of which we feel as it were the fascination in the words of Jessica and Portia and Juliet. The English knew and were haunted by the crimes of Italy: the terrible and brilliant, the mysterious and shadowy crimes of lust and of blood which, in their most gigantic union and monstrous enthronement on the throne of the vicar of Christ, had in the first terrified glimpse awakened the tragic impulse in the soldiers of Charles VIII. We can imagine the innumerable English travellers who went to Italy greedy for life and knowledge or merely obeying a fashion of the day--travellers forced into far closer contact with the natives than the men of the time of Walpole and of Beckford, who were met by French-speaking hosts and lacqueys and officials--travellers also thirsting to imbibe the very spirit of the country as the travellers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries never thirsted; we can imagine these Englishmen possessed by the morbid passion for the stories of abominable and unpunished crime--crime of the learned, the refined, the splendid parts of society--with which the Italy of the deeply corrupted sixteenth century was permeated. We can imagine how the prosaic merchants' clerks from London; the perfumed dandies, trying on Italian clothes, rehearsing Italian steps and collecting Italian oaths, the Faulcon-bridges of Shakespeare and Mr. Gingleboys of Beaumont and Fletcher, sent to Italy to be able gracefully to Kiss the hand and cry, "sweet lady!" Say they had been at Rome and seen the relics, Drunk your Verdea wine, and rid at Naples-- how all these privileged creatures ferreted about for monstrous crimes with which to horrify their stay-at-home countrymen; how the rich young lords, returning home with mincing steps and high-pitched lisp, surrounded by a train of parti-coloured, dialect-jabbering Venetian clowns, deft and sinister Neapolitan fencing masters, silver-voiced singing boys decoyed from some church, and cynical humanists escaped from the faggot or the gallows, were expected to bring home, together with the newest pastoral dramas, lewd novels, Platonic philosophy and madrigals set in complicated counterpoint; stories of hideous wickedness, of the murders and rapes and poisonings committed by the dukes and duchesses, the nobles and senators, in whose palaces they had so lately supped and danced. The crimes of Italy fascinated Englishmen of genius with a fascination even more potent than that which they exercised over the vulgar imagination of mere foppish and swashbuckler lovers of the scandalous and the sensational: they fascinated with the attraction of tragic grandeur, of psychological strangeness, of moral monstrosity, a generation in whom the passionate imagination of the playwright was curiously blent with the metaphysical analysis of the philosopher and the ethical judgment of the Puritan. To these men, ardent and serious even in their profligacy; imaginative and passionate even in their Puritanism, all sucking avidly at this newly found Italian civilization; the wickedness of Italy was more than morbidly attractive or morbidly appalling: it was imaginatively and psychologically fascinating. Whether they were as part of the action or as allusions, as in Webster's two great plays, in which there occurs poisoning by means of the leaves of a book, poisoning by the poisoned lips of a picture, poisoning by a helmet, poisoning by the pommel of a saddle; crimes were multiplied by means of subordinate plots and unnecessary incidents, like the double vengeance of Richardetto and of Hippolita in Ford's "Giovanni and Annabella," where both characters are absolutely unnecessary to the main story of the horrible love of the hero and heroine; like the murders of Levidulcia and Sebastian in Tourneur's "Atheist's Tragedy," and the completely unnecessary though extremely pathetic death of young Marcello in Webster's "White Devil;" until the plays were brought to a close by the gradual extermination of all the principal performers, and only a few confidants and dummies remained to bury the corpses which strewed the stage. Imaginary monsters were fashioned out of half-a-dozen Neapolitan and Milanese princes, by Ford, by Beaumont and Fletcher, by Middleton, by Marston, even by the light and graceful Philip Massinger: mythical villains, Ferdinands, Lodowicks, and Fernezes, who yet fell short of the frightful realities of men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Alexander VI., and Pier Luigi Farnese; nay, more typical monsters, with no name save their vices, Lussuriosos, Gelosos, Ambitiosos, and Vindicis, like those drawn by the strong and savage hand of Cyril Tourneur. Nothing which the English stage could display seemed to the minds of English playwrights and the public to give an adequate picture of the abominations of Italy; much as they heaped up horrors and combined them with artistic skill, much as they forced into sight, there yet remained an abyss of evil which the English tongue refused to mention, but which weighed upon the English mind; and which, unspoken, nay (and it is the glory of the Elizabethan dramatists excepting Ford), unhinted, yet remained as an incubus in the consciousness of the playwrights and the public, was in their thoughts when they wrote and heard such savage misanthropic outbursts as those of Tourneur and of Marston. The sense of the rottenness of the country whence they were obtaining their intellectual nourishment, haunted with a sort of sickening fascination the imaginative and psychological minds of the late sixteenth century, of the men who had had time to outgrow the first cynical plunge of the rebellious immature intellects of the contemporaries of Greene, Peele, and Marlowe into that dissolved civilization. And of the great men who were thus enthralled by Italy and Italian evil, only Shakespeare and Massinger maintain or regain their serenity and hopefulness of spirit, resist the incubus of horror: Shakespeare from the immense scope of his vision, which permitted him to pass over the base and frightful parts of human nature and see its purer and higher sides; Massinger from the very superficiality of his insight and the narrowness of his sympathies, which prevented his ever thoroughly realizing the very horrors he had himself invented. But on the minds less elastic than that of Shakespeare, and less superficial than that of Massinger, the Italian evil weighed like a nightmare. With an infinitely powerful and passionate imagination, and an exquisitely subtle faculty of mental analysis; only lately freed from the dogma of the Middle Ages; unsettled in their philosophy; inclined by wholesale classical reading to a sort of negative atheism, a fatalistic and half-melancholy mixture of epicurism and stoicism; yet keenly alive, from study of the Bible and of religious controversies, to all questions of right and wrong; thus highly wrought and deeply perplexed, the minds of the Elizabethan poets were impressed by the wickedness of Italy as by the horrible deeds of one whom we are accustomed to venerate as our guide, whom we cannot but love as our benefactor, whom we cannot but admire as our superior: it was a sense of frightful anomaly, of putrescence in beauty and splendour, of death in life and life in death, which made the English psychologist-poets savage and sombre, cynical and wrathful and hopeless. The influence is the same on all, and the difference of attitude is slight, and due to individual characters; but the gloom is the same in each of them. In Webster--no mere grisly inventor of Radcliffian horrors, as we are apt to think of the greatest of our dramatists--after Shakespeare--in the noble and tender nature of Webster the sense is one of ineffable sadness, unmarred by cynicism, but unbrightened by hope. The villains, even if successful till death overtake them, are mere hideous phantoms-- these wretched eminent things Leave no more fame behind 'em, than should one Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow-- the victims of tortured conscience, or, worse still, the owners of petrified hearts; there is nothing to envy in them. But none the better is it for the good: if Ferdinands, Bosolas, Brachianos, and Flaminios perish miserably, it is only after having done to death the tender and brave Duchess, the gentle Antonio, the chivalric Marcello; there is virtue on earth, but there is no justice in heaven. The half-pagan, half-puritanic feeling of Webster bursts out in the dying speech of the villain Bosola-- O, this gloomy world! In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness, Doth womanish and fearful mankind live! Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust To suffer death or shame for what is just. Of real justice in this life or compensation in another, there is no thought: Webster, though a Puritan in spirit, is no Christian in faith. On Ford the influence is different; although equal, perhaps, in genius to Webster, surpassing him even in intense tragic passion, he was far below Webster, and, indeed, far below all his generation, in moral fibre. The sight of evil fascinates him; his conscience staggers, his sympathies are bedraggled in foulness; in the chaos of good and evil he loses his reckoning, and recognizes the superiority only of strength of passion, of passion for good or evil: the incestuous Giovanni, daring his enemies like a wild beast at bay and cheating them of their revenge by himself murdering the object of his horrible passion, is as heroic in the eyes of Ford as the magnanimous Princess of Sparta, bearing with unflinching spirit the succession of misfortunes poured down upon her, and leading off the dance while messenger succeeds messenger of evil; till, free from her duties as a queen, she sinks down dead. Cyril Tourneur and John Marston are far more incomplete in genius than either Webster or Ford, although Tourneur sometimes obtains a lurid and ghastly tragic intensity which more than equals Ford when at his best; and Marston, in the midst of crabbedness and dulness, sometimes has touches of pathos and Michelangelesque foreshortenings of metaphor worthy of Webster. But Tourneur and Marston have neither the constant sympathy with oppressed virtue of the author of the "Duchess of Malfy," nor the blind fury of passion of the poet of "Giovanni and Annabella;" they look on grim and hopeless spectators at the world of fatalistic and insane wickedness which they have created, in which their heroes and heroines and villains are slowly entangled in inextricable evil. The men and women of Tourneur and Marston are scarcely men and women at all: they are mere vague spectres, showing their grisly wounds and moaning out their miserable fate. There is around them a thick and clammy moral darkness, dispelled only by the ghastly flashes of lurid virtue of maniacs like Tourneur's Vindici and Hippolito; a crypt-like moral stillness, haunted by strange evil murmurs, broken only by the hysterical sobs and laughs of Marston's Antonios and Pandulphos. At the most there issues out of the blood-reeking depth a mighty yell of pain, a tremendous imprecation not only at sinful man but at unsympathizing nature, like that of Marston's old Doge, dethroned, hunted down, crying aloud into the grey dawn-mists of the desolate marsh by the lagoon-- O thou all-bearing earth Which men do gape for till thou cram'st their mouths And choak'st their throats for dust: O charme thy breast And let me sinke into thee. Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But O, she's deafe and blinde. A wretch but leane relief on earth can finde. The tragic sense, the sense of utter blank evil, is stronger in all these Elizabethan painters of Italian crime than perhaps in any other tragic writers. There is, in the great and sinister pictures of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, and of Marston, no spot of light, no distant bright horizon. There is no loving suffering, resigned to suffer and to pardon, like that of Desdemona, whose dying lips forgive the beloved who kills from too great love; no consoling affection like Cordelia's, in whose gentle embrace the poor bruised soul may sink into rest; no passionate union in death with the beloved, like the union of Romeo and Juliet; nothing but implacable cruelty, violent death received with agonized protest, or at best as the only release from unmitigated misery with which the wretch has become familiar, As the tann'd galley slave is with his oar. Neither is there in these plays that solemn sense of heavenly justice, of the fatality hanging over a house which will be broken when guilt shall have been expiated, which lends a sort of serene background of eternal justice to the terrible tales of Thebes and Argos. There is for these men no fatality save the evil nature of man, no justice save the doubling of crime, no compensation save revenge: there is for Webster and Ford and Tourneur and Marston no heaven above, wrathful but placable; there are no Gods revengeful but just: there is nothing but this blood-stained and corpse-strewn earth, defiled by lust-burnt and death-hungering men, felling each other down and trampling on one another blindly in the eternal darkness which surrounds them. The world of these great poets is not the open world with its light and its air, its purifying storms and lightnings: it is the darkened Italian palace, with its wrought-iron bars preventing escape; its embroidered carpets muffling the foot steps; its hidden, suddenly yawning trapdoors; its arras-hangings concealing masked ruffians; its garlands of poisoned flowers; its long suites of untenanted darkened rooms, through which the wretch is pursued by the half-crazed murderer; while below, in the cloistered court, the clanking armour and stamping horses, and above, in the carved and gilded hall, the viols and lutes and cornets make a cheery triumphant concert, and drown the cries of the victim. II. Such is the Italy of the Renaissance as we see it in the works of our tragic playwrights: a country of mysterious horror, the sinister reputation of which lasted two hundred years; lasted triumphantly throughout the light and finikin eighteenth century, and found its latest expression in the grim and ghastly romances of the school of Ann Radcliff, romances which are but the last puny and grotesque descendants of the great stock of Italian tragedies, born of the first terror-stricken meeting of the England of Elizabeth with the Italy of the late Renaissance. Is the impression received by the Elizabethan playwrights a correct impression? Was Italy in the sixteenth century that land of horrors? Reviewing in our memory the literature and art of the Italian Renaissance, remembering the innumerable impressions of joyous and healthy life with which it has filled us; recalling the bright and thoughtless rhymes of Lorenzo dei Medici, of Politian, of Bern!, and of Ariosto; the sweet and tender poetry of Bembo and Vittoria Colonna and Tasso; the bluff sensuality of novelists like Bandello and Masuccio, the Aristophanesque laughter of the comedy of Bibbiena and of Beolco; seeing in our mind's eye the stately sweet matrons and noble senators of Titian, the virginal saints and madonnas of Raphael, the joyous angels of Correggio;--recapitulating rapidly all our impressions of this splendid time of exuberant vitality, of this strong and serene Renaissance, we answer without hesitation, and with only a smile of contempt at our credulous ancestors--no. The Italy of the Renaissance was, of all things that have ever existed or ever could exist, the most utterly unlike the nightmare visions of men such as Webster and Ford, Marston and Tourneur. The only Elizabethan drama which really represents the Italy of the Renaissance is the comedy of Shakespeare, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of Ben Jonson and Massinger: to the Renaissance belong those clear and sunny figures, the Portias, Antonios, Gratianos, Violas, Petruchios, Bellarios, and Almiras; their faces do we see on the canvases of Titian and the frescoes of Raphael; they are the real children of the Italian Renaissance. These frightful Brachianos and Annabellas and Ferdinands and Corombonas and Vindicis and Pieros of the "White Devil," of the "Duchess of Malfy," of the "Revenger's Tragedy," and of "Antonio and Mellida," are mere fantastic horrors, as false as the Counts Udolpho, the Spalatros, the Zastrozzis, and all their grotesquely ghastly pseudo-Italian brethren of eighty years ago. And, indeed, the Italy of the Renaissance, as represented in its literature and its art, is the very negation of Elizabethan horrors. Of all the mystery, the colossal horror and terror of our dramatists, there is not the faintest trace in the intellectual productions of the Italian Renaissance. The art is absolutely stainless: no scenes of horror, no frightful martyrdoms, as with the Germans under Albrecht Dürer; no abominable butcheries, as with the Bolognese of the seventeenth century; no macerated saints and tattered assassins, as with the Spaniards; no mystery, no contortion, no horrors: vigorous and serene beauty, pure and cheerful life, real or ideal, on wall or canvas, in bronze or in marble. The literature is analogous to the art, only less perfect, more tainted with the weakness of humanity, less ideal, more real. It is essentially human, in the largest sense of the word; or if it cease, in creatures like Aretine, to be humanly clean, it becomes merely satyr-like, swinish, hircose. But it is never savage in lust or violence; it is quite free from the element of ferocity. It is essentially light and quiet and well regulated, sane and reasonable, never staggering or blinded by excess: it is full of intelligent discrimination, of intelligent leniency, of well-bred reserved sympathy; it is civilized as are the wide well-paved streets of Ferrara compared with the tortuous black alleys of mediæval Paris; as are the well-lit, clean, spacious palaces of Michelozzo or Bramante compared with the squalid, unhealthy, uncomfortable mediæval castles of Dürer's etchings. It is indeed a trifle too civilized; too civilized to produce every kind of artistic fruit; it is--and here comes the crushing difference between the Italian Renaissance and our Elizabethans' pictures of it--it is, this beautiful rich literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, completely deficient in every tragic element; it has intuition neither for tragic event nor for tragic character; it affords not a single tragic page in its poems and novels; it is incapable, after the most laborious and conscientious study of Euripides and Seneca, utterly and miserably incapable of producing a single real tragedy, anything which is not a sugary pastoral or a pompous rhetorical exercise. The epic poets of the Italian Renaissance, Pulci, Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto, even the stately and sentimental Tasso, are no epic poets at all. They are mere light and amusing gossips, some of them absolute buffoons. Their adventures over hill and dale are mere riding parties; their fights mere festival tournaments, their enchantments mere pageant wonders. Events like the death of Hector, the slaughter of Penelope's suitors, the festive massacre of Chriemhilt, the horrible deceit of Alfonso the Chaste sending Bernardo del Carpio his father's corpse on horseback-- things like these never enter their minds. When tragic events do by some accident come into their narration, they cease to be tragic; they are frittered away into mere pretty conceits like the death of Isabella and the sacrifice of Olympia in the "Orlando Furioso;" or melted down into vague pathos, like the burning of Olindo and Sofronia, and the death of Clorinda by the sentimental Tasso. Neither poet, the one with his cheerfulness, the other with his mild melancholy, brings home, conceives the horror of the situation; the one treats the tragic in the spirit almost of burlesque, the other entirely in the spirit of elegy. So, again, with the novel writers: these professional retailers of anecdotes will pick up any subject to fill their volumes. In default of pleasant stories of filthy intrigue or lewd jest, men like Cinthio and Bandello will gabble off occasionally some tragic story, picked out of a history book or recently heard from a gossip: the stories of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, of Disdémona and the Moorish Captain, of Roméo Montecchio and Giulietta Cappelletti, of the Cardinal d'Aragona and the Duchess of Amalfi, of unknown grotesque Persian Sophis and Turkish Bassas--stories of murder, massacre, rape, incest, anything and everything, prattled off, with a few words of vapid compassion and stale moralizing, in the serene, cheerful, chatty manner in which they recount their Decameronian escapades or Rabelaisian repartees. As it is with tragic action, so is it with tragic character. The literature of the country which suggested to our Elizabethans their colossal villains, can display only a few conventional monsters, fire-eating, swashbuckler Rodomonts and Sultan Malechs, strutting and puffing like the grotesque villains of puppet-shows; Aladins and Ismenos, enchanters and ogres fit to be put into Don Quixote's library: mere conventional rag puppets, doubtless valued as such and no more by the shrewd contemporaries of Ariosto and Tasso. The inhabitants of Tasso's world of romance are pale chivalric unrealities, lifeless as Spenser's half-allegoric knights and ladies; those of Pulci's Ardenne forests and Cathay deserts are buffoons such as Florentine shopmen may have trapped out for their amusement in rusty armour and garlands of sausages. The only lifelike heroes and heroines are those of Ariosto. And they are most untragic, unromantic. The men are occasionally small scoundrels, but unintentionally on the part of the author. They show no deep moral cancers or plague-spots; they display cheerfully all the petty dishonour and small lusts which the Renaissance regarded as mere flesh and blood characteristics. So also Ariosto's ladies: the charming, bright women, coquettish or Amazonian, are frail and fickle to the degree which was permissible to a court lady, who should be neither prudish nor coquettish; doing unchaste things and listening to unchaste words simply, gracefully, without prurience or horror; perfectly well-bred, _gentili_, as Ariosto calls them; prudent also, according to the notions of the day, in limiting their imprudence. The adventure of Fiordispina with Ricciardetto would have branded an English serving-wench as a harlot; the behaviour of Roger towards the lady he has just rescued from the sea-monster would have blushingly been attributed by Spenser to one of his satyrs; but these were escapades quite within Ariosto's notions of what was permitted to a _gentil cavaliero_ and a _nobil donzella_; and if Fiordispina and Roger are not like Florimell and Sir Calidore, still less do they in the faintest degree resemble Tourneur and Marston's Levidulcias and Isabellas and Lussuriosos. And with the exception perhaps, of this heroine and this hero, we cannot find any very great harm in Ariosto's ladies and gentlemen: we may, indeed, feel indignant when we think that they replace the chaste and noble impossibilities of earlier romance, the Rolands and Percivals, the Beatrices and Lauras of the past; when we consider that they represent for Ariosto, not the bespattered but the spotless, not the real but the ideal. All this may awaken in us contempt and disgust; but if we consider these figures in themselves as realities, and compare them with the evil figures of our drama, we find that they are mere venial sinners--light, fickle, amorous, fibbing--very human in their faults; human, trifling, mild, not at all monstrous, like all the art products of the Renaissance.[1] [1] The "Orlando Innamorato" of Boiardo contains, part i, canto 8, a story too horrible and grotesque for me to narrate, of a monster born of Marchino and his murdered sister-in-law, which forms a strange exception to my rule, even as does, for instance, Matteo di Giovanni's massacre of the Innocents. Can this story have been suggested, a ghastly nightmare, by the frightful tale of Sigismondo Malatesta and the beautiful Borbona, which was current in Boiardo's day? A serene and spotless art, a literature often impure but always cheerful, rational, civilized--this is what the Italian Renaissance displays when we seek in it for spirits at all akin to Webster or Lope de Vega, to Holbein or Ribera. To find the tragic we must wait for the Bolognese painters of the seventeenth century, for Metastasio and Alfieri in the eighteenth; it is useless seeking it in this serene and joyous Renaissance. Where, then, in the midst of these spotless virgins, these noble saints, these brilliant pseudo-chivalric joustings and revels, these sweet and sonneteering pastorals, these scurrilous adventures and loose buffooneries; where in this Italian Renaissance are the horrors which fascinated so strangely our English playwrights: the fratricides and incests, the frightful crimes of lust and blood which haunted and half crazed the genius of Tourneur and Marston? Where in this brilliant and courteous and humane and civilized nation are the gigantic villains whose terrible features were drawn with such superb awfulness of touch by Webster and Ford? Where in this Renaissance of Italian literature, so cheerful and light of conscience, is the foul and savage Renaissance of English tragedy? Does the art of Italy tell an impossible, universal lie? or is the art of England the victim of an impossible, universal hallucination? Neither; for art can neither tell lies nor be the victim of hallucination. The horror exists, and the light-heartedness exists; the unhealthiness and the healthiness. For as, in that weird story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, the daughter of the Paduan wizard is nurtured on the sap and fruit and the emanations of poisonous plants, till they become her natural sustenance, and she thrives and is strong and lovely; while the youth, bred in the ordinary pure air and nourished on ordinary wholesome food, faints and staggers as soon as he breathes the fatal odours of the poison garden, and sinks down convulsed and crazed at the first touch of his mistress' blooming but death-breathing lips; so also the Italians, steeped in the sin of their country, seeing it daily and hourly, remained intellectually healthy and serene; while the English, coming from a purer moral atmosphere, were seized with strange moral sickness of horror at what they had seen and could not forget. And the nation which was chaste and true wrote tales of incest and treachery, while the nation which was foul and false wrote poetry of shepherds and knights-errant. The monstrous immorality of the Italian Renaissance, as I have elsewhere shown in greater detail, was, like the immorality of any other historical period, not a formal rebellion against God, but a natural result of the evolution of the modern world. The Italy of the Renaissance was one of the many victims which inevitable moral sequence dooms to be evil in order that others may learn to be good: it was a sacrifice which consisted in a sin, a sacrifice requiring frightful expiation on the part of the victim. For Italy was subjected, during well-nigh two centuries, to a slow process of moral destruction; a process whose various factors--political disorganization, religious indifference, scientific scepticism, wholesale enthusiasm for the antique, breaking-up of mediæval standards and excessive growth of industry, commerce, and speculative thought at the expense of warlike and religious habits--were at the same time factors in the great advent of modern civilization, of which Italy was the pioneer and the victim; a process whose result was, in Italy, insensibly and inevitably to reduce to chaos the moral and political organization of the nation; at once rendering men completely unable to discriminate between good and evil, and enabling a certain proportion of them to sin with complete impunity: creating on the one hand moral indifference, and on the other social irresponsibility. Civilization had kept pace with demoralization; the faculty of reasoning over cause and effect had developed at the expense of the faculty of judging of actions. The Italians of the Renaissance, little by little, could judge only of the adaptation of means to given ends; whether means or ends were legitimate or illegitimate they soon became unable to perceive and even unable to ask. Success was the criterion of all action, and power was its limits. Active and furious national wickedness there was not: there was mere moral inertia on the part of the people. The Italians of the Renaissance neither resisted evil nor rebelled against virtue; they were indifferent to both, and a little pressure sufficed to determine them to either. In the governed classes, where the law was equal between men, and industry and commerce kept up healthy activity, the pressure was towards good. The artizans and merchants lived decent lives, endowed hospitals, listened to edifying sermons, and were even moved (for a few moments) by men like San Bernardino or Savonarola. In the governing classes, where all right lay in force, where the necessity of self-defence induced treachery and violence, and irresponsibility produced excess, the pressure was towards evil. The princelets and prelates and mercenery generals indulged in every sensuality, turned treachery into a science and violence into an instrument; and sometimes let themselves be intoxicated into mad lust and ferocity, as their subjects were occasionally intoxicated with mad austerity and mysticism; but the excesses of mad vice, like the excesses of mad virtue, lasted only a short time, or lasted only in individual saints or blood-maniacs; and the men of the Renaissance speedily regained their level of indifferent righteousness and of indifferent sinfulness. Righteousness and sinfulness both passive, without power of aggression or resistance, and consequently in strange and dreadful peace with each other. The wicked men did not dislike virtue, nor the good men vice: the villain could admire a saint, and the saint could condone a villain. The prudery of righteousness was as unknown as the cynicism of evil; the good man, like Guarino da Verona, would not shrink from the foul man; the foul man, like Beccadelli, would not despise the pure man. The ideally righteous citizen of Agnolo Pandolfini does not interfere with the ideally unrighteous prince of Machiavelli: each has his own position and conduct; and who can say whether, if the positions were exchanged, the conduct might not be exchanged also? In such a condition of things as this, evil ceases to appear monstrous; it is explained, endured, condoned. The stately philosophical historians, so stoically grand, and the prattling local chroniclers, so highly coloured and so gentle and graceful; Guicciardini and Machiavelli and Valori and Segni, on the one hand--Corio, Allegretti, Matarazzo, Infessura, on the other; all these, from whom we learn the real existence of immorality far more universal and abominable than our dramatists venture to show, relate quietly, calmly, with analytical frigidness or gossiping levity, the things which we often shrink from repeating, and sometimes recoil from believing. Great statesmanlike historians and humble chattering chroniclers are alike unaffected by what goes on around them: they collect anecdotes and generalize events without the fumes of evil, among which they seek for materials in the dark places of national or local history, ever going to their imagination, ever making their heart sicken and faint, and their fancy stagger and reel. The life of these righteous, or at least, not actively sinning men, may be hampered, worried, embittered, or even broken by the villainy of their fellow-men; but, except in some visionary monk, life can never be poisoned by the mere knowledge of evil. Their town maybe betrayed to the enemy, their daughters may be dishonoured or poisoned, their sons massacred; they may, in their old age, be cast starving on the world, or imprisoned or broken by torture; and they will complain and be fierce in diatribe: the fiercest diatribe written against any Pope of the Renaissance being, perhaps, that of Platina against Paul II., who was a saint compared with his successors Sixtus and Alexander, because the writer of the diatribe and his friends were maltreated by this pope. When personally touched, the Italians of the Renaissance will brook no villainy--the poniard quickly despatches sovereigns like Galeazzo Maria Sforza; but when the villainy remains abstract, injures neither themselves nor their immediate surroundings, it awakens no horror, and the man who commits it is by no means regarded as a fiend. The great criminals of the Renaissance--traitors and murderers like Lodovico Sforza, incestuous parricides like Gianpaolo Baglioni, committers of every iniquity under heaven like Cæsar Borgia--move through the scene of Renaissance history, as shown by its writers great and small, quietly, serenely, triumphantly; with gracious and magnanimous bearing; applauded, admired, or at least endured. On their passage no man, historian or chronicler, unless the agent of a hostile political faction, rises up, confronts them and says, "This man is a devil." And devils these men were not: the judgment of their contemporaries, morally completely perverted, was probably psychologically correct; they misjudged the deeds, but rarely, perhaps, misjudged the man. To us moderns, as to our English ancestors of the sixteenth century, this is scarcely conceivable. A man who does devilish deeds is necessarily a devil; and the evil Italian princes of the Renaissance, the Borgias, Sforzas, Baglionis, Malatestas, and Riarios appear, through the mist of horrified imagination, so many uncouth and gigantic monsters, nightmare shapes, less like human beings than like the grand and frightful angels of evil who gather round Milton's Satan in the infernal council. Such they appear to us. But if we once succeed in calmly looking at them, seeing them not in the lurid lights and shadows of our fancy, but in the daylight of contemporary reality, we shall little by little be forced to confess (and the confession is horrible) that most of these men are neither abnormal nor gigantic. Their times were monstrous, not they. They were not, that is clear, at variance with the moral atmosphere which surrounded them; and they were the direct result of the social and political condition. This may seem no answer; for although we know the causes of monster births, they are monstrous none the less. What we mean is not that the existence of men capable of committing such actions was normal; we mean that the men who committed them, the conditions being what they were, were not necessarily men of exceptional character. The level of immorality was so high that a man need be no giant to reach up into the very seventh heaven of iniquity. When to massacre at a banquet a number of enemies enticed by overtures of peace was considered in Cæsar Borgia merely a rather audacious and not very holy action, indicative of very brilliant powers of diplomacy, then Cæsar Borgia required, to commit such an action, little more than a brilliant diplomatic endowment, unhampered by scruples and timidity; when a brave, and gracious prince like Gianpaolo Baglioni could murder his kinsmen and commit incest with his sister without being considered less gracious and magnanimous, then Gianpaolo Baglioni might indeed be but an indifferent villain; when treachery, lust, and bloodshed, although objected to in theory, were condoned In practice, and were regarded as venial sins, those who indulged in them might be in fact scarcely more than venial sinners. In short, where a fiendish action might be committed without the perpetrator being considered a fiend, there was no need of his being one. And, indeed, the great villains of the Renaissance never take up the attitude of fiends; one or two, like certain Visconti or Aragonese, were madmen, but the others were more or less normal human beings. There was no barrier between them and evil; they slipped into it, remained in it, became accustomed to it; but a vicious determination to be wicked, a feeling of the fiend within one, like that of Shakespeare's Richard, or a gradual, conscious irresistible absorption into recognized iniquity like Macbeth's, there was not. The mere sense of absolute power and impunity, together with the complete silence of the conscience of the public at large, can make a man do strange things. If Cæsar Borgia be free to practise his archery upon hares and deer, why should he not practise it upon these prisoners? Who will blame him? Who can prevent him? If he had for his mistress every woman he might single out from among his captives, why not his sister? If he have the force to carry out a plan, why should a man stand in his way? The complete facility in the commission of all actions quickly brings such a man to the limits of the legitimate: there is no universal cry to tell him where those limits are, no universal arm to pull him back. He pooh-poohs, pushes them a little further, and does the iniquity. Nothing prevents his gratifying his ambition, his avarice, and his lust, so he gratifies them. Soon, seeking for further gratification, he has to cut new paths in villainy: he has not been restrained by man, who is silent; he is soon restrained no longer by nature, whose only voice is in man's conscience. Pleasure in wanton cruelty takes the same course: he prefers to throw javelins at men and women to throwing javelins at bulls or bears, even as he prefers throwing javelins at bulls or bears rather than at targets; the excitement is greater; the instinct is that of the soldiers of Spain and of France, who invariably preferred shooting at a valuable fresco like Sodoma's Christ, at Siena, or Lo Spagna's Madonna, at Spoleto, to practising against a mere worthless piece of wood. Such a man as Cæsar Borgia is the _nec plus ultra_ of a Renaissance villain; he takes, as all do not, absolute pleasure in evil as such. Yet Cæsar Borgia is not a fiend nor a maniac. He can restrain himself whenever circumstances or policy require it; he can be a wise administrator, a just judge. His portraits show no degraded criminal; he is, indeed, a criminal in action, but not necessarily a criminal in constitution, this fiendish man who did not seem a fiend to Machiavel. We are astonished at the strange anomaly in the tastes and deeds of these Renaissance villains; we are amazed before their portraits. These men, who, in the frightful light of their own misdeeds, appear to us as complete demons or complete madmen, have yet much that is amiable and much that is sane; they stickle at no abominable lust, yet they are no bestial sybarites; they are brave, sober, frugal, enduring like any puritan; they are treacherous, rapacious, cruel, utterly indifferent to the sufferings of their enemies, yet they are gentle in manner, passionately fond of letters and art, superb in their works of public utility, and not incapable of genuinely admiring men of pure life like Bernardino or Savonarola: they are often, strange to say, like the frightful Baglionis of Perugia, passionately admired and loved by their countrymen. The bodily portraits of these men, painted by the sternly realistic art of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, are even more confusing to our ideas than their moral portraits drawn by historians and chroniclers. Cæsar Borgia, with his long fine features and noble head, is a gracious and refined prince; there is, perhaps, a certain duplicity in the well-cut lips; the beard, worn full and peaked in Spanish fashion, forms a sort of mask to the lower part of the face, but what we see is noble and intellectual. Sigismondo Malatesta has on his medals a head whose scowl has afforded opportunity for various fine descriptions of a blood maniac; but the head, thus found so expressive, of this monster, is infinitely more human than the head on the medals of Lionello d'Este, one of the most mild and cultivated of the decently behaved Ferrarese princes. The very flower of precocious iniquity, the young Baglionis, Vitellis, and Orsinis, grouped round Signorelli's preaching Antichrist at Orvieto, are, in their gallantly trimmed jerkins and jewelled caps, the veriest assemblage of harmless young dandies, pretty and insipid; we can scarcely believe that these mild beardless striplings, tight-waisted and well-curled like girls of sixteen, are the terrible Umbrian brigand condottieri--Gianpaolos, Simonettos, Vitellozzos, and Astorres--whose abominable deeds fill the pages of the chronicles of Matarazzo, of Frolliere, of Monaldeschi. Nowhere among the portraits of Renaissance monsters do we meet with anything like those Roman emperors, whose frightful effigies, tumid, toad-like Vitelliuses or rage-convulsed Caracallas, fill all our museums in marble or bronze or loathsome purple porphyry; such types as these are as foreign to the reality of the Italian Renaissance as are the Brachianos and Lussuriosos, the Pieros and Corombonas, to the Italian fiction of the sixteenth century. Nor must such anomalies between the type of the men and their deeds, between their abominable crimes and their high qualities, be merely made a subject for grandiloquent disquisition. The man of the Renaissance, as we have said, had no need to be a monster to do monstrous things; a crime did not necessitate such a moral rebellion as requires complete unity of nature, unmixed wickedness; it did not precipitate a man for ever into a moral abyss where no good could ever enter. Seeing no barrier between the legitimate and the illegitimate, he could alternate almost unconsciously between them. He was never shut out from evil, and never shut out from good; the judgment of men did not dress him in a convict's jacket which made evil his only companion; it did not lock him up in a moral dungeon where no ray of righteousness could enter; he was not condemned, like the branded harlot, to hopeless infamy. He need be bad only as much and as long as he chose. Hence, on the part of the evil-doer of the Renaissance, no necessity either for violent rebellion or for sincere repentance; hence the absence of all characters such as the tragic writer seeks, developed by moral struggle, warped by the triumph of vice, or consciously soiled in virtue. What a "Revenger's Tragedy" might not Cyril Tourneur have made, had he known all the details, of the story of Alessandro de' Medici's death! What a Vindici he would have made of the murderer Lorenzino; with what a strange lurid grandeur he would have surrounded the plottings of the pander Brutus. But Lorenzino de' Medici had none of the feeling of Tourneur's Vindici; there was in him none of the ghastly spirit of self-immolation of the hero of Tourneur in his attendance upon the foul creature whom he leads to his death. Lorenzino had the usual Brutus mania of his day, but unmixed with horror. To be the pander and jester of the Duke was no pain to his nature; there was probably no sense of debasement in the knowledge either of his employer or of his employment. To fasten on Alexander, to pretend to be his devoted slave and server of his lust, this piece of loathsome acting, merely enhanced, by the ingenuity it required, the attraction of what to Lorenzino was an act of heroism. His ambition was to be a Brutus; that he had bespattered the part probably never occurred to him. The indifference to good and evil permitted the men of the Renaissance to mix the two without any moral sickness, as it permitted them to alternate them without a moral struggle. Such is the wickedness of the Renaissance: not a superhuman fury of lust and cruelty, like Victor Hugo's Lucrezia Borgia; but an indifferent, a characterless creature like the Lucrezia Borgia of history: passive to surrounding influences, blind to good and evil, infamous in the infamous Rome, among her father and brother's courtesans and cut-throats; grave and gracious! in the grave and gracious Ferrara, among the Platonic poets and pacific courtiers of the court of the Estensi. Thus, in the complete prose and colourlessness of reality, has the evil of the Renaissance been understood and represented only by one man, and transmitted to us in one pale and delicate psychological masterpiece far more loathsome than any elaborately hideous monster painting by Marston or Tourneur. The man who thus conceived the horrors of the Italian Renaissance in the spirit in which they were committed is Ford. In his great play he has caught the very tone of the Italian Renaissance: the abominableness of the play consisting not in the coarse slaughter scenes added merely to please the cockpit of an English theatre, but in the superficial innocence of tone; in its making evil lose its appearance of evil, even as it did to the men of the Renaissance. Giovanni and Annabella make love as if they were Romeo and Juliet: there is scarcely any struggle, and no remorse; they weep and pay compliments and sigh and melt in true Aminta style. There is in the love of the brother and sister neither the ferocious heat of tragic lust, nor the awful shudder of unnatural evil; they are lukewarm, neither good nor bad. Their abominable love is in their own eyes a mere weakness of the flesh; there is no sense of revolt against man and nature and God; they are neither dragged on by irresistible demoniac force nor held back by the grip of conscience; they slip and slide, even like Francesca and Paolo. They pay each other sweet and mawkish compliments. The ferocious lust of Francesco Cenci is moral compared with the way in which the "trim youth" Giovanni praises Annabella's beauty; the blushing, bride-like way in which Annabella, "white in her soul," acknowledges her long love. The atrociousness of all this is, that if you strike out a word or two the scene may be read with perfect moral satisfaction, with the impression that this is really "sacred love." For in these scenes Ford wrote with a sweetness and innocence truly diabolical, not a shiver of horror passing through him--serene, unconscious; handling the filthy without sense of its being unclean, to the extent, the incredible extent, of making Giovanni and Annabella swear on their mother's ashes eternal fidelity in incest: horror of horrors, to which no Walpurgis Night abomination could ever approach, this taking as witness of the unutterable, not an obscene Beelzebub with abominable words and rites, but the very holiest of holies. If ever Englishman approached the temper of the Italian Renaissance, it was not Tourneur, nor Shelley with his cleansing hell fires of tragic horror, but this sweet and gentle Ford. If ever an artistic picture approached the reality of such a man as Gianpaolo Baglioni, the incestuous murderer whom the Frolliere chronicler, enthusiastic like Matarazzo, admires, for "his most beautiful person, his benign and amiable manner and lordly bearing," it is certainly not the elaborately villainous Francesco Cenci of Shelley, boasting like another Satan of his enormous wickedness, exhausting in his picture of himself the rhetoric of horror, committing his final enormity merely to complete the crown of atrocities in which he glories; it is no such tragic impossibility of moral hideousness as this; it is the Giovanni of Ford, the pearl of virtuous and studious youths, the spotless, the brave, who, after a moment's reasoning, tramples on a vulgar prejudice--"Shall a peevish sound, a customary form from man to man, of brother and of sister, be a bar 'twixt my eternal happiness and me?" who sins with a clear conscience, defies the world, and dies, bravely, proudly, the "sacred name" of Annabella on his lips, like a chivalrous hero. The pious, pure Germany of Luther will give the world the tragic type of the science-damned Faustus; the devout and savage Spain of Cervantes will give the tragic type of Don Juan, damned for mockery of man and of death and of heaven; the Puritan England of Milton will give the most sublimely tragic type of all, the awful figure of him who says, "Evil, be thou my good." What tragic type can this evil Italy of Renaissance give to the world? None: or at most this miserable, morbid, compassionated Giovanni: whom Ford would have us admire, and whom we can only despise. The blindness to evil which constitutes the criminality of the Renaissance is so great as to give a certain air of innocence. For the men of that time were wicked solely from a complete sophistication of ideas, a complete melting away (owing to slowly operating political and intellectual tendencies) of all moral barriers. They walked through the paths of wickedness with the serenity with which they would have trod the ways of righteousness; seeing no boundary, exercising their psychic limbs equally in the open and permitted spaces and in the forbidden. They plucked the fruit of evil without a glance behind them, without a desperate setting of their teeth; plucked it openly, calmly, as they would have plucked the blackberries in the hedge; bit into it, ate it, with perfect ease and serenity, saying their prayers before and after, as if it were their natural daily bread mentioned in the Lord's Prayer; no grimace or unseemly leer the while; no moral indigestion or nightmare (except very rarely) in consequence. Hence the serenity of their literature and art. These men and women of the Italian Renaissance have, in their portraits, a very pleasing nobility of aspect: serene, thoughtful, healthy, benign. Titian's courtesans are our archetypes of dignified womanhood; we might fancy Portia or Isabella with such calm, florid beauty, so wholly unmeretricious and uncankered. The humanists and priests who lie outstretched on the acanthus-leaved and flower-garlanded sarcophagi by Desiderio and Rossellino are the very flowers of refined and gentle men of study; the youths in Botticelli's "Adoration of The Magi," for instance, are the ideal of Boiardo's chivalry, Rinaldos and Orlandos every one; the corseleted generals of the Renaissance, so calm and stern and frank, the Bartolomeo Colleoni of Verrocchio, the Gattamelata by Giorgione (or Giorgione's pupil), look fit to take up the banner of the crusade: that Gattamelata in the Uffizi gallery especially looks like a sort of military Milton: give him a pair of wings and he becomes at once Signorelli's archangel, clothed in heavenly steel and unsheathing the flaming sword of God. Compare with these types Holbein's courtiers of Henry VIII.; what scrofulous hogs! Compare Sanchez Coello's Philip II. and Don Carlos; what monomaniacs. Compare even Dürer's magnificent head of Willibald Pirkheimer: how the swine nature is blended with the thinker. And the swine will be subdued, the thinker will triumph. Why? Just because there is a contest--because the thinker-Willibald is conscious of the swine-Willibald. In this coarse, brutal, deeply stained Germany of the time of Luther, affording Dürer and Holbein, alas! how many besotten and bestial types, there will arise a great conflict: the obscene leering Death--Death-in-Life as he really is--will skulk everywhere, even as in the prints of the day, hideous and powerful, trying, with hog's snout, to drive Christ Himself out of limbo; but he is known, seen, dreaded. The armed knight of Dürer turns away from his grimacings, and urges on his steel-covered horse. He visits even the best, even Luther in the Wartburg; but the good men open their Bibles, cry "Vade retro!" and throw their inkstands at him, showing themselves terrified and ruffled after the combat. And these Germans of Luther's are disgustingly fond of blood and horrors: they like to see the blood spirt from the decapitated trunk, to watch its last contortions; they hammer with a will (in Dürer's "Passion") the nails of the cross, they peel off strips of skin in the flagellation. But then they can master all that; they can be pure, charitable; they have gentleness for the hare and the rabbit, like Luther; they kneel piously before the cross-bearing stag, like Saint Hubert. Not so the Italians. They rarely or never paint horrors, or death, or abominations. Their flagellated Christ, their arrow-riddled Sebastian, never writhe or howl with pain; indeed, they suffer none. Judith, in Mantegna's print, puts the head of Holophernes into her bag with the serenity of a muse; and the head is quite clean, without loathsome drippings or torn depending strings of muscle; unconvulsed, a sort of plaster cast. The tragedy of Christ, the tragedy of Judith; the physical agency shadowing the moral agony; the awfulness of victim and criminal--the whole tragic meaning was unknown to the light and cheerful contemporaries of Ariosto, the cold and cynical contemporaries of Machiavelli. The tragic passion and imagination which, in the noble and grotesque immaturity of the Middle Ages, had murmured confusedly in the popular legends which gave to Ezzelin the Fiend as a father, and Death and Sin as adversaries at dice; which had stammered awkwardly but grandly in the school Latin of Mussato's tragedy of "Eccerinis;" which had wept and stormed and imprecated and laughed for horror in the infinite tragedy--pathetic, grand, and grotesque, like all great tragedy--of Dante; this tragic passion and imagination, this sense of the horrible and the terrible, had been forfeited by the Italy of the Renaissance, lost with its sense of right and wrong. The Italian Renaissance, supreme in the arts which require a subtle and strong perception of the excellence of mere lines and colours and lights and shadows, which demand unflinching judgment of material qualities; was condemned to inferiority in the art which requires subtle and strong perception of the excellence of human emotion and action; in the art which demands unflinching judgment of moral motives. The tragic spirit is the offspring of the conscience of a people. The sense of the imaginative grandeur of evil may perhaps be a forerunner of demoralization; but such a sense of wonder and awe, such an imaginative fascination of the grandly, superhumanly wicked such a necessity to magnify a villain into a demon with archangelic splendour of power of evil, can exist only in minds pure and strong, braced up to virtue, virgin of evil, with a certain childlike power of wonder; minds to whom it appears that to be wicked requires a powerful rebellion; minds accustomed to nature and nature's plainness, to whom the unnatural can be no subject of sophistication and cynicism, but only of wonder. While, in Italy, Giraldi Cinthio prattles off to a gay party of ladies and gentlemen stories of murder and lust as frightful as those of "Titus' Andronicus," of "Giovanni and Annabella," and of the "Revenger's Tragedy," in the intelligent, bantering tone in which he tells his Decameronian tales; in England, Marston, in his superb prologue to the second part of "Antonio and Mellida," doubts whether all his audience can rise to the conception of the terrible passions he wishes to display: If any spirit breathes within this round Uncapable of weighty passion, Who winks and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were and are, Who would not know what men must be: let such Hurry amain from our black visaged shows; We shall affright their eyes. The great criminals of Italy were unconscious of being criminals; the nation was unconscious of being sinful. Bembo's sonnets were the fit reading for Lucrezia Borgia; pastorals by Guarini the dramatic amusements of Rannuccio Farnesi; if Vittoria Accoramboni and Francesco Cenci read anything besides their prayerbook or ribald novels, it was some sugary "Aminta" or "Pastor Fido:" their own tragedies by Webster and Shelley they could never have understood. And thus the Italians of the Renaissance walked placidly through the evil which surrounded them; for them, artists and poets, the sky was always blue and the sun always bright, and their art and their poetry were serene. But the Englishmen of the sixteenth century were astonished and fascinated by the evil of Italy: the dark pools of horror, the dabs of infamy which had met them ever and anon in the brilliant southern cities, haunted them like nightmare, bespattered for them the clear blue sky, and danced, black and horrible spots, before the face of the sun. The remembrance of Italian wickedness weighed on them like an incubus, clung to them with a frightful fascination. While the foulest criminals of Italy discussed the platonic vapidnesses of Bembo's sonnets, and wept at the sweet and languid lamentations of Guarini's shepherds and nymphs; the strong Englishmen of the time of Shakespeare, the men whose children were to unsheathe under Cromwell the sword of righteousness, listened awe-stricken and fascinated with horror to the gloomy and convulsed, the grand and frightful plays of Webster and of Tourneur. And the sin of the Renaissance, which the art of Italy could neither pourtray nor perceive; appeared on the stage decked in superb and awful garb by the tragic imagination of Elizabethan England. THE OUTDOOR POETRY. The thought of winter is bleak and barren to our mind; the late year is chary of æsthetic as of all other food. In the country it does not bring ugliness; but it terribly reduces and simplifies things, depriving them of two-thirds of their beauty. In sweeping away the last yellow leaves, the last crimson clouds, and in bleaching the last green grass, it effaces a whole wealth of colour. It deprives us still more by actually diminishing the number of forms: for what summer had left rich, various, complex, winter reduces to blank uniformity. There is a whole world of lovely things, shapes and tints, effects of light, colour, and perspective in a wood, as long as it is capriciously divided into a thousand nooks and crannies by projecting boughs, bushes, hedges, and hanging leaves; and this winter clears away and reduces to a Haussmanized simplicity of plan. There is a smaller world, yet one quite big enough for a summer's day, in any hay field, among the barren oats, the moon-daisies, the seeded grasses, the sorrel, the buttercups, all making at a distance a wonderful blent effect of luminous brown and lilac and russet foamed with white; and forming, when you look close into it, an unlimited forest of delicately separate stems and bloom and seed; every plant detaching itself daintily from an undefinable background of things like itself. This winter turns into a rusty brown and green expanse, or into a bog, or a field of frozen upturned clods. The very trees, stripped of their leaves, look as if prepared for diagrams of the abstraction tree. Everything, in short, is reduced most philosophically to its absolutely ultimate elements; and beauty is got rid of almost as completely as by a metaphysical definition. This æsthetic barrenness of winter is most of all felt in southern climates, to which it brings none of the harsh glitter and glamour of snow and ice; but leaves the frozen earth and leafless trees merely bare, without the crisp sheen of snow, the glint and glimmer of frost and icicles, forming for the denuded rigging of branches a fantastic system of ropes and folded sails. In the South, therefore, unless you go where winter never comes, and autumn merely merges into a lengthened spring, winter is more than ever negative, dreary, barren to our fancy. Yet even this southern winter gives one things, very lovely things: things which one scarcely notices perhaps, yet which would baffle the most skilled painter to imitate, the most skilled poet to describe. Thus, for instance, there is a peculiar kind of morning by no means uncommon in Tuscany in what is completely winter, not a remnant of autumn or a beginning of spring. It is cold, but windless; the sky full of sun, the earth full of mist. Sun and mist uniting into a pale luminousness in which all things lose body, become mere outline; bodiless hills taking shape where they touch the sky with their curve; clear line of irregular houses, of projecting ilex roundings and pointed cypresses marking the separation between hill and sky, the one scarcely more solid, corporeal than the other; the hill almost as blue as the sky, the sky almost as vaporous as the hill; the tangible often more ghostlike than the intangible. But the sun has smitten the higher hills, and the vapours have partially rolled down, in a scarcely visible fold, to their feet; and the high hill, not yet rock or earth, swells up into the sky as something real, but fluid and of infinite elasticity. All in front the plain is white with mist; or pinkish grey with the unseen agglomeration of bare tree boughs and trunks, of sere field; till, nearer us, the trees become more visible, the short vinebearing elms in the fields, interlacing their branches compressed by distance, the clumps of poplars, so scant and far between from nearly, so serried and compact from afar; and between them an occasional flush, a tawny vapour of the orange twigged osiers; and then, still nearer, the expanse of sere field, of mottled, crushed-together, yellowed grass and grey brown leaves; things of the summer which winter is burying to make room for spring. Along the reaches of the river the clumps of leafless poplars are grey against the pale, palest blue sky; grey but with a warmth of delicate brown, almost of rosiness. Grey also the shingle in the river bed; the river itself either (if after rain) pale brown, streaked with pale blue sky reflections; or (after a drought), low, grey, luminous throughout its surface, you might think, were it not that the metallic sheen, the vacillating sparkles of where the sun, smiting down, frets it into a shifting mass of scintillating facets, gives you the impression that this other luminousness of silvery water must be dull and dead. And, looking up the river, it gradually disappears, its place marked only, against the all-pervading pale blue haze, by the brownish grey spectre of the furthest poplar clumps. This, I have said, is an effect which winter produces, nay, even a southern winter, with those comparatively few and slight elements at its disposal. We see it, notice it, and enjoy its delicate loveliness; but while so doing we do not think, or we forget, that the habit of noticing, nay, the power of perceiving such effects as this, is one of those habits and powers which we possess, so to speak, only since yesterday. The possibility of reproducing in painting effects like this one; or, more truthfully, the wish to reproduce them, is scarcely as old as our own century; it is, perhaps, the latest born of all our artistic wishes and possibilities. But the possibility of any visible effect being perceived and reproduced by the painter, usually precedes--at least where any kind of pictorial art already exists--the perception of such effects by those who are not painters, and the attempt to reproduce them by means of words. We do not care to admit that our grandfathers were too unlike ourselves, lest ourselves should be found too unlike our grandchildren. We hold to the metaphysic fiction of man having always been the same, and only his circumstances having changed; not admitting that the very change of circumstances implies something new in the man who altered them; and similarly we shrink from the thought of the many things which we used never to notice, and which it has required a class of men endowed with special powers of vision to find out, copy, and teach us to see and appreciate. Yet there is scarcely one of us who has not a debt towards some painter or writer for first directing his attention to objects or effects which may have abounded around him, but unnoticed or confused with others. The painters, as I have said, the men who see more keenly and who study what they have seen, naturally come first; nor does the poet usually describe what his contemporary painter attempts not to paint. An exception might, perhaps, require to be made for Dante, who would seem to have seen and described many things left quite untouched by Giotto, and even by Raphael; but in estimating Dante we must be careful to distinguish the few touches which really belong to him, from the great mass of colour and detail which we have unconsciously added thereto, borrowing from our own experience and from innumerable pictures and poems which, at the moment, we may not in the least remember; and having done so, we shall be led to believe that those words which suggest to us so clear and coloured a vision of scenes often complex and uncommon, presented to his own mind only a comparatively simple and incomplete idea: the atmospheric effects, requiring a more modern painter than Turner, which we read between the lines of the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio," most probably existed as little for Dante as they did for Giotto; the poet seeing and describing in reality only salient forms of earth and rock, monotonous in tint and deficient in air, like those in the backgrounds of mediæval Tuscan frescoes and panels. Be this as it may, the fact grows daily on me that men have not at all times seen in the same degree the nature which has always equally surrounded them; and that during some periods they have, for explicable reasons, seen less not only than their successors, but also than their predecessors; and seen that little in a manner conventional in proportion to its monotony. There are things about which certain historic epochs are strangely silent; so much so, indeed, that the breaking of the silence impresses us almost as the more than human breaking of a spell; and that silence Is the result of a grievous wrong, of a moral disease which half closes the eyes of the fancy, or of a moral poison which presents to those sorely aching eyes only a glimmer amid darkness. And it is as the most singular instance of such conditions that I should wish to study, in themselves, their causes and effects, the great differences existing between the ancients and ourselves on the one hand, and the men of the genuine Middle Ages on the other, in the degree of interest taken respectively by each in external nature, the seasons and that rural life which seems to bring us into closest contact with them both. There is, of course, a considerable difference between the manner in which the country, its aspects and occupations, are treated by the poets of Antiquity and by those of our own day; in the mode of enjoying them of an ancient who had read Theocritus and Virgil and Tibullus, and a modern whose mind is unconsciously full of the influence of Wordsworth or Shelley or Ruskin. But it is a mere difference of mode; and is not greater, I think, than the difference between the descriptions in the "Allegro," and the descriptions in "Men and Women;" than the difference between the love of our Elizabethans for the minuter details of the country, the flowers by the stream, the birds in the bushes, the ferrets, frogs, lizards, and similar small creatures; and the pleasure of our own contemporaries in the larger, more shifting, and perplexing forms and colours of cloud, sunlight, earth, and rock. The description of effects such as these latter ones, nay, the attention and appreciation given to them, are things of our own century, even as is the power and desire of painting them. Landscape, in the sense of our artists of to-day, is a very recent thing; so recent that even in the works of Turner, who was perhaps the earliest landscape painter in the modern sense, we are forced to separate from the real rendering of real effects, a great deal in which the tints of sky and sea are arranged and distributed as a mere vast conventional piece of decoration. Nor could it be otherwise. For, in poetry as in painting, landscape could become a separate and substantive art only when the interest in the mere ins and outs of human adventure, in the mere structure and movement of human limbs, had considerably diminished. There is room, in epic or drama, only for such little scraps of description as will make clearer, without checking, the human action; as there is place, in a fresco of a miracle, or a little picture of carousing and singing bacchantes and Venetian dandies, only for such little bits of laurel grove, or dim plain, or blue alpine crags, as can be introduced in the gaps between head and head, or figure and figure. Thus, therefore, a great difference must exist between what would be felt and written about the country and the seasons by an ancient, by a man of the sixteenth century, or by a contemporary of our own: a difference, however, solely of mode; for we feel sure that of the three men each would find something to delight himself and wherewith to delight others among the elm-bounded English meadows, the fiat cornfields of central France, the vine and olive yards of Italy-- wherever, in short, he might find himself face to face and, so to speak, hand in hand with Nature. But about the man of the Middle Ages (unless, perhaps, in Italy, where the whole Middle Ages were merely an earlier Renaissance) we could have no such assurance; nay, we might be persuaded that, however great his genius, be he even a Gottfried von Strassburg, or a Walther von der Vogelweide, or the unknown Frenchman who has left us "Aucassin et Nicolette," he would bring back impressions only of two things, authorized and consecrated by the poetic routine of his contemporaries--of spring and of the woods. There is nothing more characteristic of mediæval poetry than this limitation. Of autumn, of winter; of the standing corn, the ripening fruit of summer; of all these things so dear to the ancients and to all men of modern times, the Middle Ages seem to know nothing. The autumn harvests, the mists and wondrous autumnal transfiguration of the humblest tree, or bracken, or bush; the white and glittering splendour of winter, and its cosy life by hearth or stove; the drowsiness of summer, its suddenly inspired wish for shade and dew and water, all this left them stolid. To move them was required the feeling of spring, the strongest, most complete and stirring impression which, in our temperate climates, can be given by Nature. The whole pleasurableness of warm air, clear moist sky, the surprise of the shimmer of pale green, of the yellowing blossom on tree tops, the first flicker of faint shadow where all has been uniform, colourless, shadeless; the replacing of the long silence by the endless twitter and trill of birds, endless in its way as is the sea, twitter and trill on every side, depths and depths of it, of every degree of distance and faintness, a sea of bird song; and along with this the sense of infinite renovation to all the earth and to man's own heart. Of all Nature's effects this one alone goes sparkling to the head; and it alone finds a response in mediæval poetry. Spring, spring, endless spring--for three long centuries throughout the world a dreary green monotony of spring all over France, Provence, Italy, Spain, Germany, England; spring, spring, nothing but spring even in the mysterious countries governed by the Grail King, by the Fairy Morgana, by Queen Proserpine, by Prester John; nay, in the new Jerusalem, in the kingdom of Heaven itself, nothing but spring; till one longs for a bare twig, for a yellow leaf, for a frozen gutter, as for a draught of water in the desert. The green fields and meadows enamelled with painted flowers, how one detests them! how one would rejoice to see them well sprinkled with frost or burnt up to brown in the dry days! the birds, the birds which warble through every sonnet, canzone, sirventes, glosa, dance lay, roundelay, virelay, rondel, ballade, and whatsoever else it may be called,--how one wishes them silent for ever, or their twitter, the tarantarantandei of the eternal German nightingale especially, drowned by a good howling wind J After any persistent study of mediæval poetry, one's feeling towards spring is just similar to that of the morbid creature in Schubert's "Müllerin," who would not stir from home for the dreadful, dreadful greenness, which he would fain bleach with tears, all around: Ich möchte ziehn in die Welt hinaus, hinaus in die weite Welt, Wenn's nur so grün, so grün nicht war da draussen in Wald und Feld. Moreover this mediæval spring is the spring neither of the shepherd, nor of the farmer, nor of any man to whom spring brings work and anxiety and hope of gain; it is a mere vague spring of gentle-folk, or at all events of well-to-do burgesses, taking their pleasure on the lawns of castle parks, or the green holiday places close to the city, much as we see them in the first part of "Faust;" a sweet but monotonous charm of grass, beneath green lime tree, or in the South the elm or plane; under which are seated the poet and the fiddler, playing and singing for the young women, their hair woven with chaplets of fresh flowers, dancing upon the sward. And poet after poet, Provençal, Italian, and German, Nithart and Ulrich, and even the austere singer of the Holy Grail, Wolfram, pouring out verse after verse of the songs in praise of spring, which they make even as girls wind their garlands: songs of quaint and graceful ever-changing rythm, now slowly circling, now bounding along, now stamping out the measure like the feet of the dancers, now winding and turning as wind and twine their arms in the long-linked mazes; while the few and ever-repeated ideas, the old, stale platitudes of praise of woman, love pains, joys of dancing, pleasure of spring (spring, always spring, eternal, everlasting spring) seem languidly to follow the life and movement of the mere metre. Poets, these German, Provençal, French, and early Italian lyrists, essentially (if we venture to speak heresy) not of ideas or emotions, but of metre, of rythm and rhyme; with just the minimum of necessary thought, perpetually presented afresh just as the words, often and often repeated and broken up and new combined, of a piece of music--poetry which is in truth a sort of music, dance or dirge or hymn music as the case may be, more than anything else. As it is in mediæval poetry with the seasons, so it is likewise with the country and its occupations: as there is only spring, so there is only the forest. Of the forest, mediæval poetry has indeed much to say; more perhaps, and more familiar with its pleasures, than Antiquity. There is the memorable forest where the heroes of the Nibelungen go to hunt, followed by their waggons of provisions and wine; where Siegfried overpowers the bear, and returns to his laughing comrades with the huge thing chained to his saddle; where, in that clear space which we see so distinctly, a lawn on to which the blue black firs are encroaching, Siegfried stoops to drink of the spring beneath the lime tree, and Hagen drives his boarspear straight through the Nibelung's back. There is the thick wood, all a golden haze through the young green, and with an atmosphere of birds' song, where King Mark discovers Tristram and Iseult in the cave, the deceitful sword between them, as Gottfried von Strassburg relates with wonderful luscious charm. The forest, also, more bleak and austere, where the four outlawed sons of Aymon live upon roots and wild animals, where they build their castle by the Meuse. Further, and most lovely of all, the forest in which Nicolette makes herself a hut of branches, bracken, and flowers, through which the stars peep down on her whiteness as she dreams of her Lord Aucassin. The forest where Huon meets Oberon; and Guy de Lusignan, the good snake-lady; and Parzival finds on the snow the feathers and the drops of blood which throw him into his long day-dream; and Owen discovers the tomb of Merlin; the forest, in short, which extends its interminable glades and serried masses of trunks and arches of green from one end to the other of mediæval poetry. It is very beautiful, this forest of the Middle Ages; but it is monotonous, melancholy; and has a terrible eeriness in its endlessness. For there is nothing else. There are no meadows where the cows lie lazily, no fields where the red and purple kerchiefs of the reapers overtop the high corn; no orchards, no hayfields; nothing like those hill slopes where the wild herbs encroach upon the vines, and the goats of Corydon and Damoetas require to be kept from mischief; where, a little lower down, the Athenian shopkeeper of Aristophanes goes daily to look whether yesterday's hard figs may not have ripened, or the vine wreaths pruned last week grown too lushly. Nor anything of the sort of those Umbrian meadows, where Virgil himself will stop and watch the white bullocks splashing slowly into the shallow, sedgy Clitumnus; still less like those hamlets in the cornfields through which Propertius would stroll, following the jolting osier waggon, or the procession with garlands and lights to Pales or to the ochre-stained garden god. Nothing of all this: there are no cultivated spots in mediæval poetry; the city only, and the castle, and the endless, all-encompassing forest. And to this narrowness of mediæval notions of outdoor life, inherited together with mediæval subjects by the poets even of the sixteenth century, must be referred the curious difference existing between the romance poets of antiquity, like Homer in the Odyssey, and the romance poets--Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens--of modern times, in the matter of--how shall I express it?--the ideal life, the fortunate realms, the "Kennaqwhere." In Homer, in all the ancients, the ideal country is merely a more delightful reality; and its inhabitants happier everyday men and women; in the poetry sprung from the Middle Ages it is always a fairy-land constructed by mechanicians and architects. For, as we have seen, the Middle Ages could bequeath to the sixteenth century no ideal of peaceful outdoor enjoyment. Hence, in the poetry of the sixteenth century, still permeated by mediæval traditions, an appalling artificiality of delightfulness. Fallerina, Alcina, Armida, Acrasia, all imitated from the original Calypso, are not strong and splendid god-women, living among the fields and orchards, but dainty ladies hidden in elaborate gardens, all bedizened with fashionable architecture: regular palaces, pleasaunces, with uncomfortable edifices, artificial waterfalls, labyrinths, rare and monstrous plants, parrots, apes, giraffes; childish splendours of gardening and engineering and menageries, which we meet already in "Ogier the Dane" and "Huon of Bordeaux," and which later poets epitomized out of the endless descriptions of Colonna's "Hypnerotomachia Poliphili," the still more frightful inventories of the Amadis romances. They are, each of them, a kind of anticipated Marly, Versailles, Prince Elector's Friedrichsruhe or Nymphenburg, with clipped cypresses and yews, doubtless, and (O Pales and Pan!) flower-beds filled with coloured plaster and spas, and cascades spirting out (thanks to fifty invisible pumps) under your feet and over your head. All the vineyards and cornfields have been swept away to make these solemn terraces and water-works; all the cottages which, with their little wooden shrine, their humble enclosure of sunflowers and rosemary and fruit trees, their buzzing hives and barking dogs, were loved and sung even by town rakes like Catullus and smart coffeehouse wits like Horace; all these have been swept away to be replaced by the carefully constructed (? wire) bowers, the aviaries, the porticoes, the frightful circular edifice (_tondo è il ricco edificio_), a masterpiece of Palladian stucco work, in which Armida and Rinaldo, Acrasia and her Knight, drearily disport themselves. What has become of Calypso's island? of the orchards of Alcinous? What would the noble knights and ladies of Ariosto and Spenser think of them? What would they say, these romantic, dainty creatures, were they to meet Nausicaa with the washed linen piled on her waggon? Alas! they would take her for a laundress. For it is the terrible aristocratic idleness of the Middle Ages, their dreary delicacy, which hampers Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, even in the midst of their most unblushing plagiarisms from Antiquity: their heroes and heroines have been brought up, surrounded by equerries and duennas, elegant, useless things, or at best (the knights at least) good only for aristocratic warfare. Plough or prune! defile the knightly hands! wash or cook, ply the loom like Nausicaa, Calypso, or Penelope! The mere thought sends them very nearly into a faint. No: the ladies of mediæval romance must sit quiet, idle; at most they may sing to the lute; and if they work with their hands, it must be some dreary, strictly useless, piece of fancy work; they are hot-house plants, all these dainty folk. Had they no eyes, then, these poets of the Middle Ages, that they could see, among all the things of Nature, only those few which had been seen by their predecessors? At first one feels tempted to think so, till the recollection of many vivid touches in spring and forest descriptions persuades one that, enormous as was the sway of tradition among these men, they were not all of them, nor always, repeating mere conventional platitudes. This singular limitation in the mediæval perceptions of Nature--a limitation so important as almost to make it appear as if the Middle Ages had not perceived Nature at all--is most frequently attributed to the prevalence of asceticism, which, according to some critics, made all mediæval men into so many repetitions of Bernard of Clairvaux, of whom it is written that, being asked his opinion of Lake Leman, he answered with surprise that, during his journey from Geneva to the Rhone Valley, he had remarked no lake whatever, so absorbed had he been in spiritual meditations. But the predominance of asceticism has been grossly exaggerated. It was a state of moral tension which could not exist uninterruptedly, and could exist only in the classes for whom poetry was not written. The mischief done by asceticism was the warping of the moral nature of men, not of their æsthetic feelings; it had no influence upon the vast numbers, the men and women who relished the profane and obscene fleshliness and buffoonery of stage plays and fabliaux, and those who favoured the delicate and exquisite immoralities of Courtly poetry. Indeed, the presence of whole classes of writings, of which such things as Boccaccio's Tales, "The Wife of Bath," and Villon's "Ballades," on the one hand, and the songs of the troubadours, the poem of Gottfried, and the romance or rather novel of "Flamenca," are respectively but the most conspicuous examples, ought to prove only too clearly that the Middle Ages, for all their asceticism, were both as gross and as æsthetic in sensualism as antiquity had been before them. We must, therefore, seek elsewhere than in asceticism, necessarily limited, and excluding the poetry-reading public, for an explanation of this peculiarity of mediæval poetry. And we shall find it, I think, in that which during the Middle Ages could, because it was an all-regulating social condition, really create universal habits of thought and feeling, namely, feudalism. A moral condition like asceticism must leave unbiassed all such minds as are incapable of feeling it; but a social institution like feudalism walls in the life of every individual, and forces his intellectual movements into given paths; nor is there any escape, excepting in places where, as in Italy and in the free towns of the North, the feudal conditions are wholly or partially unknown. To feudalism, therefore, would I ascribe this, which appears at first so purely æsthetic, as opposed to social, a characteristic of the Middle Ages. Ever since Schiller, in his "Gods of Greece," spoke for the first time of undivinized Nature (_die entgötterte Natur_), it has been the fashion among certain critics to fall foul of Christianity for having robbed the fields and woods of their gods, and reduced to mere manured clods the things which had been held sacred by antiquity. Desecrated in those long mediæval centuries Nature may truly have been, but not by the holy water of Christian priests. Desecrated because out of the fields and meadows was driven a divinity greater than Pales or Vertumnus or mighty Pan, the divinity called _Man_. For in the terrible times when civilization was at its lowest, the things of the world had been newly allotted; and by this new allotment, man--the man who thinks and loves and hopes and strives, man who fights and sings--was shut out from the fields and meadows, forbidden the labour, nay, almost the sight, of the earth; and to the tending of kine, and sowing of crops, to all those occupations which antiquity had associated with piety and righteousness, had deemed worthy of the gods themselves, was assigned, or rather condemned, a creature whom every advancing year untaught to think or love, or hope, or fight, or strive; but taught most utterly to suffer and to despair. For a man it is difficult to call him, this mediæval serf, this lump of earth detached from the field and wrought into a semblance of manhood, merely that the soil of which it is part should be delved and sown, and then manured with its carcass or its blood; nor as a man did the Middle Ages conceive it. The serf was not even allowed human progenitors: his foul breed had originated in an obscene miracle; his stupidity and ferocity were as those of the beasts; his cunning was demoniac; he was born under God's curse; no words could paint his wickedness, no persecutions could exceed his deserts; the whole world turned pale at his crime, for he it was, he and not any human creature, who had nailed Christ upon the cross. Like the hunger and sores of a fox or a wolf, his hunger and his sores are forgotten, never noticed. Were it not that legal and ecclesiastical narratives of trials (not of feudal lords for crushing and contaminating their peasants, but of peasants for spitting out and trampling on the consecrated wafer) give us a large amount of pedantically stated detail; tell us how misery begat vice, and filth and starvation united families in complicated meshes of incest, taught them depopulation as a virtue and a necessity; and how the despair of any joy in nature, of any mercy from God, hounded men and women into the unspeakable orgies, the obscene parodies, of devil worship; were it not for these horrible shreds of judicial evidence (as of tatters of clothes or blood-clotted hairs on the shoes of a murderer) we should know little or nothing of the life of the men and women who, in mediæval France and Germany, did the work which had been taught by Hesiod and Virgil. About all these tragedies the literature of the Middle Ages, ready to show us town vice and town horror, dens of prostitution and creaking, overweighted gibbets, as in Villon's poems, utters not a word. All that we can hear is the many-throated yell of mediæval poets, noble and plebeian, French, Provençal, and German, against the brutishness, the cunning, the cruelty, the hideousness, the heresy of the serf, whose name becomes synonymous with every baseness; which, in mock grammatical style, is declined into every epithet of wickedness; whose punishment is prayed for from the God whom he outrages by his very existence; a hideous clamour of indecent jibe, of brutal vituperation, of senseless accusation, of every form of words which furious hatred can assume, whose echoes reached even countries like Tuscany, where serfdom was well nigh unknown, and have reached even to us in the scraps of epigram still bandied about by the townsfolk against the peasants, nay, by the peasants against themselves.[1] A monstrous rag doll, dressed up in shreds of many-coloured villainy without a recognizable human feature, dragged in mud, pilloried with unspeakable ordure, paraded in mock triumph like a King of Fools, and burnt in the market-place like Antichrist, such is the image which mediæval poetry has left us of the creature who was once the pious rustic, the innocent god-beloved husbandman, on whose threshold justice stopped a while when she fled from the towns of Antiquity. [1] The reader may oppose to my views the existence of the--class of poems, French, Latin, and German, of which the Provençal Pastourela is the original type, and which represent the courting, by the poet, who is, of course, a knight, of a beautiful country-girl, who is shown us as feeding her sheep or spinning with her distaff. But these poems are, to the best of my knowledge, all of a single pattern, and extremely insincere and artificial in tone, that I feel inclined to class them with the pastorals--Dresden china idylls by men who had never looked a live peasant in the face--of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, --as distant descendants from the pastoral poetry of antiquity, of which the chivalric poets may have got some indirect notions as they did of the antique epics. It is moreover extremely the likely that these love poems, in which, successfully or unsuccessfully, the poet usually offers a bribe to the woman of low degree, conceal beneath the conventional pastoral trappings the intrigues of minnesingers and troubadours with women of the small artizan or village proprietor class. The real peasant woman--the female of the villain--could scarcely have been above the notice of the noblemen's servants; and, in countries where the seigneurial rights were in vigour, would scarcely have been offered presents and fine words. As regards the innumerable poems against the peasantry, I may refer the reader to an extremely curious publication of "Carmina Medii Ævi," recently made by Sig. Francesco Novati, and which contains, besides a selection of specimens, a list of references on the subject of poems "De Natura Rusticorum." One of the satirical declensions runs as follows: Singulariter. Pluraliter. Nom. Hic villanus. Nom. Hi maledicti. Gen. Huius rustici. Gen. Horum tristium. Dat. Huic tferfero (_sic_). Dat. His mendacibus. Acc. Hunc furem. Acc. Hos nequissimos. Voc. O latro. Voc. O pessimi. Abl. Ab hoc depredatore. Abl. Ab his infidelibus. The accusation of heresy and of crucifying Christ is evidently due to the devil-worship prevalent among the serfs, and is thus, alluded to in a north Italian poem, probably borrowed from the French: Christo fo da villan crucifiò, E stagom sempre in pioza, in vento, e in neve, Perchè havom fato cosi gran peccà. This feeling is exactly analogous to that existing nowadays in semi-barbarous countries against the Jews. The idle hated the industrious, and hated them all the more when their industry brought them any profit.] Yet not so; I can recall one, though only one, occasion in which mediæval literature shows us the serf. The place is surely the most unexpected, the charming thirteenth century tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette." In his beautiful essay upon that story, Mr. Pater has deliberately omitted this episode, which is indeed like a spot of blood-stained mud upon some perfect tissue of silver flowers on silver ground. It is a piece of cruellest realism, because quite quiet and unforced, in the midst of a kind of fairy-land idyl of almost childish love, the love of the beautiful son of the lord of Beaucaire for a beautiful Saracen slave girl. For, although Aucassin and Nicolette are often separated, and always disconsolate--she in her wonderfully frescoed vaulted room, he in his town prison--there is always surrounding them a sort of fairy land of trees and flowers, a constant song of birds; although they wander through the woods and tear their delicate skin, and catch their hair in brambles and briars, we have always the sense of the daisies bending beneath their tread, of the green leaves rustling aside from their heads covered with hair--"blond et menu crespelé." Their very hardships are lovely, like the hut of flowering branches and grapes, which Nicolette builds for herself, and through whose fissures the moonlight shines and the little stars twinkle: so much so, that when they weep, these two beautiful and dainty creatures, we listen as if to singing, and with no more sense of grief than at some pathetic little snatch of melody. And in the midst of this idyl of lovely things; in the midst of all these delicate patternings, whose minuteness and faint tint merge into one vague pleasurable impression; stands out, unintentionally placed there by the author, little aware of its terrible tragic realism, the episode which I am going to translate. "Thus Aucassin wandered all day through the forest, without hearing any news of his sweet love; and when he saw that dusk was spreading, he began bitterly to weep. As he was riding along an old road, where weeds and grass grew thick and high, he suddenly saw before him, in the middle of this road, a man such as I am going to describe to you. He was tall, ugly; nay, hideous quite marvellously. His face was blacker than smoked meat, and so wide, that there was a good palm's distance between his eyes; his cheeks were huge, his nostrils also, with a very big flat nose; thick lips as red as embers, and long teeth yellow and smoke colour. He wore leathern shoes and gaiters, kept up with string at the knees; on his back was a parti-coloured coat. He was leaning upon a stout bludgeon. Aucassin was startled and fearful, and said: "'Fair brother ("beau frère"--a greeting corresponding to the modern "bon homme")! God be with thee!' "'God bless you!' answered the man. "'What dost thou here?' asked Aucassin. "'What is that to you?' answered the man. "'I ask thee from no evil motive.' "'Then tell me why,' said the man, 'you yourself are weeping with such grief? Truly, were I a rich man like you, nothing in the world should make me weep.' "'And how dost thou know me?' "'I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count; and if you will tell me why you weep, I will tell you why I am here.' "'I will tell thee willingly,' answered Aucassin. 'This morning I came to hunt in the forest; I had a white leveret, the fairest in the world; I have lost him--that is why I am weeping.' "'What!' cried the man;' it is for a stinking hound that you waste the tears of your body? Woe to those who shall pity you; you, the richest man of this country. If your father wanted fifteen or twenty white leverets, he could get them. I am weeping and mourning for more serious matters.' "'And what are these?' "'I will tell you. I was hired to a rich farmer to drive his plough, dragged by four bullocks. Three days ago, I lost a red bullock, the best of the four. I left the plough, and sought the red bullock on all sides, but could not find him. For three days I have neither eaten nor drunk, and have been wandering thus. I have been afraid of going to the town, where they would put me in jail, because I have not wherewith to pay for the bullock. All I possess are the clothes on my back. I have a mother; and the poor woman had nothing more valuable than me; since she had only an old smock wherewith to cover her poor old limbs. They have torn the smock off her back, and now she has to lie on the straw. It is about her that I am afflicted more than about myself, because, as to me, I may get some money some day or other, and as to the red bullock, he may be paid for when he may. And I should never weep for such a trifle as that. Ah! woe betide those who shall make sorrow with you!'" Inserted merely to give occasion to show Aucassin's good heart in paying the twenty _sols_ for the man's red bullock; perhaps for no reason at all, but certainly with no idea of making the lover's misery seem by comparison trifling--there are, nevertheless, few things in literature more striking than the meeting in the wood of the daintily nurtured boy, weeping over the girl whom he loves with almost childish love of the fancy; and of that ragged, tattered, hideous serf, at whose very aspect the Bel Aucassin stops in awe and terror. And the attitude is grand of this unfortunate creature, who neither begs nor threatens, scarcely complains, and not at all for himself; but merely tells his sordid misfortune with calm resignation, as if used to such everyday miseries, roused to indignation only at the sight of the tears which the fine-bred youth is shedding. We feel the dreadful solemnity of the man's words; of the reproach thus thrown by the long-suffering serf, accustomed to misfortunes as the lean ox is to blows, to that delicate thing weeping for his lady love, for the lady of his fancy. It is the one occasion upon which that delicate and fantastic mediæval love poetry, that fanciful, wistful stripling King Love of the Middle Ages, in which he keeps high court, and through which he rides in triumphal procession; that King Love laughing and fainting by turns with all his dapper artificiality of woes; is confronted with the sordid reality, the tragic impersonation of all the dumb miseries, the lives and loves, crushed and defiled unnoticed, of the peasantry of those days. Yes, while they sing--Provençals, minnesingers, Sicilians, sing of their earthly lady and of their paramour in heaven--the hideous peasant, whose naked granny is starving on the straw, looks on with dull and tearless eyes; crying out to posterity, as the serf cries to Aucassin: "Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such as these." II. But meanwhile, during those centuries which lie between the dark ages and modern times, the Middle Ages (inasmuch as they mean not a mere chronological period, but a definite social and mental condition) fortunately did not exist everywhere. Had they existed, it is almost impossible to understand how they would ever throughout Europe have come to an end; for as the favourite proverb of Catharine of Siena has it, one dead man cannot bury another dead man; and the Middle Ages, after this tedious dying of the fifteenth century, required to be shovelled into the tomb, nay, rather, given the final stroke, by the Renaissance. This that we foolishly call--giving a quite incorrect notion of sudden and miraculous birth--the Renaissance, and limit to the time of the revival of Greek humanities, really existed, as I have repeatedly suggested wherever, during the mediæval centuries, the civilization of which the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were big was not, by the pressure of feudalism and monasticism, made to be abortive or stillborn. Low as was Italy at the very close of the dark ages, and much as she borrowed for a long while from the more precocious northern nations, especially France and Provence; Italy had, nevertheless, an enormous advantage in the fact that her populations were not divided into victor and vanquished, and that the old Latin institutions of town and country were never replaced, except in certain northern and southern districts, by feudal arrangements. The very first thing which strikes us in the obscure Italian commonwealths of early times, is that in these resuscitated relics of Roman or Etruscan towns there is no feeling of feudal superiority and inferiority; that there is no lord, and consequently no serf. Nor is this the case merely within the city walls. The never sufficiently appreciated difference between the Italian free burghs and those of Germany, Flanders, and Provence, is that the citizens depend only in the remotest and most purely fictitious way upon any kind of suzerain; and moreover that the country, instead of belonging to feudal nobles, belong every day more and more completely to the burghers. The peasant is not a serf, but one of three things--a hired labourer, a possessor of property, or a farmer, liable to no taxes, paying no rent, and only sharing with the proprietor the produce of the land. By this latter system, existing, then as now, throughout Tuscany, the peasantry was an independent and well-to-do class. The land owned by one man (who, in the commonwealths, was usually a shopkeeper or manufacturer in the town) was divided into farms small enough to be cultivated--vines, olives, corn, and fruit--by one family of peasants, helped perhaps by a paid labourer. The thriftier and less scrupulous peasants could, in good seasons, put by sufficient profit from their share of the produce to suffice after some years, and with the addition of what the women might make by washing, spinning, weaving, plaiting straw hats (an accomplishment greatly insisted upon by Lorenzo dei Medici), and so forth, to purchase some small strip of land of their own. Hence, a class of farmers at once living on another man's land and sharing its produce with him, and cultivating and paying taxes upon land belonging to themselves. Of these Tuscan peasants we get occasional glimpses in the mediæval Italian novelists--a well-to-do set of people, in constant communication with the town where they sell their corn, oil, vegetables, and wine, and easily getting confused with the lower class of artizans with whom they doubtless largely intermarried. These peasants whom we see in tidy kilted tunics and leathern gaiters, driving their barrel-laden bullock carts, or riding their mules up to the red city gates in many a Florentine and Sienese painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, were in many respects better off than the small artizans of the city, heaped up in squalid houses, and oppressed by the greater and smaller guilds. Agnolo Pandolfini, teaching thrift to his sons in Alberti's charming treatise on "The Government of the Family," frequently groans over the insolence, the astuteness of the peasantry; and indeed seems to consider that it is impossible to cope with them--a conclusion which would have greatly astounded the bailiffs of the feudal proprietors in the Two Sicilies and beyond the Alps. Indeed it is impossible to conceive a stranger contrast than that between the northern peasant, the starved and stunted serf, whom Holbein drew, driving his lean horses across the hard furrow, with compassionate Death helping along the plough, and the Tuscan farmer, as shown us by Lorenzo dei Medici--the young fellow who, while not above minding his cows or hoeing up his field, goes into Florence once a week, offers his sweetheart presents of coral necklaces, silk staylaces, and paint for her cheeks and eyelashes; who promises, to please her, to have his hair frizzled (as only the youths of the Renaissance knew how to be frizzled and fuzzed) by the barber, and even dimly hints that some day he may appear in silken jerkin and tight hose, like a well-to-do burgess. No greater contrast perhaps, unless indeed we should compare his sweetheart, Lorenzo's beautiful Nenciozza, with her box full of jewels, her Sunday garb of damask kirtle and gold-worked bodice, her almost queenly ways towards her adorers, with the wretched creature, not a woman, but a mere female animal, cowering among her starving children in her mud cottage, and looking forward, in dull lethargy, after the morning full of outrages at the castle, to the night, the night on the heath, lit with mysterious flickers, to the horrible joys of the sacrifice which the oppressed brings to the dethroned, the serf to Satan; when, in short, we compare the peasant woman described by Lorenzo with the female serf resuscitated by the genius of Michelet; nay, more poignant still, with that mother in the "Dance of Death," seated on the mud flood of the broken-roofed, dismantled hovel, stewing something on a fire of twigs, and stretching out vain arms to her poor tattered baby-boy, whom, with the good-humoured tripping step of an old nurse, the kindly skeleton is leading away out of this cruel world. Such were the conditions of the peasantry of the great Italian commonwealths. They were, as much as the northern serfs were the reverse, creatures pleasant to deal with, pleasant to watch. The upper classes, on the other hand, differed quite as much from the upper classes of feudal countries. They were, be it remembered, men of business, constantly in contact with the working classes; Albizis, Strozzis, Pandolfinis, Guinigis, Tolomeis, no matter what their name, these men who built palaces and churches which outdid the magnificence of northern princes, and who might, at any moment, be sent ambassadors from Florence, Lucca, or Siena, to the French or English kings, to the Emperor or the Pope, spent a large portion of their days at their office desk, among the bales of their warehouses, behind the counter of their shops; they wore the same dress, had the same habits, spoke the same dialect, as the weavers and dyers, the carriers and porters whom they employed, and whose sons might, by talent and industry, amass a fortune, build palaces, and go ambassadors to kings in their turn. When, therefore, these merchant nobles turned to the country for rest and relief from their cares, it was not to the country as it existed for the feudal noble of the North. Boar and stag hunts had no attraction for quiet men of business; forests stocked with wild beasts where vineyard and cornfield might have extended, would have seemed to them the very height of wastefulness, discomfort, and ugliness. Pacific and businesslike, they merely transferred to the country the habits of thought and of life which had arisen in the city. Not for them any imitation of the feudal castle, turreted and moated, cut up into dark irregular rooms and yards, filled with noisy retainers and stinking hounds. On some gentle hillside a well-planned palace, its rooms spacious and lofty, and sparely windowed for coolness in summer; with a neat cloistered court in the centre, ventilating the whole house, and affording a cool place, full of scent of flowers and sound of fountains for the burning afternoons; a belvedere tower also, on which to seek a breeze on stifling nights, when the very stars seem faint for heat, and the dim plumy heads of cypress and poplar are motionless against the misty blue sky. In front a broad terrace, whence to look down towards the beloved city, a vague fog of roofs in the distance; on the side and behind, elaborate garden walks walled with high walls of box and oak and laurel, in which stand statues in green niches; gardens with little channels to bring water, even during droughts, to the myrtles, the roses, the stocks and clove pinks, over which bend with blossoms brilliant against the pale blue sky the rose-flowered oleander, the scarlet-flowered pomegranate; also aviaries and cages full of odd and harmless creatures, ferrets, guinea pigs, porcupines, squirrels, and monkeys; arbours where wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law may sew and make music; and neat lawns where the young men may play at quoits, football, or swordsticks and bucklers; and then, sweeping all round the house and gardens and terraces an undulating expanse of field and orchard, smoke-tinted with olive, bright green in spring with budding crops, russet in autumn with sere vines; and from which, in the burning noon, rises the incessant sawing noise of the cicalas, and ever and anon the high, nasal, melancholy chant of the peasant, lying in the shade of barn door or fig tree till the sun shall sink and he can return to his labour. If the house in town, with its spacious store-rooms, its carved chapel, and painted banqueting hall, large enough to hold sons' children and brothers' wives and grandchildren, and a whole host of poor relatives, whom the wise father (as Pandolfini teaches) employs rather than strangers for his clerks and overseers--if this town house was the pride of the Italian burgess; the villa, with its farms and orchards, was the real joy, the holiday paradise of the over-worked man. To read in the cool house, with cicala's buzz and fountain plash all round, the Greek and Latin authors; to discuss them with learned men; to watch the games of the youths and the children, this was the reward for years of labour and intelligence; but sweeter than all this (how we feel it in Agnolo Pandolfini's speeches!) were those occupations which the city could not give: the buying and selling of plants, grain, and kine, the meddling with new grafted trees, the mending of spaliers, the straightening of fences, the going round (with the self-importance and impatience of a cockney) to see what flowers had opened, what fruit had ripened over-night; to walk through the oliveyards, among the vines; to pry into stable, pig-stye, and roosting-place, taking up handfuls of drying grain, breaking twigs of olives, to see how things were doing; and to have long conversations with the peasants, shrewd enough to affect earnest attention when the master was pleased to vent his town-acquired knowledge of agriculture and gardening. Sweet also, doubtless, for younger folk, or such perhaps as were fonder of teaching new lute tunes to the girls than of examining into cabbages, and who read Dante and Boccaccio more frequently than Cicero or Sallust; though sweet perhaps only as a vague concomitant of their lazy pleasures, to listen to those songs of the peasantry rising from the fields below, while lying perhaps on one's back in the shaded grass, watching the pigeons whirring about the belvedere tower. Vaguely pleasant this also, doubtless; but for a long while only vaguely. For, during more than two centuries, the burgesses of Italy were held enthralled by the Courtly poets of other countries; listening to, and reading, at first, only Provençals and Sicilians, or Italians, like Sordello, pretending to be of Provence or Sicily; and even later, enduring in their own poets, their own Guittones, Cavalcantis, Cinos, Guinicellis, nay even in Dante and Petrarch's lyrics, only the repetition (however vivified by genius) of the old common-places of Courtly love, and artificial spring, of the poetry of feudal nations. But the time came when not only Provençal and Sicilian, but even Tuscan, poetry was neglected, when the revival of Greek and Latin letters made it impossible to rewrite the threadbare mediæval prettinesses, or even to write in earnest in the modern tongue, so stiff and thin (as it seemed) and like some grotesque painted saint, when compared with the splendidly fleshed antique languages, turning and twining in graceful or solemn involutions, as of a Pyrrhic or a maidens' dance. And it was during this period, from Petrarch to Politian, that, as philologists have now proved beyond dispute, the once fashionable chivalric romance, and the poetry of Provençal and Sicilian school, cast off by the upper classes, was gradually picked up by the lower and especially by the rural classes. Vagabond ballad-singers and story-tellers--creatures who wander from house to house, mending broken pottery, collecting rags or selling small pedlar's wares--were the old clothesmen who carried about these bits of tarnished poetic finery. The people of the town, constantly in presence of the upper classes, and therefore sooner or later aware of what was or was not in fashion, did not care long for the sentimental daintiness of mediæval poetry; besides, satire and scurrility are as inevitable in a town as are dogs in gutters and cats on roofs; and the townsfolk soon set their own buffoonish or satirical ideas to whatever remained of the music of mediæval poetry: already early in the fifteenth century the sonnet had become for the Florentine artizans a mere scurrilous epigram. It was different in the country. The peasant, at least the Tuscan peasant, is eminently idealistic and romantic in his literary tastes; it may be that he has not the intellectual life required for any utterances or forms of his own, and that he consequently accepts poetry as a ready-made ornament, something pretty and exotic, which is valued in proportion to its prettiness and rarity. Be the reason whatever it may, certain it is that nothing can be too artificial or high-flown to please the Italian peasantry: its tales are all of kings; princesses, fairies, knights, winged horses, marvellous jewels, and so forth; its songs are almost without exception about love, constancy, moon, stars, flowers. Such things have not been degraded by familiarity and parody as in the town; they retain for the country folk the vague charm (like that of music, automatic and independent of thorough comprehension) of belonging to a sphere of the marvellous; hence they are repeated and repeated with almost religious servility, as any one may observe who will listen to the stories and verses told and sung even nowadays in the Tuscan country, or who will glance over the splendid collections of folklore made in the last twenty years. Such things, must suffer alteration from people who can neither read nor write, and who cannot be expected to remember very clearly details which, in many cases, must have for them only the vaguest meaning. The stories split in process of telling and re-telling, and are completed with bits of other stories; details are forgotten and have to be replaced; the same happens with poetry: songs easily get jumbled together, their meaning is partially obliterated, and has to be restored or, again, an attempt is made by bold men to adapt some seemingly adaptable old song to a new occasion an old love ditty seems fit to sing to a new sweetheart.--names, circumstances, and details require arranging for this purpose; and hence more alterations. Now, however much a peasant may enjoy the confused splendours of Court life and of Courtly love, he cannot, with the best will in the world, restore their details or colouring if they happen to become obliterated. If he chance to forget that when the princess first met the wizard she was riding forth on a snow-white jennet with a falcon on her glove, there is nothing to prevent his describing her as walking through the meadow in charge of a flock of geese; and similarly, should he happen to forget that the Courtly lover compares the skin of his mistress to ivory and her eyes to Cupid's torches, he is quite capable of filling up the gap by saying that the girl is as white as a turnip and as bright-eyed as a ferret. As with details of description and metaphors, so also with the emotional and social parts of the business. The peasant has not been brought up in the idea that the way to gain a woman's affection is to stick her glove on a helmet and perform deeds of prowess closely resembling those of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena; so he attempts to ingratiate himself by offering her presents of strawberries, figs, buttons, hooks-and-eyes, and similar desirable things. Again, were the peasant to pay attentions to a married woman, he would merely get (what noble husbands were too well bred to dream of) a sound horsewhipping, or perhaps even a sharp knife thrust in his stomach; so that he takes good care to address his love songs only to marriageable young women. In this way, without any deliberate attempt .at originality, the old Courtly poetry becomes, when once removed to the country, thoroughly patched and seamed with rustic ideas, feelings, and images; while never ceasing to be, in its general stuff and shape, of a kind such as only professional poets of the upper classes can produce. The Sicilian lyrics collected by Signor Pitre, still more the Tuscan poems of Tigri's charming volume, are, therefore, a curious mixture of high-flown sentiment, dainty imagery, and most artistic arrangements of metre and diction (especially in the rispetto, where metrical involution is accompanied by logical involution of the most refined mediæval sort), with hopes and complaints such as only a farmer could frame, with similes and descriptions such as only the business of the field, vineyard, and dairy could suggest. A mixture, but not a jumble. For as in this slow process of assimilation and alteration only that was remembered by the peasant which the peasant could understand and sympathize with; and only that was welded into the once Courtly poetry which was sufficiently refined to please the people who delighted in the exotic refinement--as, in short, everything came about perfectly simply and unconsciously, there resulted what in good sooth may be considered as a perfectly substantive and independent form of art, with beauties and refinements of its own. And, indeed, it appears to me that one might say, without too much paradox, that in these peasant songs only does the poetry of minnesingers and troubadours, become thoroughly enjoyable; that only when the conventionality of feeling and imagery is corrected by the freshness, the straightforwardness, nay, even the grotesqueness of rural likings, dislikings, and comparisons, can the dainty beauty of mediæval Courtly poetry ever really satisfy our wishes. Comparing together Tigri's collection of Tuscan folk poetry with any similar anthology that might be made of middle-high German and Provençal, and early Italian lyrics, I feel that the adoption of Courtly mediæval poetry by the Italian peasantry of the Renaissance can be compared more significantly than at first seemed with the adoption of a once fashionable garb by country folk. The peasant pulled about this Courtly lyrism, oppressively tight in its conventional fit and starched with elaborate rhetorical embroideries; turned it inside out, twisted a bit here, a bit there, ripped open seam after seam, patched and repatched with stuffs and stitches of its own; and then wore the whole thing as it had never been intended to be worn; until this cast-off poetic apparel, stretched on the freer moral limbs of natural folk, faded and stained by weather and earth into new and richer tints, had lost all its original fashionable stiffness, and crudeness of colour, and niminy-piminy fit, and had acquired instead I know not what grace of unexpectedness, picturesqueness, and ease.[1] [1] Any one who is sceptical of the Courtly derivation of the Italian popular song may, besides consulting the admirable book of Prof. d'Ancona, compare with the contents of Tigri's famous "Canti popolari Toscani," the following scraps of Sicilian and early Italian lyrics:-- The Emperor Frederick II. writes: "Rosa di maggio--Colorita e fresca--Occhi hai fini--E non rifini--Di gioie dare--Lo tuo parlare--La gente innamora--Castella ed altura." Jacopo Pugliesi says of his lady: "Chiarita in viso più che argento--Donami allegrezze--Ben eo son morto--E mal colto--Se non mi dai conforto--_Fior dell' orto_." Inghilfredi Siciliano: "Gesù Cristo ideolla in paradiso--E poi la fece angelo incarnando--Gioia aggio preso di giglio novello--E vago, che sormonta ogni ricchezza--Sua dottrina m' affrezza--Cosi mi coglie e olezza--Come pantera le bestie selvagge." Jacopo da Lentino: "E di virtute tutte l' altre avanza--E somigliante a stella è di splendore--Colla sua conta (_cf_. Provençal _coindeta_, gentille) e gaia innamoranza--E più bella è che rosa e che fiore--Cristo le doni vita ed allegranza--E sì la cresca in gran pregio ed onore." I must finish off what might be a much longer collection with a charming little scrap, quite in rispetto tone, by Guinicelli: "Vedut 'ho la lucente stella diana--Ch' appare anzi che 'l giorno renda albore--Ch' a preso forma di figura umana--Sovr' ogni altra mi par che dia splendore--Viso di neve colorato in grana--Occhi lucenti, gai e pien d'amore--Non credo che nel mondo sia cristiana--Si piena di beltate e di valore."] Well; for many a year did the song of the peasants rise up from the fields and oliveyards unnoticed by the good townsfolk taking their holiday at the Tuscan villa; but one day, somewhere in the third quarter of the fifteenth century, the long-drawn chant of the rispetto, telling perhaps how the singer's sweetheart was beautiful as the star Diana, so beautiful as a baby that the Pope christened her with his own hands; the quavering nasal cadence of the stornello saying by chance-- Flower of the Palm, &c., did at last waken the attention of one lettered man, a man of curious and somewhat misshapen body and mind, of features satyr-like in ugliness, yet moody and mystical in their very earthiness; a man essentially of the senses, yet imperfect in them, without taste or smell, and, over and above, with a marvellously supple intellect; weak and coarse and idealistic; and at once feebly the slave of his times, and so boldly, spontaneously innovating as to be quite unconscious of innovation: the mixed nature, or rather the nature in many heterogeneous bits, of the man of letters who is artistic almost to the point of being an actor, natural in every style because morally connected with no style at all. The man was Lorenzo di Piero dei Medici, for whom posterity has exclusively reserved the civic title of all his family and similar town despots, calling him the Magnificent. It is the fashion at present to give Lorenzo only the leavings, as it were, of our admiration for the weaker, less original, nay, considerably enervate, humanistic exquisite Politian; and this absurd injustice appears to me to show that the very essence and excellence of Lorenzo is not nowadays perceived. The Renaissance produced several versatile and charming poets; and, in the midst of classic imitation, one or two, of whom one is certainly Boiardo, of real freshness and raciness. But of this new element in the Renaissance, this element which is neither imitation of antiquity nor revival of mediæval, which is original, vital, fruitful, in short, modern, Lorenzo is the most versatile example. He is new, Renaissance, modern; not merely in this or that quality, he is so all round. And this in the first place because he is so completely the man of impressions; the man not uttering wonderful things, nor elaborating exquisite ones, but artistically embodying with marvellous versatility whatever strikes his fancy and feeling--fancy and feeling which are as new as the untouched sculptor's clay. And this extraordinary temper of art for art's sake, or rather effect for effect and form's sake, was possible in that day only in a man equally without strong passions, and without strong convictions. He is naturally attracted most by what is most opposed to the academic, Virgilian, Horatian, or Petrarchesque æstheticism of his contemporaries; he is essentially a realist, and all the effects, which he produces, all the beauty, charm, or beastliness of his work, corresponds to beauty, charm, or beastliness in the reality of things. If Lorenzo writes at one moment carnival songs of ribald dirtiness, at the next hymns full of holy solemnity; it is, I think, merely because this versatile artist takes pleasure in trying whether his face may not be painted into grinning drunkenness, and then elongated and whitened into ascetic gentleness. Instead of seeking, like most of his contemporaries, to be Greek, Roman, or mediæval by turns, he preferred trying on all the various tricks of thought and feeling which he remarked among his unlettered townsfolk. His realism naturally drew him towards the classes where realism can deal with the real; and not the affected, the self-conscious, the deliberately attempted. Hence those wonderful little poems, the carnival songs of the gold-thread spinners, of the pastry-cooks, of the shoemakers, which give us so completely, so gracefully, the whole appearance, work, manner, gesture of the people; give them to us with ease and rapidity so perfect, that we scarcely know how they are given; that we almost forget verses and song, and actually see the pulling, twisting, and cutting of the gold-threads; that we see and hear the shoemaker's hands smoothing down the leather of the shoe in his hand, to convince his customers of its pliability; that we see and smell the dear little pale yellow pasties nestling in the neat white baskets, after having stood by and watched the dough being kneaded, chopped, and floured over, the iron plates heated in the oven, the soft, half-baked paste twisted and bent; nay, we feel almost as if we had eaten of them, those excellent things which seem such big mouthfuls but are squeezed and crunched at one go like nothing at all. Hence, I mean from this love of watching effects and reproducing them, originated also the masterpiece of Lorenzo dei Medici, the "Nencia da Barberino." This poem, of some fifty octaves, is the result of those Tuscan peasant songs, of which I have told you the curious Courtly descent, at last having struck the fancy of a real poet. It is, what Lorenzo's masterpiece necessarily must be, in the highest degree a modern performance; as modern as a picture by Bastien Lepage; as an opera, founded upon local music, by Bizet. For it is not by any manner of means a pastoral, a piece of conventional poetic decoration, with just a little realistic detail, more of the mere conventional or more of the realistic dominating according as it is a pastoral by Theocritus, or a pastoral by Quinault or Metastasio. It is the very reverse of this: it is the attempt to obtain a large and complete, detailed and balanced impression by the cunning arrangement of a number of small effects which the artist has watched in reality; it is the making into a kind of little idyl, something half narrative, half drama, with distinct figures and accessories and background, of a whole lot of little fragments imitated from the peasant poetry, and set in thin, delicate rims of imitation no longer of the peasant's songs, but of the peasant's thoughts and speech; a perfect piece of impressionist art, marred only in rare places by an attempt (inevitable in those days) to force the drawing and colour into caricature. The construction, which appears to be nowhere, is in reality a masterpiece; for, without knowing it, you are shown the actors, the background, the ups and downs of temper, the variation of the seasons; above all you are shown the heroine through the medium of the praises, the complaints, the narratives of the past, the imaginings of the future, of the hero, whose incoherent rhapsodizing constitutes the whole poem. He, Valléra, is a well-to-do young farmer; she, Nencia, is the daughter of peasant folk of the castellated village of Barberino in the Mugello; he is madly in love, but shy, and (to all appearance) awkward, so that we feel convinced that of all these speeches in praise of his Nenciozza, in blame of his indifference, highly poetic flights and most practical adjurations to see all the advantages of a good match, the young woman hears few or none; Valléra is talking not to her, but at her, or rather, he is rehearsing to himself all the things which he cannot squeeze out in her presence. It is the long day-dream, poetic, prosaic, practical, and imaginative, of a love-sick Italian peasant lad, to whom his sweetheart is at once an ideal thing of beauty, a goddess at whose shrine songs must be sung and wreaths twined; and a very substantial lass, who cannot be indifferent to sixpenny presents, and whom he cannot conceive as not ultimately becoming the sharer of his cottage, the cooker of his soup, the mender of his linen, the mother of his brats--a dream in which image is effaced by image, and one thought is expelled, unfinished, by another. She is to him like the Fairy Morgana, the fairy who kept so much of chivalry in her enchanted island; she is like the evening star when above his cottage it slowly pierces the soft blue sky with its white brilliancy; she is purer than the water in the well, and sweeter than the malmsey wine, and whiter than the miller's flour; but her heart is as hard as a pebble, and she loves driving to distraction a whole lot of youths who dangle behind her, captives of those heart-thievish eyes of hers. But she is also a most excellent housewife, can stand any amount of hard field labour, and makes lots of money by weaving beautiful woollen stuff. To see her going, to church of a morning, she is a little pearl! her bodice is of damask, and her petticoat of bright, colour, and she kneels down carefully where she may be seen, being so smart. And then, when she dances!--a born dancer, bouncing like a little goat, and twirling more than a mill-wheel; and when she has finished she makes you such a curtsey; no citizen's wife in Florence can curtsey as she does. It was in April that he first fell in love. She was picking salad in the garden; he begged her for a little, and she sent him about his business; las, alas! ever since then his peace has been gone; he cannot sleep, he can only think of her, and follow her about; he has become quite good-for-nothing as to his field work,--yet he hears all the people around laughing and saying, "Of course Valléra will get her." Only _she_ will pay no heed to him. She is finer to look at than the Pope, whiter than the whitest wood core: she is more delectable than are the young figs to the earwigs, more beautiful than the turnip flower, sweeter than honey. He is more in love with her than the moth is in love with the lamp; she loves to see him perishing for her. If he could cut himself in two without too much pain, he would, just to let her see that he carries her in his heart. No; he would cut out his heart, and when she has touched it with that slender hand of hers, it would cry out, "Nencia, Nencia bella." But, after all, he is not to be despised: he is an excellent labourer, most learned in buying--and selling pigs, he can play the bagpipe beautifully; he is rich, is willing to go to any expense to please her, nay, even to pay the barber double that his hair may be nice and fuzzy from the crimping irons; and if only he were to get himself tight hose and a silk jerkin, he would be as good as any Florentine burgess. But she will not listen; or, rather, she listens and laughs. Yes, she sits up in bed at night and laughs herself to death at the mere thought of him, that is all he gets. But he knows what it is! There is a fellow who will keep sneaking about her; if Valléra only catch him near his cottage, won't he give him a taste of his long new knife! nay, rip him up and throw his bowels, like those of a pig, to dry on a roof! He is sorry--perhaps he bores her--God bless you, Nencia!--he had better go and look after his sheep. All this is not the poetry of the Renaissance peasant; it is the poem made out of his reality; the songs which Valléra sang in the fields about his Nencia we must seek in the volume of Tigri; those rispetti and stornelli of to-day are the rispetti and stornelli of four centuries ago; they are much more beautiful and poetic than any of Lorenzo's work; but Lorenzo has given us not merely a peasant's love-song; he has given us a peasant's thoughts, actions, hopes, fears; he has given us the peasant himself, his house, his fields, and his sweetheart, as they exist even now. For Lorenzo is gone, and, greater than he, the paladins and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, have followed the saints and virgins of Dante into the limbo of fair unrealities; and the very Greek and Roman heroes of a hundred years ago, the very knights and covenanters of forty years since, have joined them; but Valléra exists still, and still in the flesh exists his Nenciozza. Everything changes, except the country and the peasant. For, in the long farms of Southern Tuscany, with double row of blackened balcony all tapestried with heavy ingots of Indian corn, and spread out among the olives of the hillside, up which twists the rough bullock road protected by its vine trellis; and in the little farms, with queer hood-shaped double roofs (as if to pull over the face of the house when it blows hard), and pigeon towers which show that some day they must have been fortified, all about Florence; farms which I pass every day, with their sere trees all round, their rough gardens of bright dahlias and chrysanthemums draggled by the autumn rains--in these there are, do not doubt it, still Nencias: magnificent creatures, fit models for Amazons, only just a trifle too full-blown and matronly; but with real Amazonian limbs, firm and delicate, under their red and purple striped print frocks; creatures with heads set on necks like towers or columns, necks firm in broad, well-fleshed chest as branches in a tree's trunk; great penthouses of reddish yellow or lustreless black crimped hair over the forehead; the forehead, like the cheeks, furrowed a good deal--perhaps we dainty people might say, faded and wrinkled by work in the burning sun and the wind; women whom you see shovelling bread into the heated ovens, or plashing in winter with bare arms in half-frozen streams, or digging up a turnip field in the drizzle; or on a Sunday, standing listless by their door, surrounded by rolling and squalling brats, and who, when they slowly look up at the passer-by, show us, on those monumental faces of theirs, a strange smile, a light of bright eyes and white teeth; a smile which to us sophisticated townspeople is as puzzling as certain sudden looks in some comely animal, but which yet makes us understand instinctively that we have before us a Nencia; and that the husband yonder, though he now swears at his wife, and perhaps occasionally beats her, has nevertheless, in his day, dreamed, argued, raged, and sung to himself just like Lorenzo's Valléra. The "Nencia da Barberino" is certainly Lorenzo dei Medici's masterpiece: it is completely and satisfactorily worked out. Yet we may strain possibilities to the point of supposing (which, however, I cannot for a moment suppose) that this "Nencia" is a kind of fluke; that by an accident a beautiful and seemingly appreciative poem has resulted where the author, a mediæval realist of a superior Villon sort, had intended only a piece of utter grotesqueness. But important as is the "Nencia," Lorenzo has left behind him another poem, greatly inferior in completeness, but which settles beyond power of doubt that in him the Renaissance was not merely no longer mediæval, but most intensely modern. This poem is the "Ambra." It is simply an allegorical narrative of the inundation, by the river Ombrone, of a portion, called Ambra, of the great Medicean villa of Poggio a Caiano. Lorenzo's object was evidently to write a semi-Ovidian poem, of a kind common in his day, and common almost up to our own: a river-god, bearded, crown of reeds, urn, general dampness and uproariousness of temper, all quite correct; and a nymph, whom he pursues, who prays to the Virgin huntress to save her from his love, and who, just in the nick of time, is metamorphosed into a mossy stone, dimly showing her former woman's shape; the style of thing, charming, graceful, insipid, of which every one can remember a dozen instances, and which immediately brings up to the mind a vision of grand-ducal gardens, where, among the clipped ilexes and the cypress trunks, great lumbering water-gods and long-limbed nymphs splash, petrified and covered with melancholy ooze and yellow lichen, among the stagnant grotto waters. In some respects, therefore, there is in the "Ambra" somewhat more artificial, more _barrocco_ than that early Renaissance of Politian and Pontano would warrant. There also several bits, half graceful, half awkward, pedantic, constrained, childish, delightful, like the sedge-crowned rivers telling each other anecdotes of the ways and customs of their respective countries, and especially the charming dance of zephyr with the flowers on the lawns of Cyprus, which must immediately suggest pictures by Piero di Cosimo and by Botticelli. So far, therefore, there is plenty to enjoy, but nothing to astonish, in the "Ambra." But the Magnificent Lorenzo has had the extraordinary whim of beginning his allegory with a description, twenty-one stanzas long, of the season of floods. A description, full of infinitely delicate minute detail: of the plants which have kept their foliage while the others are bare--the prickly juniper, the myrtle and bay; of the flocks of cranes printing the sky with their queer shapes, of the fish under the ice, and the eagle circling slowly round the ponds--little things which affect us mixed up as they are with all manner of stiff classic allusions, very much as do the carefully painted daisies and clover among the embossed and gilded unrealities of certain old pictures. From these rather finikin details, Lorenzo passes, however, to details which are a good deal more than details, things little noticed until almost recently: the varying effect of the olives on the hillside--a grey, green mass, a silver ripple, according as the wind stirs them; the golden appearance of the serene summer air, and so forth; details no longer, in short, but essentially, however minute, effects. And then, suddenly leaving such things behind, he rushes into the midst of a real picture, a picture which you might call almost impressionistic, of the growth of rivers and the floods. The floods are a grand sight; more than a sight--a grand performance, a drama; sometimes, God knows, a tragedy. Last night, under a warm, hazy sky, through whose buff-tinted clouds the big moon crept in and out, the mountain stream was vaguely visible--a dark riband in its wide shingly bed, when the moon was hidden; a narrow, shallow, broken stream, sheets of brilliant metallic sheen, and showers of sparkling facets, when the moon was out; a mere drowsy murmur mixing with the creaking and rustling of dry reeds in the warm, wet wind. Thus in the evening. Look down from your window next morning. A tremendous rushing mass of waters, thick, turbid, reddish, with ominous steel-like lustre where its coppery surface reflects the moist blue sky, now fills the whole bed, shaking its short fringe of foam, tossing the spray as it swirls round each still projecting stone, angrily tugging at the reeds and alders which flop their draggled green upon its surface; eddying faster and faster, encircling each higher rock or sandbank, covering it at last with its foaming red mass. Meanwhile, the sky is covered in with vaporous grey clouds, which enshroud the hills; the clear runnels, dash over the green banks, spirt through the walls, break their way across the roads; the little mountain torrents, dry all summer, descend, raging rivers, red with the hill soil; and with every gust of warm wind the river rises higher and rushes along tremendously impetuous. Down in the plain it eats angrily at the soft banks, and breaks its muddy waters, fringed on the surface with a sort of ominous grime of broken wood and earth, higher and higher against the pierheads of the bridges; shaking them to split their masonry, while crowds of men and women look on, staring at the rising water, at the planks, tables, beams, cottage thatches, nay, whole trees, which it hurls at the bridge piers. And then, perhaps, the terrible, soft, balmy flood-wind persisting, there comes suddenly the catastrophe; the embankment, shaken by the resistless current, cracks, fissures gives way; and the river rushes into the city, as it has already rushed into the fields, to spread in constantly rising, melancholy livid pools, throughout the streets and squares. This Lorenzo saw, and, wonderful to say, in this soiled and seething river, in these torn and crumbling banks, in all the dreadfulness of these things, he saw a beauty and a grandeur. But he saw not merely the struggle of the waters and of the land; he--the heartless man who laid his hand even upon the saved-up money of orphan girls in order to keep up the splendour of his house and of his bank--saw the misfortunes of the peasantry; the mill, the cottage by the riverside, invaded by the flood; the doors burst open by the tremendous rushing stream, the stables and garners filled with the thick and oozy waters; the poor creatures, yesterday prosperous, clinging to the roof, watching their sheep and cows, their hay, and straw, and flour, the hemp bleached in the summer, the linen spun and woven in the long winter, their furniture and chattels, their labour and their hope whirled along by the foaming river. Thus by this versatile Lorenzo dei Medici, this flippant, egotistic artist and despot, has at last been broken the long spell of the Middle Ages. The Renaissance has sung no longer of knights and of spring, but of peasants and of autumn. An immoral and humanistic time, an immoral and humanistic man, have had at length a heart for the simpler, ruder less favoured classes of mankind; an eye for the bolder, grander, more solemn sights of Nature: modern times have begun, modern sympathies, modern art are in full swing. SYMMETRIA PRISCA. Mirator veterum, discipulusque memor, Defuit mini symmetria prisca. Peregi Quod potui; Veniam da mihi, posteritas. --_Lionardo da Vinci's epitaph by Platino Piatto_. Into the holy enclosure which had received the precious shiploads of earth from Calvary, the Pisans of the thirteenth century carried the fragments of ancient sculpture brought from Rome and from Greece; and in the Gothic cloister enclosing the green sward and dark cypresses of the graveyard of Pisa, the art of the Middle Ages came for the first time face to face with the art of Antiquity. There, among pagan sarcophagi turned into Christian tombs, with heraldic devices chiselled on their arabesques and vizored helmets surmounting their garlands, the great unsigned artist of the fourteenth century, Orcagna of Florence, or Lorenzetti of Siena, painted the typical masterpiece of mediæval art, the great fresco of the Triumph of Death. With wonderful realization of character and situation he painted the prosperous of the world, the dapper youths and damsels seated with dogs and falcons beneath the orchard trees, amusing themselves with Decameronian tales and sound of lute and psaltery, unconscious of the colossal scythe wielded by the gigantic dishevelled Death, and which, in a second, will descend and mow them to the ground; while the crowd of beggars, ragged, maimed, paralyzed, leprous, grovelling on their withered limbs, see and implore Death, and cry stretching forth their arms, their stumps, and their crutches. Further on, three kings in long embroidered robes and gold-trimmed shovel caps, Lewis the Emperor, Uguccione of Pisa, and Castruccio of Lucca, with their retinue of ladies and squires, and hounds and hawks, are riding quietly through a wood. Suddenly their horses stop, draw back; the Emperor's bay stretches out his long neck sniffing the air; the kings strain forward to see, one holding his nose for the stench of death which meets him; and before them are three open coffins, in which lie, in three loathsome stages of corruption, from blue and bloated putrescence to well-nigh fleshless decay, three crowned corpses. This is the triumph of Death; the grim and horrible jest of the Middle Ages: equality in decay; kings, emperors, ladies, knights, beggars, and cripples, this is what we all come to be, stinking corpses; Death, our lord, our only just and lasting sovereign, reigns impartially over all. But opposite, all along the sides of the painted cloister, the Amazons are wrestling with the youths on the stone of the sarcophagi; the chariots are dashing forward, the Tritons are splashing in the marble waves; the Bacchantæ are striking their timbrels in their dance with the satyrs; the birds are pecking at the grapes, the goats are nibbling at the vines; all is life, strong and splendid in its marble eternity. And the mutilated Venus smiles towards the broken Hermes; the stalwart Hercules, resting against his club, looks on quietly, a smile beneath his beard; and the gods murmur to each other, as they stand in the cloister filled with earth from Calvary, where hundreds of men lie rotting beneath the cypresses, "Death will not triumph for ever; our day will come." We have all seen them opposite to each other, these two arts, the art born of Antiquity and the art born of the Middle Ages; but whether this meeting was friendly or hostile or merely indifferent, is a question of constant dispute. To some, mediæval art has appeared being led, Dante-like, by a magician Virgil through the mysteries of nature up to a Christian Beatrice, who alone can guide it to the kingdom of heaven; others have seen mediæval art, like some strong, chaste Sir Guyon turning away resolutely from the treacherous sorceress of Antiquity, and pursuing solitarily the road to the true and the good; for some the antique has been an impure goddess Venus, seducing and corrupting the Christian artist; the antique has been for others a glorious Helen, an unattainable perfection, ever pursued by the mediæval craftsman, but seized by him only as a phantom. Magician or witch, voluptuous, destroying Venus or cold and ungrasped Helen, what was the antique to the art born of the Middle Ages and developed during the Renaissance? Was the relation between them that of tuition, cool and abstract; or of fruitful love; or of deluding and damning example? The art which came to maturity in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries was generated in the early mediæval revival. The seeds may, indeed, have come down from Antiquity, but they remained for nearly a thousand years hidden in the withered, rotting remains of former vegetation; and it was not till that vegetation had completely decomposed and become part of the soil, it was not till putrefaction had turned into germination, that artistic organism timidly reappeared. The new art-germ developed with the new civilization which surrounded it. Manufacture and commerce reappeared: the artizans and merchants formed into communities; the communities grew into towns, the towns into cities; in the city arose the cathedral; the Lombard or Byzantine mouldings and traceries of the cathedral gave birth to figure-sculpture; its mosaics gave birth to painting; every forward movement of the civilization unfolded as it were a new form or detail of the art, until, when mediæval civilization was reaching its moment of consolidation, when the cathedrals of Lucca and Pisa stood completed, when Niccolò and Giovanni Pisano had sculptured their pulpits and sepulchres; painting, in the hands of Cimabue and Duccio, of Giotto and of Guido da Siena, freed itself from the tradition of the mosaicists as sculpture had freed itself from the practice of the stone-masons, and stood forth an independent and organic art. Thus painting was born of a new civilization, and grew by its own vital force; a thing of the Middle Ages, original and spontaneous. But contemporaneous with the mediæval revival was the resuscitation of Antiquity; in proportion as the new civilization developed, the old civilization was exhumed; real Latin began to be studied only when real Italian began to be written; Dante, Petrarca, and Boccaccio were at once the founders of modern literature and the exponents of the literature of antiquity; the strong young present was to profit by the experience of the past. As it was with literature, so likewise was it with art. The most purely mediæval sculpture, the sculpture which has, as it were, just detached itself from the capitals and porches of the cathedral, is the direct pupil of the antique; and the three great Gothic sculptors, Niccolò, Giovanni, and Andrea of Pisa, learn from fragments of Greek and Roman sculpture how to model the figure of the Redeemer and how to chisel the robe of the Virgin. This spontaneous mediæval sculpture, aided by the antique, preceded by a full half-century the appearance of mediæval painting; and it was from the study of the works of the Pisan sculptors that Cimabue and Giotto learned to depart from the mummified monstrosities of the hieratic, Byzantine and Roman style of Giunta and Berlinghieri. Thus, through the sculpture of the Pisans the painting of the school of Giotto received at second-hand the teachings of Antiquity. Sculpture had created painting; painting now belonged to the painters. In the hands of Giotto it developed within a few years into an art which seemed almost mature, an art dealing victoriously with its materials, triumphantly solving its problems, executing as if by miracle all that was demanded of it. But Giottesque art appeared perfect merely because it was limited; it did all that was required of it, because that which was required was little; it was not asked to reproduce the real nor to represent the beautiful; it was asked merely to suggest a character, a situation, a story. The artistic development of a nation has its exact parallel in the artistic development of an individual. The child uses his pencil to tell a story, satisfied with balls and sticks as body, head, and legs; provided he and his friends can associate with them the ideas in their minds. The youth sets himself to copy what he sees, to reproduce forms and effects, without any aim beyond the mere pleasure of copying. The mature artist strives to obtain forms and effects of which he approves, he seeks for beauty. In the life of Italian painting the generation of men who flourished at the beginning of the sixteenth century are the mature artists; the men of the fifteenth century are the inexperienced youths; the Giottesques are the children--children Titanic and seraph-like, but children nevertheless; and, like all children, learning more perhaps in their few years than can the youth and the man learn in a lifetime. Like the child, the Giottesque painter wished to show a situation or express a story, and for this purpose the absolute realization of objects was unnecessary. Giottesque art is not incorrect art, it is generalized art; it is an art of mere outline. The Giottesques could draw with great accuracy the hand: the form of the fingers, the bend of the limb, they could give to perfection its whole gesture and movement, they could produce a correct and spirited outline, but within this correct outline marked off in dark paint there is but a vague, uniform mass of pale colour; the body of the hand is missing, and there remains only its ghost, visible indeed, but unsubstantial, without weight or warmth, eluding the grasp. The difference between this spectre hand of the Giottesques, and the sinewy, muscular hand which can shake and crush of Masaccio and Signorelli; or the soft hand with throbbing pulse and warm pressure of Perugino and Bellini,--this difference is typical of the difference between the art of the fourteenth century and the art of the fifteenth century: the first suggests, the second realizes; the one gives impalpable outlines, the other gives tangible bodies. The Giottesque cares for the figure only inasmuch as it displays an action; he reduces it to a semblance, a phantom, to the mere exponent of an idea; the man of the Renaissance cares for the figure inasmuch as it is a living organism, he gives it substance and weight, he makes it stand out as an animate reality. Thence, despite its early triumphs, the Giottesque style, by its inherent nature, forbade any progress; it reached its limits at once, and the followers of Giotto look almost as if they were his predecessors, for the simple reason that, being unable to advance, they were forced to retrograde. The limited amount of artistic realization required to present to the mind of the spectator a situation or an allegory, had been obtained by Giotto himself, and bequeathed by him to his followers; who, finding it more than sufficient for their purposes, and having no incentive to further acquisition in the love of form and reality for their own sake, worked on with their master's materials, composing and recomposing, but adding nothing of their own. Giotto had observed Nature with passionate interest, because, although its representation was only a means to an end, it was a means which required to be mastered; and as such became in itself a sort of secondary aim; but the followers of Giotto merely utilized his observations--of Nature, and in so doing gradually conventionalized and debased these second-hand observations. Giotto's forms are wilfully incomplete, because they aim at mere suggestion, but they are not conventional: they are diagrams, not symbols, and thence it is that Giotto seems nearer to the Renaissance than do his latest followers, not excepting even Orcagna. Painting, which had made the most prodigious strides from Giunta to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to Giotto, had got enclosed within a vicious circle, in which it moved for nearly a century neither backwards nor forwards: painters were satisfied with suggestion; and as long as they were satisfied, no progress was possible. From this Giottesque treadmill, painting was released by the intervention of another art. The painters were hopelessly mediocre; their art was snatched from them by the sculptors. Orcagna himself, perhaps the only Giottesque who gave painting an onward push, had modelled and cast one of the bronze gates of the Florence baptistery; the generation of artists who arose at the beginning of the fifteenth century, and who opened the period of the Renaissance, were sculptors or pupils of sculptors. When we see these vigorous lovers of nature, these heroic searchers after truth, suddenly pushing aside the decrepit Giottesque allegory-mongers, we ask ourselves in astonishment whence they have arisen, and how those broken-down artists of effete art could have begotten such a generation of giants. Whence do they come? Certainly not from the studios of the Giottesques. No, they issue out of the workshops of the stone-mason, of the goldsmith, of the worker in bronze, of the sculptor. Vasari has preserved the tradition that Masolino and Paolo Uccello were apprentices of Ghiberti; he has remarked that their greatest contemporary, Masaccio, "trod in the steps of Brunelleschi and of Donatello." Pollaiolo and Verrocchio we know to have been equally excellent as painters and as workers in bronze. Sculpture, at once more naturalistic and more constantly under the influence of the antique, had for the second time laboured for painting. Itself a subordinate art, without much vitality, without deep roots in the civilization, sculpture was destined to remain the unsuccessful pupil of the antique, and the unsuccessful rival of painting; but sculpture had for its mission to prepare the road for painting and to prepare painting for antique influence; and the noblest work of Ghiberti and Donatello was Masaccio, as the most lasting glory to the Pisani had been Giotto. With Masaccio began the study of nature for its own sake, the desire of reproducing external objects, without any regard to their significance as symbols, or as parts of a story; the passionate wish to arrive at absolute realization. The merely suggestive outline art of the Giottesques had come to an end; the suggestion became a matter of indifference, the realization became a paramount interest; the story was forgotten in the telling, the religious thought was lost in the search for the artistic form. The Giottesques had used debased conventionalism to represent action with wonderful narrative and logical power; the artists of the early Renaissance became unskilful narrators and foolish allegorists almost in proportion as they became skilful draughtsmen and colourists; the saints had become to Masaccio merely so many lay figures on to which to cast drapery; for Fra Filippo the Madonna was a mere peasant model; for Filippino Lippi and for Ghirlandajo, a miracle meant merely an opportunity of congregating a number of admirable portrait figures in the dress of the day; the Baptism for Verrocchio had significance only as a study of muscular legs and arms; and the sacrifice of Noah had no importance for Uccello save as a grand opportunity for foreshortenings. In the hands of the Giottesques, interested in the subject and indifferent to the representation, painting had remained stationary for eighty years; for eighty years did it develope in the hands of the men of the fifteenth century, indifferent to the subject and passionately interested in the representation. The unity, the appearance of comparative perfection of the art had disappeared with the limits within which the Giottesques had been satisfied to move; instead of the intelligible and solemn conventionalism of the Giottesques, we see only disorder, half-understood ideas and abortive attempts, confusion which reminds us of those enigmatic sheets on which Leonardo or Michael Angelo scrawled out their ideas--drawings within drawings, plans of buildings scratched over Madonna heads, single flowers upside down next to flayed arms, calculations, monsters, sonnets; a very chaos of thoughts and of shapes, in which the plan of the artist is inextricably lost, which mean everything and nothing, but out of whose unintelligible network of lines and curves have issued masterpieces, and which only the foolish or the would-be philosophical would exchange for some intelligible, hopelessly finished and finite illustration out of a Bible or a book of travels. Anatomy, perspective, colour, drapery, effects of light, of water, of shadow, forms of trees and flowers, converging lines of architecture, all this at once absorbed and distracted the attention of the artists of the early Renaissance; and while they studied, copied, and calculated, another thought began to haunt them, another eager desire began to pursue them: by the side of Nature, the manifold, the baffling, the bewildering, there rose up before them another divinity, another sphinx, mysterious in its very simplicity and serenity--the Antique. The exhumation of the antique had, as we have seen, been contemporaneous with the birth of painting; nay, the study of the remains of antique sculpture had, in contributing to form Niccolò Pisano, indirectly helped to form Giotto; the very painter of the Triumph of Death had inserted into his terrible fresco two-winged genii, upholding a scroll, copied without any alteration from some coarse Roman sarcophagus, in which they may have sustained the usual _Dis Manibus Sacrum_. There had been, on the part of both sculptors and painters, a constant study of the antique; but during the Giottesque period this study had been limited to technicalities, and had in no way affected the conception of art. The mediæval artists, surrounded by physical deformities, and seeing sanctity in sickness and dirt, little accustomed to observe the human figure, were incapable, both as men and as artists, of at all entering into the spirit of antique art. They could not perceive the superior beauty of the antique; they could recognize only its superior science and its superior handicraft, and these alone they studied to obtain. Giovanni Pisano sculpturing the unfleshed, caried carcases of the devils who leer, writhe, crunch, and tear on the outside of Orvieto Cathedral; and the Giottesques painting those terrible green, macerated Christs, hanging livid and broken from the cross, which abound in Tuscany and Umbria; the artists who produced these loathsome and lugubrious works were indubitably students of the antique; but they had learned from it not a love for beautiful form and noble drapery, but merely the general shape of the limbs and the general fall of the garments: the anatomical science and technical processes of Antiquity were being used to produce the most intensely un-antique, the most intensely mediæval works. Thus matters stood in the time of Giotto. His followers, who studied only arrangement, probably consulted the antique as little as they consulted nature; but the contemporary sculptors were brought by the very constitution of their art into close contact both with Nature and with the antique; they studied both with determination, and handed over the results of their labours to the sculptor-taught painters of the fifteenth century. Here, then, were the two great factors in the art of the Renaissance--the study of nature, and the study of the Antique: both understand slowly, imperfectly; the one counteracting the effect of the other; the study of nature now scaring away all antique influence, the study of the antique now distorting all imitation of nature; rival forces confusing the artist and marring the work, until, when each could receive its due, the one corrected the other, and they combined, producing by this marriage of the living reality with the dead but immortal beauty, the great art of Michael Angelo, of Raphael, and of Titian: double, like its origin, antique and modern, real and ideal. The study of the antique is thus placed opposite to the study of nature, the comprehension of the works of Antiquity is the momentary antagonist of the comprehension of the works of nature. And this may seem strange, when we consider that antique art was itself due to perfect comprehension of nature. But the contradiction is easily explained. The study of nature, as it was carried on in the Renaissance, comprised the study of effects which had remained unnoticed by Antiquity; and the study of the statue,--colourless, without light, shade, or perspective, hampered, and was hampered by, the study of colour, of light and shade, of perspective, and of all that a generation of painters would seek to learn from nature. Nor was this all; the influence of the civilization of the Renaissance, of a civilization directly issued from the Middle Ages, was entirely at variance with the influence of antique civilization through the medium of ancient art; the Middle Ages and Antiquity, Christianity and Paganism, were even more opposed to each other than could be the statue and the easel picture, the fresco and the bas-relief. First, then, we have the hostility between painting--and sculpture, between the _modus operandi_ of the modern and the _modus operandi_ of the ancient art. Antique art is, in the first place, purely linear art, colourless, tintless, without light and shade; next, it is essentially the art of the isolated figure, without background, grouping, or perspective. As linear art it could directly affect only that branch of painting which was itself linear; and as art of the isolated figure it was ever being contradicted by the constantly developing arts of perspective and landscape. The antique never' directly influenced the Venetians, not from reasons of geography and culture, but from the fact that Venetian painting, founded from the earliest times upon a system of colour, could not be affected by antique sculpture, based upon a system of modelled, colourless form; the men who saw form only through the medium of colour could not learn much from purely linear form; hence it is that even after a certain amount of antique imitation had passed into Venetian painting, through the medium of Mantegna, the Venetian painters display comparatively little antique influence. In Bellini, Carpaccio, Cima, and other early masters, the features, forms, and dress are mainly modern and Venetian; and Giorgione, Titian, and even the eclectic Tintoret, were more interested in the bright lights of a steel breastplate than in the shape of a limb; and preferred in their hearts a shot brocade of the sixteenth century to the finest drapery ever modelled by an ancient. The antique influence was naturally strongest among the Tuscan schools; because the Tuscan schools were essentially schools of drawing, and the draughtsman recognized in antique sculpture the highest perfection of that linear form which was his own domain. Yet while the antique appealed most to the linear schools, even in these it could strongly influence only the purely linear part; it is strong in the drawings and weak in the paintings. As long as the artists had only the pencil or pen, they could reproduce much of the linear perfection of the antique; they were, so to speak, alone with it; but as soon as they brought in colour, perspective, and scenery, the linear perfection was lost in attempts at something new; the antique was put to flight by the modern. Botticelli's crayon study for his Venus is almost antique; his tempera picture of Venus, with the pale blue scaly sea, the laurel grove, the flower-embroidered garments, the wisps of tawny hair, is comparatively mediæval; Pinturicchio's sketch of Pans and satyrs contrasts strangely with his frescoes in the library of Siena; Mantegna himself, supernaturally antique in his engravings, becomes comparatively trivial and modern in his oil-paintings. Do what they might, draw from the antique and calculate its proportions, the artists of the Renaissance found themselves baffled as soon as they attempted to apply the result of then linear studies to coloured pictures; as soon as they tried to make the antique unite with the modern, one of the two elements was sure to succumb. In Botticelli, draughtsman and student though he was, the modern, the mediæval, that part of the art which had arisen in the Middle Ages, invariably had the upper hand; his Venus, despite her forms studied from the antique and her gesture imitated from some earlier discovered copy of the Medicean Venus, has the woe-begone prudery of a Madonna or of an abbess; she shivers physically and morally in her unaccustomed nakedness, and the goddess of Spring, who comes skipping up from beneath the laurel copse, does well to prepare her a mantle, for in the pallid tempera colour, against the dismal background of rippled sea, this mediæval Venus, at once indecent and prudish, is no very pleasing sight. In the Allegory of Spring in the Academy of Florence, we again have the antique; goddesses and nymphs whose clinging garments the gentle Sandro Botticelli has assuredly studied from some old statue of Agrippina or Faustina; but what strange livid tints are there beneath those draperies, what eccentric gestures are those of the nymphs, what a green, ghostlike light illumines this garden of Venus Are these goddesses and nymphs immortal women such as the ancients conceived, or are they not rather fantastic fairies or nixen, Titanias and Undines, incorporeal daughters of dew and gossamer and mist? In Sandro Botticelli the teachings of the statue are forgotten or distorted when the artist takes up his palette and brushes; in his greater contemporary, Andrea Mantegna, the ever-present antique chills and arrests the vitality of the modern. Mantegna, the pupil of the ancient marbles of Squarcione's workshop even more than the pupil of Donatello, studies for his paintings not from nature, but from sculpture; his figures are seen in strange projection and foreshortening, like figures in a high relief seen from below; despite his mastery of perspective, they seem hewn out of the background; despite the rich colours which he displays in his Veronese altar-piece, they look like painted marbles, with their hard clots of stonelike hair and beard, with their vacant glance and their wonderful draperies, clinging and weighty like the wet draperies of ancient sculpture. They are beautiful petrifactions, or vivified statues; Mantegna's masterpiece, the sepia "Judith" in Florence, is like an exquisite, pathetically lovely Eurydice, who has stepped unconscious and lifeless out of a Praxitelian bas-relief. And there are stranger works than even the Judith; strange statuesque fancies, like the fight of Marine Monsters and the Bacchanal among Mantegna's engravings. The group of three wondrous creatures, at once men, fish, and gods, is as grand and even more fantastic than Leonardo's Battle of the Standard: a Triton, sturdy and muscular, with sea-weed beard and hair, wheels round his finned horse, preparing to strike his adversary with a bunch of fish which he brandishes above him; on him is rushing, careering on an osseous sea-horse, a strange, lank, sinewy being, fury stretching every tendon, his long-clawed feet striking into the flanks of his steed, his sharp, reed-crowned head turned fiercely, with clenched teeth, on his opponent, and stretching forth a truncheon, ready to run down his enemy as a ship runs down another; and further off a young Triton, with clotted hair and heavy eyes, seems ready to sink wounded below the rippling wavelets, with the massive head and marble agony of the dying Alexander; enigmatic figures, grand and grotesque, lean, haggard, vehement, and yet, in the midst of violence and monstrosity, unaccountably antique. The other print, called the Bacchanal, has no background: half a dozen male figures stand separate and naked as in a bas-relief. Some are leaning against a vine-wreathed tub; a satyr, with acanthus-leaves growing wondrously out of him, half man, half plant, is emptying a cup; a heavy Silenus is prone upon the ground; a faun, seated upon the vat, is supporting in his arms a beautiful sinking youth; another youth, grand, muscular, and grave as a statue, stands on the further side. Is this really a bacchanal? Yes, for there is the paunchy Silenus, there are the fauns, there the vat and vine-wreaths and drinking-horns. And yet it cannot be a bacchanal. Compare with it one of Rubens's orgies, where the overgrown, rubicund men and women and fauns tumble about in tumultuous, riotous intoxication: that is a bacchanal; they have been drinking, those magnificent brutes, there is wine firing their blood and weighing down their heads. But here all is different, in this so-called Bacchanal of Mantegna. This heavy Silenus is supine like a mass of marble; these fauns are shy and mute; these youths are grave and sombre; there is no wine in the cups, there are no lees in the vat, there is no life in these magnificent colossal forms; there is no blood in their grandly bent lips, no light in their wide-opened eyes; it is not the drowsiness of intoxication which is weighing down the youth sustained by the faun; it is no grapejuice which gives that strange, vague glance. No; they have drunk, but not of any mortal drink; the grapes are grown in Persephone's garden, the vat contains no fruits that have ripened beneath our sun. These strange, mute, solemn revellers have drunk of Lethe, and they are growing cold with the cold of death and of marble; they are the ghosts of the dead ones of antiquity, revisiting the artist of the Renaissance, who paints them, thinking he is painting life, while that which he paints is in reality death. This anomaly, this unsatisfactory character of the works of both Botticelli and Mantegna, is mainly technical; the antique is frustrated in Botticelli, not so much by the Christian, the mediæval, the modern mode of feeling, as by the new methods and aims of the new art which disconcert the methods and aims of the old art; and that which arrests Mantegna in his development as a painter is not the spirit of Paganism deadening the spirit of Christianity, but the laws of sculpture hampering painting. But this technical contest between two arts, the one not yet fully developed, the other not yet fully understood, is as nothing compared with the contest between the two civilizations, the antique and the modern; between the habits and tendencies of the contemporaries of the artists of the Renaissance and of the artists themselves, and the habits and tendencies of the antique artists and their contemporaries. We are apt to think of the Renaissance as of a period closely resembling antiquity, misled by the inevitable similarity between southern and democratic countries of whatever age; misled still less pardonably by the Ciceronian pedantries and pseudo-antique obscenities of a few humanists, and by the pseudo-Corinthian arabesques and capitals of a few learned architects. But all this was mere archaeological finery borrowed by a civilization in itself entirely unlike that of ancient Greece. The Renaissance, let us remember, was merely the flowering time of that great mediæval movement which had germinated early in the twelfth century; it was merely a more advanced stage of the civilization which had produced Dante and Giotto, of the civilization which was destined to produce Luther and Rabelais. The fifteenth century was merely the continuation of the fourteenth century, as the fourteenth had been of the thirteenth; there had been growth and improvement; development of the more modern, diminishing of the more mediæval elements; but, despite growth and the changes due to growth, the Renaissance was part and parcel of the Middle Ages. The life, thought, aspirations, and habits were mediæval; opposed to the open-air life, the physical training and the materialistic religion of Antiquity. The surroundings of Masaccio and of Signorelli, nay, even of Raphael, were very different from those of Phidias or Praxiteles. Let us think what were the daily and hourly impressions given by the Renaissance to its artists. Large towns, in which thousands of human beings were crowded together, in narrow, gloomy streets, with but a strip of blue visible between the projecting roofs; and in these cities an incessant commercial activity, with no relief save festivals at the churches, brawls at the taverns, and carnival buffooneries. Men and women pale and meagre for want of air, and light, and movement; undeveloped, untrained bodies, warped by constant work at the loom or at the desk, at best with the lumpish freedom of the soldier and the vulgar nimbleness of the prentice. And these men and women dressed in the dress of the Middle Ages, gorgeous perhaps in colour, but heavy, miserable, grotesque, nay, sometimes ludicrous in form; citizens in lumpish robes and long-tailed caps; ladies in stiff and foldless brocade hoops and stomachers; artizans in striped and close-adhering hose and egg-shaped padded jerkin; soldiers in lumbering armour-plates, ill-fitted over ill-fitting leather, a shapeless shell of iron, bulging out and angular, in which the body was buried as successfully as in the robes of the magistrates. Thus we see the men and women of the Renaissance in the works of all its painters: heavy in Ghirlandajo, vulgarly jaunty in Filippino, preposterously starched and prim in Mantegna, ludicrously undignified in Signorelli; while mediæval stiffness, awkwardness, and absurdity reach their acme perhaps in the little boys, companions of the Medici children, introduced into Benozzo Gozzoli's Building of Babel. These are the prosperous townsfolk, among whom the Renaissance artist is but too glad to seek for models; but besides these there are lamentable sights, mediæval beyond words, at every street corner: dwarfs and cripples, maimed and diseased beggars of all degrees of loathsomeness, lepers and epileptics, and infinite numbers of monks, brown, grey, and black, in sack-shaped frocks and pointed hoods, with shaven crown and cropped beard, emaciated with penance or bloated with gluttony. And all this the painter sees, daily, hourly; it is his standard of humanity, and as such finds its way into every picture. It is the living; but opposite it arises the dead. Let us turn aside from the crowd of the mediæval city, and look at what the workmen have just laid bare, or what the merchant has just brought from Rome or from Greece. Look at this: it is corroded by oxides, battered by ill-usage, stained with earth: it is not a group, not even a whole statue, it has neither head nor arms remaining; it is a mere broken fragment of antique sculpture,--a naked body with a fold or two of drapery; it is not by Phidias nor by Praxiteles, it may not even be Greek; it may be some cheap copy, made for a garden or a bath, in the days of Hadrian. But to the artist of the fifteenth century it is the revelation of a whole world, a world in itself. We can scarcely realize all this; but let us look and reflect, and even we may feel as must have felt the man of the Renaissance in the presence of that mutilated, stained, battered torso. He sees in that broken stump a grandeur of outline, a magnificence of osseous structure, a breadth of muscle and sinew, a smooth, firm covering of flesh, such as he would vainly seek in any of his living models; he sees a delicate and infinite variety of indentures, of projections, of creases following the bend of every limb; he sees, where the surface still exists intact, an elasticity of skin, a buoyancy of hidden life such as all the colours of his palette are unable to imitate; and in this piece of drapery, negligently gathered over the hips or rolled upon the arm, he sees a magnificent alternation of large folds and small plaits, of straight lines, and broken lines, and curves. He sees all this; but he sees more: the broken torso is, as we have said, not merely a world in itself, but the revelation of a world. It is the revelation of antique civilization, of the palaestra and the stadium, of the sanctification of the body, of the apotheosis of man, of the religion of life and nature and joy; revealed to the man of the Middle Ages, who has hitherto seen in the untrained, diseased, despised body but a deformed piece of baseness, which his priests tell him belongs to the worms and to Satan; who has been taught that the monk living in solitude and celibacy, filthy, sick, worn out with fastings and bleeding with flagellation, is the nearest approach to divinity; who has seen Divinity itself, pale, emaciated, joyless, hanging bleeding from the cross; and who is for ever reminded that the kingdom of this Godhead is not of this world. What passes in the mind of that artist? What surprise, what dawning doubts, what sickening fears, what longings and what remorse are not the fruit of this sight of Antiquity? Is he to yield or to resist? Is he to forget the saints and Christ, and give himself over to Satan and to Antiquity? Only one man boldly answered, Yes. Mantegna abjured his faith, abjured the Middle Ages, abjured all that belonged to his time; and in so doing cast away from him the living art and became the lover, the worshipper of shadows. And only one man turned completely aside from the antique as from the demon, and that man was a saint, Fra Angelico da Fiesole. And with the antique, Fra Angelico rejected all the other artistic influences and aims of his time, the time not of Giotto or of Orcagna, but of Masaccio and Uccello, of Pollaiolo and Donatello. For the mild, meek, angelic monk dreaded the life of his days; dreaded to leave the cloister where the sunshine was tempered and the noise reduced to a mere faint hum, and where the flower-beds were tidy and prim; dreaded to soil or rumple his spotless white robe and his shining black cowl; a spiritual sybarite, shrinking from the sight of the crowd seething in the streets, shrinking from the idea of stripping the rags off the beggar in order to see his tanned and gnarled limbs; shuddering at the thought of seeking for muscles in the dead, cut-open body; fearful of every whiff of life that might mingle with the incense atmosphere of his chapel, of every cry of human passion which might break through the well-ordered sweetness of his chants. No; the Renaissance did not exist for him who lived in a world of diaphanous form, colour and character, unsubstantial and unruffled; dreaming feebly and sweetly of transparent-cheeked Madonnas with no limbs beneath their robes; of smooth-faced saints with well-combed beard and placid, vacant gaze, seated in well-ordered masses, holy with the purity of inanity; of divine dolls with pallid flaxen locks, floating between heaven and earth, playing upon lute and viol and psaltery; raised to faint visions of angels and blessed, moving noiseless, feelingless, meaningless, across the flowerets of Paradise; of assemblies of saints seated, arrayed in pure pink, and blue and lilac, in an atmosphere of liquid gold, in glory. And thus Fra Angelico worked on, content with the dearly purchased science of his masters, placid, beatic, effeminate, in an æsthetical paradise of his own, a paradise of sloth and sweetness, a paradise for weak souls, weak hearts, and weak eyes; patiently repeating the same fleshless angels, the same boneless saints, the same bloodless virgins; happy in smoothing the unmixed, unshaded tints of the sky, and earth, and dresses; laying on the gold of the fretted skies, and of the iridescent wings, embroidering robes, instruments of music, halos, flowers, with threads of gold.... Sweet, simple artist saint, reducing art to--something akin to the delicate pearl and silk embroidery of pious nuns, to the exquisite sweetmeat cookery of pious monks; a something too delicately gorgeous, too deliciously insipid for human wear or human food; no, the Renaissance does not exist for thee, either in its study of the existing reality, or in its study of antique beauty. Mantegna, the learned, the archæological, the pagan, who renounces his times and his faith; and Angelico, the monk, the saint, who shuts and bolts his monastery doors and sprinkles holy water in the face of the antique; the two extremes, are both exceptions. The innumerable artists of the Renaissance remained in hesitation; tried to court both the antique and the modern, to unite the Pagan and the Christian--some, like Ghirlandajo, in cold indifference to all but mere artistic science, encrusting marble bacchanals into the walls of the Virgin's paternal house, bringing together, unthinkingly, antique-draped women carrying baskets, and noble Strozzi and Ruccellai ladies with gloved hands folded over their gold brocaded skirts; others, with cheerful and childlike pleasure in both antique and modern, like Benozzo, crowding together half-naked youths and nymphs treading the grapes and scaling the trellise with Florentine magnificos in plaited skirts and starched collars, among the pines, and porticos, the sprawling children, barking dogs, peacocks sunning themselves, and partridges picking up grain, of his Pisan frescoes; yet others using the antique as mere pageant shows, allegorical mummeries, destined to amuse some Duke of Ferrara or Marquis of Mantua, together with the hurdle races of Jews, hags, and riderless donkeys. Thus little by little the antique amalgamates with the modern; the art born of the Middle Ages absorbs the art born of Paganism; but how slowly, and with what fantastic and ludicrous results at first; as when the anatomical sculptor Pollaiolo gives scenes of naked Roman prize-fighters as martyrdoms of St. Sebastian; or when the pious Perugino (pious at least with his brush) dresses up his sleek, hectic, beardless archangels as Roman warriors, and makes them stand, straddling beatically on thin little dapper legs, wistfully gazing from beneath their wondrously ornamented helmets on the walls of the Cambio at Perugia; when he masquerades meditative fathers of the Church as Socrates and haggard anchorites as Numa Pompilius; most ludicrous of all, when he attires in scantiest of--clinging antique drapery his mild and pensive Madonnas, and, with daintily pointed toes, places them to throne bashfully on allegorical chariots as Venus or Diana. Long is the period of amalgamation, and small are the results throughout that long early Renaissance. Mantegna, Piero della Francesca, Melozzo, Ghirlandajo, Filippino, Botticelli, Verrocchio, have none of them shown us the perfect fusion of the two elements whose union is to give us Michael Angelo, Raphael, and all the great perfect artists of the early sixteenth century; the two elements are for ever ill-combined and hostile to each other; the modern vulgarizes the antique, the antique paralyzes the modern. And meanwhile the fifteenth century, the century of study, of conflict, and of confusion, is rapidly drawing to a close; eight or ten more years, and it will be gone. Is the new century to find the antique still dead and the modern still mediæval? The antique and the modern had met for the first time and as irreconcilable enemies in the cloisters of Pisa; and the modern had triumphed in the great mediæval fresco of the Triumph of Death. By a strange coincidence, by a sublime jest of accident, the antique and the modern were destined to meet again, and this time indissolubly united, in a painting representing the Resurrection. Yes, Signorelli's fresco in Orvieto Cathedral is indeed a resurrection, the resurrection of human beauty after the long death-slumber of the Middle Ages. And the artist would seem to have been dimly conscious of the great allegory he was painting. Here and there are strewn skulls; skeletons stand leering by, as if in remembrance of the ghastly past, and as a token of former death; but magnificent youths are breaking through the crust of the earth, emerging, taking shape and flesh; arising, strong and proud, ready to go forth at the bidding of the Titanic angels who announce from on high with trumpet blast and waving banners, that the death of the world has come to an end, and that humanity has arisen once more in the youth and beauty of Antiquity. II. Signorelli's frescoes at Orvieto, at once the latest works of the fifteenth century, and the latest works of an old man nurtured in the traditions of Benozzo Gozzoli and of Piero della Francesca, mark the beginning of the maturity and perfection of Italian art. From them Michael Angelo learns what he could not be taught even by his master Ghirlandajo, the grand and cold realist. He learns; and what he has learned at Orvieto he teaches with doubled force in Rome; and the ceiling of the Sixtine Chapel, the superb and heroic nudities, the majestic draperies, the reappearance in the modern art of painting of the spirit and hand of Phidias, give a new impulse and hasten on perfection. When the doors of the chapel are at length opened, Raphael forgets Perugino; Fra Bartolomeo forgets Botticelli; Sodoma forgets Leonardo; the narrower hesitating styles of the fifteenth century are abandoned, as the great example is disseminated throughout Italy; and even the tumult of angels in glory which the Lombard Correggio is to paint in far-off Parma, and the daringly simple Bacchus and Ariadne with which Tintoret will decorate the Ducal Palace more than fifty years later--all that is great and bold, all that is a re-incarnation of the spirit of Antiquity, all that marks the culmination of Renaissance art, seems due to the impulse of Michael Angelo, and, through him, to the example of Signorelli. From the celestial horseman and bounding avenging angels of Raphael's Heliodorus, to the St. Sebastian of Sodoma, with exquisite limbs and head, rich with tendril-like locks, delicate against the brown Umbrian sunset; from the Madonna of Andrea del Sarto seated, with the head and drapery of a Niobe, by the sack of flour in the Annunziata cloister, to the voluptuous goddess, with purple mantle half concealing her body of golden white, who leans against the sculptured fountain in Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, with the greenish blue sky and hazy light of evening behind her; from the most extreme examples of the most extreme schools of Lombardy and Venetia, to the most intense examples of the remotest schools of Tuscany and Umbria; throughout the art of the early sixteenth century, of those thirty years which were the years of perfection, we see, more or less marked, but always distinct, the union of the living art born of the Middle Ages with the dead art left by Antiquity, a union producing life and perfection, producing the great art of the Renaissance. This much is clear and easy of definition; but what is neither clearly understood nor easily defined is the nature of this union, the manner in which the antique and the modern did thus amalgamate. It is easy to speak of a vague union of spirit, of the antique idea having permeated the modern; but all this explains but little: art is not a metaphysical figment, and all its phases and revolutions are concrete, and, so to speak, physically explicable and definable. The union of the antique with the modern meant simply the absorption by the art of the Renaissance of elements of civilization necessary for its perfection, but not existing in the medieval civilization of the fifteenth century; of elements of civilization which gave what the civilization of the fifteenth century--which could give colour, perspective, grouping, and landscape--could never have afforded: the nude, drapery, and gesture. The naked human body, which the Greeks had trained, studied, and idolized, did not exist in the fifteenth century; in its stead there was only the undressed body, ill-developed, untrained, pinched, and distorted by the garments only just cast off; cramped and bent by sedentary occupations, livid with the plague-spots of the Middle Ages, scarred by the whipmarks of asceticism. This stripped body, unseen and unfit to be seen, unaccustomed to the air and to the eyes of others, shivered and cowered for cold and for shame. The Giottesques ignored its very existence, conceiving humanity as a bodiless creature, with face and hands to express emotion, and just enough malformed legs and feet to be either standing or moving; further, beneath the garments, there was nothing. The realists of the fifteenth century tore off the clothes and drew the ugly thing beneath; and bought the corpses from the lazar-houses, and stole them from the gallows; in order to see how bone fitted into bone, and muscle was stretched over muscle. They learned to perfection the anatomy of the human frame, but they could not learn its beauty; they became even reconciled to the ugliness they were accustomed to see; and, with their minds full of antique examples, Verrocchio, Donatello, Pollaiolo, and Ghirlandajo, the greatest anatomists of the fifteenth century, imitated their coarse and ill-made living models when they imagined that they were imitating antique marbles. So much for the nude. Drapery, as the ancients understood it in the delicate plaits of Greek chiton and tunic, in the grand folds of Roman toga, the fifteenth century could not show; it knew only the stiff, scanty raiment of the active classes; the shapeless masses of lined cloth of the merchants and magistrates; the prudish and ostentatious starched dress of the women; and the coarse, lumpish garb of the monks. The artist of the fifteenth century knew drapery only as an exotic, an exotic with whose representation the habit of seeing mediæval costume was for ever interfering; on the stripped, unseemly, indecent body he places, with the stiffness of artificiality, drapery such as he has never seen upon any living creature; the result is awkwardness and rigidity. And what attitude, what gesture, can he expect from this stripped and artificially draped model? None, for the model scarce knows how to stand in so unaccustomed a condition of body. The artist must seek for attitude and gesture among his townsfolk, and among them he can find only trivial, awkward, often vulgar movement. They have never been taught how to stand or to move with grace and dignity; the artist must study attitude and gesture in the market-place or the bull-baiting ground, where Ghirlandajo found his jauntily strutting idlers, and Verrocchio his brutally staggering prize-fighters. Between the constrained attitudinizing of Byzantine and Giottesque tradition, and the imitation of the movements of clodhoppers and ragamuffins, the realist of the fifteenth century would wander hopelessly were it not for the antique. Genius and science are of no avail; the position of Christ in baptism in the paintings of Verrocchio and Ghirlandajo is mean and servile; the movements of the "Thunder-stricken" in Signorelli's lunettes is an inconceivable mixture of the brutish, the melodramatic, and the comic; the magnificently drawn youth at the door of the prison in Filippino's Liberation of St. Peter is gradually going to sleep and collapsing in a fashion which is truly ignoble. And the same applies to sculptured figures or to figures standing isolated like statues; no Greek would have ventured upon the swaggering position, with legs apart and elbows out, of Donatello's St. George, or Perugino's St. Michael; and a young Athenian who should have assumed the attitude of Verrocchio's David, with tripping legs and hand clapped on his hip, would have been sent to sit in a corner as a saucy little ragamuffin. Coarse nude, stiff drapery, vulgar attitude, was all that the fifteenth century could offer to its artists; but Antiquity could offer more and very different things: the naked body developed by the most artistic training, drapery the most natural and refined, and attitude and gesture regulated by an education the most careful and artistic; and all these things Antiquity did give to the artists of the Renaissance. They did not copy antique statues as living naked men and women, but they corrected the faults of their living models by the example of the statues; they did not copy antique stone draperies in coloured pictures, but they arranged the robes on their models with the antique folds well in their memory; they did not give the gestures of statues to living figures, but they made the living figures move in accordance with those principles of harmony which they had found exemplified in the statues. They did not imitate the antique, they studied it; they obtained through the fragments of antique sculpture a glimpse into the life of antiquity, and that glimpse served to correct the vulgarism and distortion of the mediæval life of the fifteenth century. In the perfection of Italian painting, the union of antique and modern being consummated, it is perhaps difficult to disentangle what really is antique from what is modern; but in the earlier times, when the two elements were still separate, we can see them opposite each other and compare them in the works of the greatest artists. Wherever, in the paintings of the early Renaissance, there is realism, marked by the costume of the times, there is ugliness of form and vulgarity of movement; where there is idealism, marked by imitation of the antique, the nude, and drapery, there is beauty and dignity. We need only compare Filippino's Scene before the Proconsul with his Raising of the King's Son in the Brancacci Chapel; the grand attitude and draperies of Ghirlandajo's Zachariah with the vulgar dress and movements of the Florentine citizens surrounding him; Benozzo Gozzoli's noble naked figure of Noah with his ungainly, hideously dressed figure of Cosimo de' Medici; Mantegna's exquisite Judith with his preposterous Marquis of Mantua; in short, all the purely realistic with all the purely idealistic painting of the fifteenth century. We may give one last instance. In Signorelli's Orvieto frescoes there is a figure of a young man, with aquiline features, long crisp hair and strongly developed throat, which reappears unmistakably in all the compositions, and in some of them twice and thrice in various positions. His naked figure is magnificent, his attitudes splendid, his thrown-back head superb, whether he be slowly and painfully emerging from the earth, staggered and gasping with his newly infused life, or sinking oppressed on the ground, broken and crushed by the sound of the trumpet of judgment; or whether he be moving forward with ineffable longing towards the angel about to award him the crown of the blessed; in all these positions he is heroically beautiful. We meet him again, unmistakable, but how different, in the realistic group of the "Thunder-stricken "--the long, lank youth, with spindle-shanks and egg-shaped body, bounding forward, with most grotesque strides, over the uncouth heap of dead bodies, ungainly masses with soles and nostrils uppermost, lying in beast-like confusion. This youth, with something of a harlequin in his jumps and his ridiculous thin legs and preposterous round body, is evidently the model for the naked demi-gods of the Resurrection and the Paradise: he is the handsome boy as the fifteenth century gave him to Signorelli; opposite, he is the living youth of the fifteenth century idealized by the study of ancient sculpture; just as the "Thunder-stricken" may be some scene of street massacre such as Signorelli might have witnessed at Cortona or Perugia; while the agonies of the "Hell" are the grouped and superb agonies taught by the antique; just as the two archangels of the "Hell," in their armour of Baglioni's heavy cavalry, may represent the modern element, and the same archangels, naked, with magnificent flying draperies, blowing the trumpets of the Resurrection, may show the antique element in Renaissance art. The antique influence was not, indeed, equally strong throughout Italy; it was strongest in the Tuscan school, which, seeking for perfection of linear form, found that perfection in the antique; it was weakest in the Lombard and Venetian schools, which sought for what the antique could not give, light and shade and colour; the antique was most efficacious where it was most indispensable, and it was more necessary to a Tuscan, strong only with his charcoal or pencil, than to Leonardo da Vinci, who could make an imperfect figure, beckoning mysteriously from out of the gloom, more fascinating than the finest drawn Florentine Madonna, and could surround an insignificant childish head with the wondrous sheen and ripple of hair, as with an aureole of poetry; it was also less necessary to Giorgione and Titian, who could hide coarse limbs beneath their draperies of precious ruby, and transfigure, by the liquid gold of their palettes, a peasant woman into a goddess. But even the Lombards, even the Venetians, required the antique influence. They could not perhaps have obtained it direct like the Tuscans: the colourists and masters of light and shade might never have understood the blank lines and faint shadows of the marble; but they received the antique influence, strong but modified by the medium through which it had passed, from Mantegna; and the relentless self-sacrifice to Antiquity, the self-paralyzation of the great artist, was not without its use: from Venetian Padua, Mantegna influenced the Bellini and Giorgione; from Lombard Mantua, he influenced Leonardo; and Mantegna's influence was that of the antique. What would have been the art of the Renaissance without the antique? The speculation is vain, for the antique had influenced it, had been goading it on ever since the earliest times; it had been present at its birth, it had affected Giotto through Niccolò Pisano, and Masaccio through Ghiberti; the antique influence cannot be conceived as absent in the history of Italian painting. So far, as a study of the impossible, the speculation respecting the fate of Renaissance art had it not been influenced by the antique would be childishly useless. But lest we forget that this antique influence did exist, lest, grown ungrateful and blind, we refuse it its immense share in producing Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian, we may do well to turn to an art born and bred like Italian art, in the Middle Ages; like it, full of strength and power of self-development, but which, unlike Italian art, was not influenced by the antique. This art is the great German art of the early sixteenth century; the art of Martin Schongauer, of Aldegrever, of Altdorfer, of Wohlgemuth, of Kranach, of Albrecht Dürer and Hans Holbein, whom they resemble as Pinturicchio and Lo Spagna resemble Perugino, as Palma and Paris Bordone resemble Titian. This is an art born in a civilization less perfect indeed than that of Italy, narrower, as Nürnberg or Basle is narrower than Florence; but resembling it in habits, dress, religion, above all, the main characteristic of being mediæval; and its masters, as great as their Italian contemporaries in all the technicalities of the art, and In absolute honesty of endeavour, may show what the Italian art of the sixteenth century might have been without the antique. Let us therefore open a portfolio of those wonderful minute yet grand engravings of the old Germans. They are for the most part Scriptural scenes or allegories, quite analogous to those of the Italians, but purely realistic, conscious of no world beyond that of an Imperial City of the year 1520. Here we have the whole turn-out, male and female, of a German free-town, in the shape of scenes from the lives of the Virgin and saints; here are short fat burghers, with enormous blotchy, bloated faces and little eyes set in fat, their huge stomachs protruding from under their jackets; here are blear-eyed ladies, tall, thin, wrinkled though not old, with figures like hungry harpies, stalking about in high headgears and stiff gowns, or sitting by the side of lean and stunted pages, singing (with dolorous voice) to lutes; or promenading under trees with long-shanked, high-shouldered gentlemen, with vacant sickly face and long scraggy hair and beard, their bony elbows sticking out of their slashed doublets. These courtly figures culminate in Dürer's magnificent plate of the wild man of the woods kissing the hideous, leering Jezebel in her brocade and jewels. These aristocratic women are terrible; prudish, malicious, licentious, never modest because they are always ugly. Even the poor Madonnas, seated in front of village hovels or windmills, smile the smile of starved, sickly sempstresses. It is a stunted, poverty-stricken, plague-sick society, this mediæval society of burghers and burghers' wives; the air seems bad and heavy, and the light wanting physically and morally, in these old free-towns; there is intellectual sickness as well as bodily in those musty gabled houses; the mediæval spirit blights what revival of healthiness may exist in these commonwealths. And feudalism is outside the gates. There are the brutal, leering men-at-arms, in slashed, puffed doublets and heavy armour, face and dress as unhuman as possible, standing grimacing at the blood spirting from John the Baptist's decapitated trunk, as in Kranach's horrible print, while gaping spectators fill the castle-yard; there are the castles high on rocks amidst woods, with miserable villages below, where the Prodigal Son wallows among the swine, and the tattered boors tumble about in drunkenness, or rest wearied on their spades. There are the Middle Ages in full force. But had these Germans of the days of Luther really no thought beyond their own times and their own country? Had they really no knowledge of the antique? Not so; they had heard from their learned men, from Willibald Pirkheimer and Ulrich von Hutten, that the world had once been peopled with naked gods and goddesses. Nay, the very year perhaps that Raphael handed to his engraver, Marc Antonio, his magnificent drawing of the Judgment of Paris, Lukas Kranach bethought him to represent the story of the good Knight Paris giving the apple to the Lady Venus. So Kranach took up his steady pencil and sharp chisel, and in strong, clear, minute lines of black and white showed us the scene. There, on Mount Ida, with a castellated rock in the distance, the charger of Paris browses beneath some stunted larches; the Trojan knight's helmet, with its monstrous beak and plume, lies on the ground; and near it reclines Paris himself, lazy, in complete armour, with frizzled fashionable beard. To him, all wrinkled and grinning with brutal lust, comes another bearded knight, with wings to his vizored helmet, Sir Mercury, leading the three goddesses, short, fat-cheeked German wenches, housemaids stripped of their clothes, stupid, brazen, indifferent. And Paris is evidently prepared with his choice: he awards the apple to the fattest, for among a half-starved, plague-stricken people like this, the chosen of gods and men must needs be the fattest. No, such pagan scenes are mere burlesques, coarse mummeries, such as may have amused Nürnberg and Augsburg during Shrovetide, when drunken louts figured as Bacchus and sang drinking songs by Hans Sachs. There is no reality in all this; there is no belief in pagan gods. If we would see the haunting divinity of the German Renaissance, we shall find him prying and prowling in nearly every scene of real life; him, the ever present, the king of the Middle Ages, whose triumph we have seen on the cloister wall at Pisa, the Lord Death. His fleshless face peers from behind a bush at Zatzinger's stunted, fever-stricken lady and imbecile gentleman; he sits grinning on a tree in Orso Grafs allegory, while the cynical knights, with haggard, sensual faces, crack dirty jokes with the fat, brutish woman squatted below; he puts his hand into the basket of Dürer's tattered pedlar; he leers hideously at the stirrup of Dürer's armed and stalwart knight. No gods of youth and nature, no Hercules, no Hermes, no Venus, have invaded his German territories, as they invaded even his own palace, the burial-ground at Pisa; the antique has not perverted Dürer and his fellows, as it perverted Masaccio and Signorelli and Mantegna, from the mediæval worship of Death. The Italians had seen the antique and had let themselves be seduced by it, despite their civilization and their religion. Let us only rejoice thereat. There are indeed some, and among them the great English critic who is irrefutable when he is a poet, and irrational when he becomes a philosopher;--there are some who tell us that in its union with antique art, the art of the followers of Giotto embraced death, and rotted away ever after. There are others, more moderate but less logical, who would teach us that in uniting with the antique, the mediæval art of the fifteenth century purified and sanctified the beautiful but evil child of Paganism; that the goddess of Scopas and the athlete of Polyclete were raised to a higher sphere when Raphael changed the one into a Madonna, and Michael Angelo metamorphosed the other into a prophet. But both schools of criticism are wrong. Every civilization has its inherent evil; Antiquity had its inherent evils, as the Middle Ages had theirs; Antiquity may have bequeathed to the Renaissance the bad with the good, as the Middle Ages had bequeathed to the Renaissance the good with the bad. But the art of Antiquity was not the evil, it was the good of Antiquity; it was born of its strength and its purity only, and it was the incarnation of its noblest qualities. It could not be purified, because it was spotless; it could not be sanctified, because it was holy. It could gain nothing from the art of the Middle Ages, alternately strong in brutal reality, and languid in mystic inanity; the men of the Renaissance could, if they influenced it at all, influence the antique only for evil; they belonged to an inferior artistic civilization, and if we conscientiously seek for the spiritual improvements brought by them into antique types, we shall see that they consist in spoiling their perfect proportions; in making necks longer and muscles more prominent; in rendering more or less flaccid, or meagre or coarse, the grand and delicate forms of antique art. And when we have examined into this purified art of the Renaissance, when we have compared coolly and equitably, we may perhaps confess that, while the Renaissance added immense wealth of beauty in colour, perspective, and grouping, it took away something of the perfection of simple lines and modest light and shade of the antique; we may admit to ourselves that the grandest saint by Raphael is meagre and stunted; and the noblest Virgin by Titian is overblown and sensual by the side of the demi-gods and amazons of antique sculpture. The antique perfected the art of the Renaissance, it did not corrupt it. The art of the Renaissance fell indeed into shameful degradation soon after the period of its triumphant union with the antique; and Raphael's grand gods and goddesses, his exquisite Eros and radiant Psyche of the Farnesina, are indeed succeeded but too soon by the Olympus of Giulio Romano, an Olympus of harlots and acrobats, who smirk and mouth and wriggle and sprawl ignobly on the walls and ceilings of the dismantled palace which crumbles away among the stunted willows, the stagnant pools, and rank grass of the marshes of Mantua. But this is no more the fault of Antiquity than it is the fault of the Middle Ages; it is the fault of that great principle of life and of change which makes all things organic, be they physical or intellectual, germinate, grow, attain maturity, and then fade, wither, and rot. The dead art of Antiquity could never have brought the art of the Renaissance to an untimely end; the art of the Renaissance decayed because it was mature, and died because it had lived. 
8779	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 1 Cantos 1 - 2 CANTO I IN the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood, astray Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell It were no easy task, how savage wild That forest, how robust and rough its growth, Which to remember only, my dismay Renews, in bitterness not far from death. Yet to discourse of what there good befell, All else will I relate discover'd there. How first I enter'd it I scarce can say, Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd My senses down, when the true path I left, But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread, I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad Already vested with that planet's beam, Who leads all wanderers safe through every way. Then was a little respite to the fear, That in my heart's recesses deep had lain, All of that night, so pitifully pass'd: And as a man, with difficult short breath, Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore, Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits, That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame After short pause recomforted, again I journey'd on over that lonely steep, The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light, And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd, Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove To check my onward going; that ofttimes With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd. The hour was morning's prime, and on his way Aloft the sun ascended with those stars, That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin Of that swift animal, the matin dawn And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd, And by new dread succeeded, when in view A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd, With his head held aloft and hunger-mad, That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd Full of all wants, and many a land hath made Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd, That of the height all hope I lost. As one, Who with his gain elated, sees the time When all unwares is gone, he inwardly Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I, Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace, Who coming o'er against me, by degrees Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests. While to the lower space with backward step I fell, my ken discern'd the form one of one, Whose voice seem'd faint through long disuse of speech. When him in that great desert I espied, "Have mercy on me!" cried I out aloud, "Spirit! or living man! what e'er thou be!" He answer'd: "Now not man, man once I was, And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both By country, when the power of Julius yet Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time Of fabled deities and false. A bard Was I, and made Anchises' upright son The subject of my song, who came from Troy, When the flames prey'd on Ilium's haughty towers. But thou, say wherefore to such perils past Return'st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?" "And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring, From which such copious floods of eloquence Have issued?" I with front abash'd replied. "Glory and light of all the tuneful train! May it avail me that I long with zeal Have sought thy volume, and with love immense Have conn'd it o'er. My master thou and guide! Thou he from whom alone I have deriv'd That style, which for its beauty into fame Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled. O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!" "For every vein and pulse throughout my frame She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw That I was weeping, answer'd, "Thou must needs Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape From out that savage wilderness. This beast, At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death: So bad and so accursed in her kind, That never sated is her ravenous will, Still after food more craving than before. To many an animal in wedlock vile She fastens, and shall yet to many more, Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy Her with sharp pain. He will not life support By earth nor its base metals, but by love, Wisdom, and virtue, and his land shall be The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might Shall safety to Italia's plains arise, For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure, Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell. He with incessant chase through every town Shall worry, until he to hell at length Restore her, thence by envy first let loose. I for thy profit pond'ring now devise, That thou mayst follow me, and I thy guide Will lead thee hence through an eternal space, Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see Spirits of old tormented, who invoke A second death; and those next view, who dwell Content in fire, for that they hope to come, Whene'er the time may be, among the blest, Into whose regions if thou then desire T' ascend, a spirit worthier then I Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart, Thou shalt be left: for that Almighty King, Who reigns above, a rebel to his law, Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed, That to his city none through me should come. He in all parts hath sway; there rules, there holds His citadel and throne. O happy those, Whom there he chooses!" I to him in few: "Bard! by that God, whom thou didst not adore, I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse I may escape) to lead me, where thou saidst, That I Saint Peter's gate may view, and those Who as thou tell'st, are in such dismal plight." Onward he mov'd, I close his steps pursu'd. CANTO II NOW was the day departing, and the air, Imbrown'd with shadows, from their toils releas'd All animals on earth; and I alone Prepar'd myself the conflict to sustain, Both of sad pity, and that perilous road, Which my unerring memory shall retrace. O Muses! O high genius! now vouchsafe Your aid! O mind! that all I saw hast kept Safe in a written record, here thy worth And eminent endowments come to proof. I thus began: "Bard! thou who art my guide, Consider well, if virtue be in me Sufficient, ere to this high enterprise Thou trust me. Thou hast told that Silvius' sire, Yet cloth'd in corruptible flesh, among Th' immortal tribes had entrance, and was there Sensible present. Yet if heaven's great Lord, Almighty foe to ill, such favour shew'd, In contemplation of the high effect, Both what and who from him should issue forth, It seems in reason's judgment well deserv'd: Sith he of Rome, and of Rome's empire wide, In heaven's empyreal height was chosen sire: Both which, if truth be spoken, were ordain'd And 'stablish'd for the holy place, where sits Who to great Peter's sacred chair succeeds. He from this journey, in thy song renown'd, Learn'd things, that to his victory gave rise And to the papal robe. In after-times The chosen vessel also travel'd there, To bring us back assurance in that faith, Which is the entrance to salvation's way. But I, why should I there presume? or who Permits it? not, Aeneas I nor Paul. Myself I deem not worthy, and none else Will deem me. I, if on this voyage then I venture, fear it will in folly end. Thou, who art wise, better my meaning know'st, Than I can speak." As one, who unresolves What he hath late resolv'd, and with new thoughts Changes his purpose, from his first intent Remov'd; e'en such was I on that dun coast, Wasting in thought my enterprise, at first So eagerly embrac'd. "If right thy words I scan," replied that shade magnanimous, "Thy soul is by vile fear assail'd, which oft So overcasts a man, that he recoils From noblest resolution, like a beast At some false semblance in the twilight gloom. That from this terror thou mayst free thyself, I will instruct thee why I came, and what I heard in that same instant, when for thee Grief touch'd me first. I was among the tribe, Who rest suspended, when a dame, so blest And lovely, I besought her to command, Call'd me; her eyes were brighter than the star Of day; and she with gentle voice and soft Angelically tun'd her speech address'd: "O courteous shade of Mantua! thou whose fame Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts! A friend, not of my fortune but myself, On the wide desert in his road has met Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turn'd. Now much I dread lest he past help have stray'd, And I be ris'n too late for his relief, From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now, And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue, And by all means for his deliverance meet, Assist him. So to me will comfort spring. I who now bid thee on this errand forth Am Beatrice; from a place I come (Note: Beatrice. I use this word, as it is pronounced in the Italian, as consisting of four syllables, of which the third is a long one.) Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence, Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell." She then was silent, and I thus began: "O Lady! by whose influence alone, Mankind excels whatever is contain'd Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb, So thy command delights me, that to obey, If it were done already, would seem late. No need hast thou farther to speak thy will; Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth To leave that ample space, where to return Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath." She then: "Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire, I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone Are to be fear'd, whence evil may proceed, None else, for none are terrible beside. I am so fram'd by God, thanks to his grace! That any suff'rance of your misery Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief That hindrance, which I send thee to remove, That God's stern judgment to her will inclines." To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake: "Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid And I commend him to thee." At her word Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe, And coming to the place, where I abode Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days, She thus address'd me: "Thou true praise of God! Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent To him, who so much lov'd thee, as to leave For thy sake all the multitude admires? Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail, Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood, Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?" "Ne'er among men did any with such speed Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, As when these words were spoken, I came here, Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all Who well have mark'd it, into honour brings." "When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes Tearful she turn'd aside; whereat I felt Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she will'd, Thus am I come: I sav'd thee from the beast, Who thy near way across the goodly mount Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee then? Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast Harbour vile fear? why hast not courage there And noble daring? Since three maids so blest Thy safety plan, e'en in the court of heaven; And so much certain good my words forebode." As florets, by the frosty air of night Bent down and clos'd, when day has blanch'd their leaves, Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems; So was my fainting vigour new restor'd, And to my heart such kindly courage ran, That I as one undaunted soon replied: "O full of pity she, who undertook My succour! and thou kind who didst perform So soon her true behest! With such desire Thou hast dispos'd me to renew my voyage, That my first purpose fully is resum'd. Lead on: one only will is in us both. Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord." So spake I; and when he had onward mov'd, I enter'd on the deep and woody way. 
8780	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 2 Cantos 3 - 4 CANTO III "THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. "All hope abandon ye who enter here." Such characters in colour dim I mark'd Over a portal's lofty arch inscrib'd: Whereat I thus: "Master, these words import Hard meaning." He as one prepar'd replied: "Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave; Here be vile fear extinguish'd. We are come Where I have told thee we shall see the souls To misery doom'd, who intellectual good Have lost." And when his hand he had stretch'd forth To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheer'd, Into that secret place he led me on. Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans Resounded through the air pierc'd by no star, That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, Horrible languages, outcries of woe, Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds, Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd, Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. I then, with error yet encompass'd, cried: "O master! What is this I hear? What race Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?" He thus to me: "This miserable fate Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv'd Without or praise or blame, with that ill band Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious prov'd Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe Should glory thence with exultation vain." I then: "Master! what doth aggrieve them thus, That they lament so loud?" He straight replied: "That will I tell thee briefly. These of death No hope may entertain: and their blind life So meanly passes, that all other lots They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, Which whirling ran around so rapidly, That it no pause obtain'd: and following came Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er Have thought, that death so many had despoil'd. When some of these I recogniz'd, I saw And knew the shade of him, who to base fear Yielding, abjur'd his high estate. Forthwith I understood for certain this the tribe Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their cheeks With blood, that mix'd with tears dropp'd to their feet, And by disgustful worms was gather'd there. Then looking farther onwards I beheld A throng upon the shore of a great stream: Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem So eager to pass o'er, as I discern Through the blear light?" He thus to me in few: "This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive Beside the woeful tide of Acheron." Then with eyes downward cast and fill'd with shame, Fearing my words offensive to his ear, Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech Abstain'd. And lo! toward us in a bark Comes on an old man hoary white with eld, Crying, "Woe to you wicked spirits! hope not Ever to see the sky again. I come To take you to the other shore across, Into eternal darkness, there to dwell In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave These who are dead." But soon as he beheld I left them not, "By other way," said he, "By other haven shalt thou come to shore, Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat Must carry." Then to him thus spake my guide: "Charon! thyself torment not: so 't is will'd, Where will and power are one: ask thou no more." Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, Around whose eyes glar'd wheeling flames. Meanwhile Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang'd, And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words They heard. God and their parents they blasphem'd, The human kind, the place, the time, and seed That did engender them and give them birth. Then all together sorely wailing drew To the curs'd strand, that every man must pass Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, Beck'ning, and each, that lingers, with his oar Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, One still another following, till the bough Strews all its honours on the earth beneath; E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood Cast themselves one by one down from the shore, Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. Thus go they over through the umber'd wave, And ever they on the opposing bank Be landed, on this side another throng Still gathers. "Son," thus spake the courteous guide, "Those, who die subject to the wrath of God, All here together come from every clime, And to o'erpass the river are not loth: For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath past Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, Now mayst thou know the import of his words." This said, the gloomy region trembling shook So terribly, that yet with clammy dews Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast, That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame, Which all my senses conquer'd quite, and I Down dropp'd, as one with sudden slumber seiz'd. CANTO IV BROKE the deep slumber in my brain a crash Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself, As one by main force rous'd. Risen upright, My rested eyes I mov'd around, and search'd With fixed ken to know what place it was, Wherein I stood. For certain on the brink I found me of the lamentable vale, The dread abyss, that joins a thund'rous sound Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep, And thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain Explor'd its bottom, nor could aught discern. "Now let us to the blind world there beneath Descend;" the bard began all pale of look: "I go the first, and thou shalt follow next." Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus: "How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread, Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?" He then: "The anguish of that race below With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way Urges to haste." Onward, this said, he mov'd; And ent'ring led me with him on the bounds Of the first circle, that surrounds th' abyss. Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard Except of sighs, that made th' eternal air Tremble, not caus'd by tortures, but from grief Felt by those multitudes, many and vast, Of men, women, and infants. Then to me The gentle guide: "Inquir'st thou not what spirits Are these, which thou beholdest? Ere thou pass Farther, I would thou know, that these of sin Were blameless; and if aught they merited, It profits not, since baptism was not theirs, The portal to thy faith. If they before The Gospel liv'd, they serv'd not God aright; And among such am I. For these defects, And for no other evil, we are lost;" "Only so far afflicted, that we live Desiring without hope." So grief assail'd My heart at hearing this, for well I knew Suspended in that Limbo many a soul Of mighty worth. "O tell me, sire rever'd! Tell me, my master!" I began through wish Of full assurance in that holy faith, Which vanquishes all error; "say, did e'er Any, or through his own or other's merit, Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?" Piercing the secret purport of my speech, He answer'd: "I was new to that estate, When I beheld a puissant one arrive Amongst us, with victorious trophy crown'd. He forth the shade of our first parent drew, Abel his child, and Noah righteous man, Of Moses lawgiver for faith approv'd, Of patriarch Abraham, and David king, Israel with his sire and with his sons, Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won, And others many more, whom he to bliss Exalted. Before these, be thou assur'd, No spirit of human kind was ever sav'd." We, while he spake, ceas'd not our onward road, Still passing through the wood; for so I name Those spirits thick beset. We were not far On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere Prevailing shin'd. Yet we a little space Were distant, not so far but I in part Discover'd, that a tribe in honour high That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art And science valu'st! who are these, that boast Such honour, separate from all the rest?" He answer'd: "The renown of their great names That echoes through your world above, acquires Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanc'd." Meantime a voice I heard: "Honour the bard Sublime! his shade returns that left us late!" No sooner ceas'd the sound, than I beheld Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps, Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad. When thus my master kind began: "Mark him, Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen, The other three preceding, as their lord. This is that Homer, of all bards supreme: Flaccus the next in satire's vein excelling; The third is Naso; Lucan is the last. Because they all that appellation own, With which the voice singly accosted me, Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge." So I beheld united the bright school Of him the monarch of sublimest song, That o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together short discourse had held, They turn'd to me, with salutation kind Beck'ning me; at the which my master smil'd: Nor was this all; but greater honour still They gave me, for they made me of their tribe; And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band. Far as the luminous beacon on we pass'd Speaking of matters, then befitting well To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot Of a magnificent castle we arriv'd, Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this As o'er dry land we pass'd. Next through seven gates I with those sages enter'd, and we came Into a mead with lively verdure fresh. There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around Majestically mov'd, and in their port Bore eminent authority; they spake Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet. We to one side retir'd, into a place Open and bright and lofty, whence each one Stood manifest to view. Incontinent There on the green enamel of the plain Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight I am exalted in my own esteem. Electra there I saw accompanied By many, among whom Hector I knew, Anchises' pious son, and with hawk's eye Caesar all arm'd, and by Camilla there Penthesilea. On the other side Old King Latinus, seated by his child Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld, Who Tarquin chas'd, Lucretia, Cato's wife Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there; And sole apart retir'd, the Soldan fierce. Then when a little more I rais'd my brow, I spied the master of the sapient throng, Seated amid the philosophic train. Him all admire, all pay him rev'rence due. There Socrates and Plato both I mark'd, Nearest to him in rank; Democritus, Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes, With Heraclitus, and Empedocles, And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage, Zeno, and Dioscorides well read In nature's secret lore. Orpheus I mark'd And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca, Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Galenus, Avicen, and him who made That commentary vast, Averroes. Of all to speak at full were vain attempt; For my wide theme so urges, that ofttimes My words fall short of what bechanc'd. In two The six associates part. Another way My sage guide leads me, from that air serene, Into a climate ever vex'd with storms: And to a part I come where no light shines. 
8781	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 3 Cantos 5 - 6 CANTO V FROM the first circle I descended thus Down to the second, which, a lesser space Embracing, so much more of grief contains Provoking bitter moans. There, Minos stands Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all Who enter, strict examining the crimes, Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath, According as he foldeth him around: For when before him comes th' ill fated soul, It all confesses; and that judge severe Of sins, considering what place in hell Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft Himself encircles, as degrees beneath He dooms it to descend. Before him stand Always a num'rous throng; and in his turn Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl'd. "O thou! who to this residence of woe Approachest?" when he saw me coming, cried Minos, relinquishing his dread employ, "Look how thou enter here; beware in whom Thou place thy trust; let not the entrance broad Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide: "Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way By destiny appointed; so 'tis will'd Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more." Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. Now am I come where many a plaining voice Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd A noise as of a sea in tempest torn By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell With restless fury drives the spirits on Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy. When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans, And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. I understood that to this torment sad The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom Reason by lust is sway'd. As in large troops And multitudinous, when winter reigns, The starlings on their wings are borne abroad; So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls. On this side and on that, above, below, It drives them: hope of rest to solace them Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, Chanting their dol'rous notes, traverse the sky, Stretch'd out in long array: so I beheld Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on By their dire doom. Then I: "Instructor! who Are these, by the black air so scourg'd?"--"The first 'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he replied, "O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice Of luxury was so shameless, that she made Liking be lawful by promulg'd decree, To clear the blame she had herself incurr'd. This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ, That she succeeded Ninus her espous'd; And held the land, which now the Soldan rules. The next in amorous fury slew herself, And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith: Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen." There mark'd I Helen, for whose sake so long The time was fraught with evil; there the great Achilles, who with love fought to the end. Paris I saw, and Tristan; and beside A thousand more he show'd me, and by name Pointed them out, whom love bereav'd of life. When I had heard my sage instructor name Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpower'd By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly I would address those two together coming, Which seem so light before the wind." He thus: "Note thou, when nearer they to us approach." "Then by that love which carries them along, Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind Sway'd them toward us, I thus fram'd my speech: "O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves By fond desire invited, on wide wings And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, Cleave the air, wafted by their will along; Thus issu'd from that troop, where Dido ranks, They through the ill air speeding; with such force My cry prevail'd by strong affection urg'd. "O gracious creature and benign! who go'st Visiting, through this element obscure, Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru'd; If for a friend the King of all we own'd, Our pray'r to him should for thy peace arise, Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. ()f whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth, Is situate on the coast, where Po descends To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. "Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, Entangled him by that fair form, from me Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: Love, that denial takes from none belov'd, Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not. "Love brought us to one death: Caina waits The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their words; At hearing which downward I bent my looks, And held them there so long, that the bard cried: "What art thou pond'ring?" I in answer thus: "Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!" Then turning, I to them my speech address'd. And thus began: "Francesca! your sad fate Even to tears my grief and pity moves. But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs, By what, and how love granted, that ye knew Your yet uncertain wishes?" She replied: "No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand! That kens Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do, As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wished smile, rapturously kiss'd By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, The other wail'd so sorely, that heartstruck I through compassion fainting, seem'd not far From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground. CANTO VI MY sense reviving, that erewhile had droop'd With pity for the kindred shades, whence grief O'ercame me wholly, straight around I see New torments, new tormented souls, which way Soe'er I move, or turn, or bend my sight. In the third circle I arrive, of show'rs Ceaseless, accursed, heavy, and cold, unchang'd For ever, both in kind and in degree. Large hail, discolour'd water, sleety flaw Through the dun midnight air stream'd down amain: Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell. Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange, Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog Over the multitude immers'd beneath. His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard, His belly large, and claw'd the hands, with which He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs, Under the rainy deluge, with one side The other screening, oft they roll them round, A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm Descried us, savage Cerberus, he op'd His jaws, and the fangs show'd us; not a limb Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth Rais'd them, and cast it in his ravenous maw. E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall His fury, bent alone with eager haste To swallow it; so dropp'd the loathsome cheeks Of demon Cerberus, who thund'ring stuns The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain. We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet Upon their emptiness, that substance seem'd. They all along the earth extended lay Save one, that sudden rais'd himself to sit, Soon as that way he saw us pass. "O thou!" He cried, "who through the infernal shades art led, Own, if again thou know'st me. Thou wast fram'd Or ere my frame was broken." I replied: "The anguish thou endur'st perchance so takes Thy form from my remembrance, that it seems As if I saw thee never. But inform Me who thou art, that in a place so sad Art set, and in such torment, that although Other be greater, more disgustful none Can be imagin'd." He in answer thus: "Thy city heap'd with envy to the brim, Ay that the measure overflows its bounds, Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin Of glutt'ny, damned vice, beneath this rain, E'en as thou see'st, I with fatigue am worn; Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these Have by like crime incurr'd like punishment." No more he said, and I my speech resum'd: "Ciacco! thy dire affliction grieves me much, Even to tears. But tell me, if thou know'st, What shall at length befall the citizens Of the divided city; whether any just one Inhabit there: and tell me of the cause, Whence jarring discord hath assail'd it thus?" He then: "After long striving they will come To blood; and the wild party from the woods Will chase the other with much injury forth. Then it behoves, that this must fall, within Three solar circles; and the other rise By borrow'd force of one, who under shore Now rests. It shall a long space hold aloof Its forehead, keeping under heavy weight The other oppress'd, indignant at the load, And grieving sore. The just are two in number, But they neglected. Av'rice, envy, pride, Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all On fire." Here ceas'd the lamentable sound; And I continu'd thus: "Still would I learn More from thee, farther parley still entreat. Of Farinata and Tegghiaio say, They who so well deserv'd, of Giacopo, Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest, who bent Their minds on working good. Oh! tell me where They bide, and to their knowledge let me come. For I am press'd with keen desire to hear, If heaven's sweet cup or poisonous drug of hell Be to their lip assign'd." He answer'd straight: "These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss. If thou so far descendest, thou mayst see them. But to the pleasant world when thou return'st, Of me make mention, I entreat thee, there. No more I tell thee, answer thee no more." This said, his fixed eyes he turn'd askance, A little ey'd me, then bent down his head, And 'midst his blind companions with it fell. When thus my guide: "No more his bed he leaves, Ere the last angel-trumpet blow. The Power Adverse to these shall then in glory come, Each one forthwith to his sad tomb repair, Resume his fleshly vesture and his form, And hear the eternal doom re-echoing rend The vault." So pass'd we through that mixture foul Of spirits and rain, with tardy steps; meanwhile Touching, though slightly, on the life to come. For thus I question'd: "Shall these tortures, Sir! When the great sentence passes, be increas'd, Or mitigated, or as now severe?" He then: "Consult thy knowledge; that decides That as each thing to more perfection grows, It feels more sensibly both good and pain. Though ne'er to true perfection may arrive This race accurs'd, yet nearer then than now They shall approach it." Compassing that path Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse Much more than I relate between us pass'd: Till at the point, where the steps led below, Arriv'd, there Plutus, the great foe, we found. 
31304	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIEVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro," etc._ _VOL. II._ TABLE OF CONTENTS. THE PORTRAIT ART THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO MEDIÆVAL LOVE EPILOGUE APPENDIX * * * * * THE PORTRAIT ART I. Real and Ideal--these are the handy terms, admiring or disapproving, which criticism claps with random facility on to every imaginable school. This artist or group of artists goes in for the real--the upright, noble, trumpery, filthy real; that other artist or group of artists seeks after the ideal--the ideal which may mean sublimity or platitude. We summon every living artist to state whether he is a realist or an idealist; we classify all dead artists as realists or idealists; we treat the matter as if it were one of almost moral importance. Now the fact of the case is that the question of realism and idealism, which we calmly assume as already settled or easy to settle by our own sense of right and wrong, is one of the tangled questions of art-philosophy; and one, moreover, which no amount of theory, but only historic fact, can ever set right. For, to begin with, we find realism and idealism coming before us in different ways and with different meaning and importance. All art which is not addressing (as decrepit art is forced to do) faculties to which it does not spontaneously and properly appeal--all art is decorative, ornamental, idealistic therefore, since it consciously or unconsciously aims, not merely at reproducing the already existing, but at producing something which shall repay the looking at it, something which shall ornament, if not a place, at least our lives; and such making of the ornamental, of the worth looking at, necessarily implies selection and arrangement--that is to say idealism. At the same time, while art aims definitely at being in this sense decorative, art may very possibly aim more immediately at merely reproducing, without, selection or arrangement, the actually existing things of the world; and this in order to obtain the mere power of representation. In short, art which is idealistic as a master will yet be realistic as a scholar: it decorates when it achieves, it copies when it studies. But this is only half the question. Certain whole schools may be described as idealistic, others as realistic, in tendency; and this, not in their study, but in their achievement. One school will obviously be contented with forms the most unselected and vulgar; others will go but little out of their way in search of form-superiority; while yet others, and these we must emphatically call idealistic, are squeamish to the last degree in the choice and adaptation of form, anxious, to get the very best, and make the very best of it. Yet, on thinking over it, we shall find that realistic and idealistic schools are all, in their achievements, equally striving after something which is not the mere reproduction of the already existing as such--striving, in short, after decoration. The pupil of Perugino will, indeed, wait patiently to begin his work until he can find a model fit for a god or goddess; while the fellow-craftsman of Rembrandt will be satisfied with the first dirty old Jew or besotten barmaid that comes to hand. But the realistic Dutchman is not, therefore, any the less smitten with beauty, any the less eager to be ornamental, than the idealistic Italian: his man and woman he takes indeed with off-hand indifference, but he places them in that of which the Italian shall perhaps never have dreamed, in that on which he has expended all his science, his skill, his fancy, in that which he gives as his addition to the beautiful things of art--in atmosphere, in light, which are to the everyday atmosphere and light what the patiently sought for, carefully perfected god or goddess model of Raphael is to the everyday Jew, to the everyday barmaid, of Rembrandt. The ideal, for the man who is quite coarsely realistic in his figures, exists in the air, light, colour; and in saying this I have, so to speak, turned over the page too quickly, forestalled the expression of what I can prove only later: the disconnection of such comparative realism and idealism as this (the only kind of realism, let us remember, which can exist in great art) with any personal bias of the artist, its intimate dependence upon the constitution and tendency of art, upon its preoccupations about form, or colour, or light, in a given country and at a given moment. And now I should wish to resume the more orderly treatment of the subject, which will lead us in time to the second half of the question respecting realism and idealism. These considerations have come to me in connection with the portrait art of the Renaissance; and this very simply. For portrait is a curious bastard of art, sprung on the one side from a desire which is not artistic, nay, if anything, opposed to the whole nature and function of art: the desire for the mere likeness of an individual. The union with this interloping tendency, so foreign to the whole aristocratic temper of art, has produced portrait; and by the position of this hybrid, or at least far from regularly bred creature; by the amount of the real artistic quality of beauty which it is permitted to retain by the various schools of art, we can, even as by the treatment of similar social interlopers we can estimate the necessities and tendencies of various states of society, judge what are the conditions in which the various schools of art struggle for the object of their lives, which is the beautiful. I have said that art is realistic in its periods or moments of study; and this is essentially the case even with the school which in many respects was the most unmistakably decorative and idealistic in intention: the school of Giotto. The Giottesques are more than decorative artists, they are decorators in the most literal sense. Painting with them is merely one of the several arts and crafts enslaved by mediæval architecture and subservient to architectural effects. Their art is the only one which is really and successfully architecturally decorative; and to appreciate this we must contrast their fresco-work with that of the fifteenth century and all subsequent times. Masaccio, Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, turn the wall into a mere badly made frame; a gigantic piece of cardboard would do as well, and better; the colours melt into one another, the figures detach themselves at various degrees of relief; those upon the ceiling and pendentives are frequently upside down; yet these figures, which are so difficult to see, are worth seeing only in themselves, and not in relation to their position. The masonry is no longer covered, but carved, rendered uneven with the cavities and protrusions of perspective. In Mantegna's frescoes the wall becomes a slanting theatre scene, cunningly perspectived like Palladio's Teatro Olimpico; with Correggio, wall, masonry, everything, is dissolved, the side or cupola of a church becomes a rent in the clouds, streaming with light. Not so with the Giottesque frescoes: the wall, the vault, the triumphant masonry is always present and felt, beneath the straight, flat bands of uniform colour; the symmetrical compartments, the pentacles, triangles, and segments, and borders of histories, whose figures never project, whose colours are separate as those in a mosaic. The Giottesque frescoes, with their tiers and compartments of dark blue, their vague figures dressed in simple ultramarines, greens, dull reds, and purples; their geometrical borders and pearlings and dog-tooths; cover the walls, the ribbed and arched ceilings, the pointed raftering almost like some beautiful brown, blue, and tarnished gold leather-hangings; the figures, outlined in dark paint, have almost the appearance of being stencilled, or even stamped on the wall. Such is Giottesque painting: an art which is not merely essentially decorative, but which is, moreover, what painting and sculpture remained throughout the Gothic period, subservient to the decorative effect of another art; an art in which all is subordinated to architectural effect, in which form, colour, figures, houses, the most dramatic scenes of the most awful of all dramas, everything is turned into a kind of colossal and sublime wall-paper; and such an art as this would lead us to expect but little realism, little deliberate and slavish imitation of the existing. Yet wherever there is life in this Gothic art (which has a horrible tendency, piously unobserved by critics, to stagnate into blundering repetition of the same thing), wherever there is progress, there is, in the details of that grandiose, idealistic decoration, realism of the crudest kind. Those Giottesque workers, who were not content with a kind of Gothic Byzantinism; those who really handed over something vital to their successors of the fifteenth century, while repeating the old idealistical decorations; were studying with extraordinary crudeness of realism. Everything that was not conventional ornament or type was portrait; and portrait in which the scanty technical means of the artist, every meagre line and thin dab of colour, every timid stroke of brush or of pencil, went towards the merciless delineation not merely of a body but of a soul. And the greater the artist, the more cruel the portrait: cruellest in representation of utter spiritual baseness in the two greatest of these idealistic decorators; Giotto, and his latest disciple, Fra Angelico. Of this I should like to give a couple of examples. In Giotto's frescoes at Santa Croce--one of the most lovely pieces of mere architectural decoration conceivable--there are around the dying and the dead St. Francis two groups of monks, which are astoundingly realistic. The solemn ending of the ideally beautiful life of sanctity which was so fresh in the memory of Giotto's contemporaries, is nothing beyond a set of portraits of the most absolutely mediocre creatures, moral and intellectual, of creatures the most utterly incapable of religious enthusiasm that ever made religion a livelihood. They gather round the dying and the dead St. Francis, a noble figure, not at all ecstatic or seraphic, but pure, strong, worn out with wise and righteous labour, a man of thought and action, upon whose hands and feet the stigmata of supernatural rapture are a mere absurdity. The monks are presumably his immediate disciples, those fervent and delicate poetic natures of whom we read in the "Fioretti di San Francesco." To represent them Giotto has painted the likeness of the first half-dozen friars he may have met in the streets near Santa Croce: not caricatures, nor ideals, but portraits Giotto has attempted neither to exalt nor to degrade them into any sort of bodily or spiritual interestingness. They are not low nor bestial nor extremely stupid. They are in various degrees dull, sly, routinist, prosaic, pedantic; their most noteworthy characteristic is that they are certainly the men who are not called by God. They are no scandal to the Church, but no honour; they are sloth, stupidity, sensualism, and cunning not yet risen to the dignity of a vice. They look upon the dying and the dead saint with indifference, want of understanding, at most a gape or a bright look of stupid miscomprehension at the stigmata: they do not even perceive that a saint is a different being from themselves. With these frescoes of Giotto I should wish to compare Fra Angelico's great ceremonial crucifixion in the cloister chapel of San Marco of Florence; for it displays to an extraordinary degree that juxtaposition of the most conventionally idealistic, pious decorativeness with the realism straightforward, unreflecting, and heartless to the point of becoming perfectly grotesque. The fresco is divided into two scenes: on the one side the crucifixion, the mystic actors of the drama, on the other the holy men admitted to its contemplation. A sense that holy things ought to be old-fashioned, a respect for Byzantine inanity which invariable haunted the Giottesques in their capacity of idealistic decorators, of men who replaced with frescoes the solemn lifeless splendours of mosaic; this kind of artistico-religious prudery has made Angelico, who was able to foreshorten powerfully the brawny crucified thieves, represent the Saviour dangling from the cross bleached, boneless, and shapeless, a thing that is not dead because it has never been alive. The holy persons around stand rigid, vacant, against their blue nowhere of background, with vague expanses of pink face looking neither one way nor the other; mere modernized copies of the strange, goggle-eyed, vapid beings on the old Italian mosaics. This is not a representation of the actual reality of the crucifixion, like Tintoret's superb picture at S. Rocco, or Dürer's print, or so many others, which show the hill, the people, the hangman, the ladders and ropes and hammers and tweezers: it is a sort of mystic repetition of it; subjective, if I may say so; existing only in the contemplation of the saints on the opposite side, who are spectators only in the sense that a contemplative Christian may be said to be the mystic spectator of the Passion. The thing for the painter to represent is fervent contemplation, ecstatic realization of the past by the force of ardent love and belief; the condition of mind of St. Francis, St. Catherine of Siena, Madame Guyon: it is the revelation of the great tragedy of heaven to the soul of the mystic. Now, how does Fra Angelico represent this? A row of saints, founders of orders, kneel one behind the other, and by their side stand apostles and doctors of the Church; admitting them to the sight of the super-human, with the gesture, the bland, indifferent vacuity of the Cameriere Segreto or Monsignore who introduces a troop of pilgrims to the Pope; they are privileged persons, they respect, they keep up decorum, they raise their eyes and compress their lips with ceremonious reverence; but, Lord! they have gone through it all so often, they are so familiar with it, they don't look at it any longer; they gaze about listlessly, they would yawn if they were not too well bred for that. The others, meanwhile, the sainted pilgrims, the men whose journey over the sharp stones and among the pricking brambles of life's wilderness finds its final reward in this admission into the presence of the Holiest, kneel one by one, with various expressions: one with the stupid delight of a religious sightseer; his vanity is satisfied, he will next draw a rosary from his pocket and get it blessed by Christ Himself; he will recount it all to his friends at home. Another is dull and gaping, a clown who has walked barefoot from Valencia to Rome, and got imbecile by the way; yet another, prim and dapper; the rest indifferent looking restlessly about them, at each other, at their feet and hands, perhaps exchanging mute remarks about the length of time they are kept waiting; those at the end of the kneeling procession, St. Peter Martyr and St. Giovanni Gualberto especially, have the bored, listless, devout look of the priestlets in the train of a bishop. All these figures, the standing ones who introduce and the kneeling ones who are being introduced, are the most perfect types of various states of dull, commonplace, mediocre routinist superstition; so many Camerlenghi on the one hand, so many Passionist or Propagandists on the other: the first aristocratic, bland and bored; the second, dull, listless, mumbling, chewing Latin Prayers which never meant much to their minds, and now mean nothing; both perfectly reverential and proper in behaviour, with no more possibility of individual fervour of belief than of individual levity of disbelief: the Church, as it exists in well-regulated decrepitude. And thus does the last of the Giottesques, the painter of glorified Madonnas and dancing angels, the saint, represent the saints admitted to behold the supreme tragedy of the Redemption. Thus much for the Giottesques. The Tuscans of the early Renaissance developed up to the utmost, assisted by the goldsmiths and sculptors, who taught them modelling and anatomy, that realistic element of Giottesque painting. Its ideal decorative part had become impossible. Painting could no longer be a decoration of architecture, and it had not yet the means of being ornamental in itself; it was an art which did not achieve, but merely studied. Among its exercises in anatomy, modelling, perspective, and so forth, always laborious and frequently abortive, its only spontaneous, satisfactory, mature production was its portrait work, Portraits of burghers in black robes and hoods; of square-jawed youths with red caps stuck on to their fuzzy heads, of bald and wrinkled scholars and magnificoes; of thinly bearded artizans; people who stand round the preaching Baptist or crucified Saviour, look on at miracle or martyrdom, stolid, self-complacent, heedless, against their background of towered, walled, and cypressed city--of buttressed square and street; ugly but real, interesting, powerful among the grotesque agglomerations of bag-of-bones nudities, bunched and taped-up draperies and out-of-joint architecture of the early Renaissance frescoes; at best among its picture-book and Noah's-ark prettinesses of toy-box cypresses, vine trellises, inlaid house fronts, rabbits in the grass, and peacocks on the roofs; for the early Renaissance, with the one exception of Masaccio, is in reality a childish time of art, giving us the horrors of school-hour blunders and abortions varied with the delights of nursery wonderland: maturity, the power of achieving, the perception of something worthy of perception, comes only with the later generation, the one immediately preceding the age of Raphael and Michael Angelo; with Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, Filippino, Botticelli, Perugino, and their contemporaries. But this period is not childish, is not immature in everything. Or, rather, the various arts which exist together at this period are not all in the same stage of development. While painting is in this immature ugliness, and ideal sculpture, in works like Verrocchio's and Donatello's David, only a cleverer, more experienced, but less legitimate kind of painting, painting more successful in the present, but with no possible future; the almost separate art of portrait-sculpture arises again where it was left by Græco-Roman masters, and, developing to yet greater perfection, gives in marble the equivalent of what painting will be able to produce only much later: realistic art which is decorative; beautiful works made out of ugly materials. The vicissitudes of Renaissance sculpture are strange: its life, its power, depend upon death; it is an art developed in the burying vault and cloister cemetery. During the Middle Ages sculpture had had its reason, its vital possibility, its something to influence, nay, to keep it alive, in architecture; but with the disappearance of Gothic building disappears also the possibility of the sculpture which covers the portals of Chartres and the belfry of Florence. The pseudo-classic colonnades, entablatures, all the thin bastard Ionic and Corinthian of Aberti and Bramante, did not require sculpture, or had their own little supply of unfleshed ox-skulls, greengrocer's garlands, scallopings and wave-linings, which, with a stray siren and one or two bloated emperors' heads, amply sufficed. On the other hand, mediæval civilization and Christian dogma did not encourage the production of naked of draped ideal statues like those which Antiquity stuck on countless temple fronts, and erected at every corner of square, street, or garden. The people of the Middle Ages were too grievously ill grown, distorted, hideous, to be otherwise than indecent in nudity; they may have had an instinct of the kind, and, ugly as they knew themselves to be, they must yet have found in forms like those of Verrocchio's David insufficient beauty to give much pleasure. Besides, if the Middle Ages had left no moral room for ideal sculpture once freed from the service of architecture; they had still less provided it with a physical place. Such things could not be set up in churches, and only a very moderate number of statues could be wanted as open-air monuments in the narrow space of a still Gothic city; and, in fact, ideal heroic statues of the early Renaissance are fortunately not only ugly, but comparatively few in number. There remained, therefore, for sculpture, unless contented to dwindle down into brass and gold miniature work, no regular employment save that connected with sepulchral monuments. During the real Middle Ages, and in the still Gothic north, the ornamentation of a tomb belonged to architecture: from the superb miniature minsters, pillared and pinnacled and sculptured, cathedrals within the cathedral, to the humbler foliated arched canopy, protecting a simple sarcophagus at the corner of many a street in Lombardy. The sculptor's work was but the low relief on the church flags, the timidly carved, outlined, cross-legged knight or praying priest, flattened down on his pillow as if ashamed even of that amount of prominence, and in a hurry to be trodden down and obliterated into a few ghostly outlines. But to this humiliated prostrate image, to this flat thing doomed to obliteration, came the sculptor of the Renaissance, and bade the wafer-like simulacrum fill up, expand, raise itself, lift itself on its elbow, arise and take possession of the bed of state, the catafalque raised high above the crowd, draped with brocade, carved with rich devices of leaves and beasts of heraldry, roofed over with a daïs, which is almost a triumphal arch, garlanded with fruits and flowers, upon which the illustrious dead were shown to the people; but made eternal, and of eternal magnificence, by the stone-cutter, and guarded, not for an hour by the liveried pages or chaunting monks, but by winged genii for all eternity. Some people, I know, call this a degradation, and say that it was the result of corrupt pride, this refusal to have the dear or illustrious dead scraped out any longer by the shoe-nails of every ruffian, rubbed out by the knees of every kitchen wench; but to me it seems that it was due merely to the fact that sculpture had lost its former employment, and that a great art cannot (thank Heaven!) be pietistically self-humiliating. Be this as it may, the sculpture of the Renaissance had found a new and singularly noble line of work, the one in which it was great, unique, unsurpassed, because untutored. It worked here without models, to suit modern requirements, with modern spirit; it was emphatically-modern sculpture; the only modern sculpture which can be talked of as something original, genuine, valuable, by the side of antique sculpture. Greek Antiquity had evaded death, and neglected the dead; a garland of mænads and fauns among ivy leaves, a battle of amazons or centaurs; in the late semi-Christian, platonic days, some Orphic emblem, or genius; at most, as in the exquisite tombs of the Keramikos of Athens, a figure, a youth on a prancing steed, like the Phidian monument of Dexileus; a maiden, draped and bearing an urn; but neither the youth nor the maiden is the inmate of the tomb: they are types, living types, no portraits. Nay, even where Antiquity shows us Death or Hermes, gently leading away the beloved; the spirit, the ghost, the dead one, is unindividual. "Sarkophagen und Urnen bekränzte der Heide mit Leben," said Goethe; but it was the life which was everlasting because it was typical: the life not which had been relinquished by the one buried there, but the life which the world danced on, forgetful, round his ashes. The Romans, on the contrary, graver and more retentive folk than the Greeks, as well as more domestic, less coffee-house living, appear to have inherited from the Etruscans a desire to preserve the effigy of the dead, a desire unknown to the Greeks. But the Etrusco-Roman monuments, where husband and wife stare forth togaed and stolaed, half reduced to a conventional crop-headedness, grim and stiff as if sitting unwillingly for their portrait; or reclining on the sarcophagus-lid, neither dead, nor asleep, nor yet alive and awake, but with a hieratic mummy stare, have little of æsthetic or sympathetic value. The early Renaissance, then, first bethought it of representing the real individual in the real death slumber. And I question whether anything more fitting could be placed on a tomb than the effigy of the dead as we saw them just before the coffin-lid closed down; as we would give our all to see them but one little moment longer; as they continue to exist for our fancy within the grave; for to any but morbid feelings the beloved can never suffer decay. Whereas a portrait of the man in life, as the throning popes in St. Peter's, seems heartless and derisive; such monuments striking us as conceived and ordered by their inmates while alive, like Michael Angelo's Pope Julius, and Browning's Bishop, who was so preoccupied about his tomb in St. Praxed's Church. The Renaissance, the late Middle Ages, felt better than this: on the extreme pinnacle, high on the roof, they might indeed place against the russet brick or the blue sky, amid the hum of life and the movement of the air, the living man, like the Scaligers, the mailed knight on his charger, lance in rest: but in the church below, under the funereal pall, they could place only the body such as it may have lain on the bier. And that figure on the bier was the great work of Renaissance sculpture. Inanimate and vulgar when in heroic figures they tried to emulate the ancients, the sculptors of the fifteenth century have found their own line. The modesty, the simplicity, the awful and beautiful repose of the dead; the individual character cleared of all its conflicting meannesses by death, simplified, idealized as it is in the memory of the survivors--all these are things which belong to the Renaissance. As the Greeks gave the strong, smooth life-current circulating through their heroes; so did these men of the fifteenth century give the gentle and harmonious ebbing after-life of death in their sepulchral monuments. Things difficult to describe, and which must be seen and remembered. There is the monument, now in the museum at Ravenna, by a sculptor whose name, were it known, would surely be among the greatest, of the condottiere, Braccioforte: the body prone in its heavy case of armour, not yet laid out in state, but such as he may have been found in the evening, when the battle was over, under a tree where they had carried him to die while they themselves went back to fight; the head has fallen back, side-ways, weighed down by the helmet, which has not even been unbuckled, only the face, the clear-cut, austere features, visible beneath the withdrawn vizor; the eyes have not been closed; and there are few things more exquisite and solemn at once in all sculpture, than the indication of those no longer seeing eyes, of that broken glance, beneath the half-closed lids. There is Rossellino's Cardinal of Portugal at S. Miniato a Monte: the slight body, draped in episcopal robes, lying with delicate folded hands, in gracious decorum of youthful sanctity; the strong delicate head, of clear feature and gentle furrow of suffering and thought, a face of infinite purity of strength, strength still ungnarled by action: a young priest, who in his virginal dignity is almost a noble woman. And there is the Ilaria Guinigi of Jacopo della Quercia (the man who had most natural affinity with the antique of all these sculptors, as one may see from the shattered remains of the Fonte Gaia of Siena), the lady stretched out on the rose-garlanded bed of state in a corner of Lucca Cathedral, her feet upon her sleeping dog, her sweet, girlish head, with wavy plaits of hair encircled by a rose-wreathed, turban-like diadem, lying low on round cushions; the bed gently giving way beneath the beautiful, ample-bosomed body, round which the soft robe is chastely gathered, and across which the long-sleeved arms are demurely folded; the most beautiful lady (whose majestic tread through the palace rooms we can well imagine) that the art of the fifteenth century has recorded. There is, above all, the Carlo Marsuppini of Desiderio da Settignano, the humanist Secretary of the Commonwealth, lying on the sarcophagus, superb with shell fretwork and curling acanthus, in Santa Croce of Florence. For the youthful beauty of the Cardinal of Portugal and of the Lady Ilaria are commonplace compared with the refinement of this worn old face, with scant wavy hair and thin, gently furrowed, but by no means ploughed-up features. The slight figure looks as if in life it must have seemed almost transparent; and the hands are very pathetic: noble, firm hands, subtle of vein and wrist, crossed simply, neither in prayer nor in agony, but in gentle weariness, over the book on his breast. That book is certainly no prayer-book; rather a volume of Plato or Cicero: in his last moments the noble old man has longed for a glance over the familiar pages; they have placed the book on his breast, but it has been too late; the drowsiness of death has overtaken him, and with his last sigh he has gently folded his hands over the volume, with the faint, last clinging to the things beloved in this world. Such is that portrait sculpture of the early Renaissance, its only sculpture, if we except the exquisite work in babies and angels just out of the nursery of the Robbias, which is a real achievement. But how achieved? This art is great just by the things which Antiquity did not. And what are those things? Shall we say that it is sentiment? But all fine art has tact, antique art most certainly; and as to pathos, why, any quiet figure of a dead man or woman, however rudely carved, has pathos; nay, there is pathos in the poor puling hysterical art which makes angels draw the curtains of fine ladies' bedchambers, and fine ladies, in hoop or limp Grecian dress, faint (the smelling bottle, Betty!) over their lord's coffin; there is pathos, to a decently constituted human being, wherever (despite all absurdities) we can imagine that there lies some one whom it was bitter to see departing, to whom it was bitter to depart. Pathos, therefore, is not the question; and, if you choose to call it sentiment, it is in reality a sentiment for line and curve, for stone and light. The great question is, How did these men of the Renaissance make their dead people look beautiful? For they were not all beautiful in life, and ugly folk do not grow beautiful merely because they are dead. The Cardinal of Portugal, the beautiful Ilaria herself, were you to sketch their profile and place it by the side of no matter what ordinary antique, would greatly fall short of what we call sculpturesque beauty; and many of the others, old humanists and priests and lawyers, are emphatically ugly: snub or absurdly hooked noses, retreating or deformedly overhanging foreheads, fleshy noses, and flabby cheeks, blear eyes and sunk-in mouths; and a perfect network of wrinkles and creases, which, hard as it is to say, have been scooped out not merely by age, but by low mind, fretting and triumphant animalism. Now, by what means did the sculptor--the sculptor, too unacquainted with sculptural beauty (witness his ugly ideal statues), to be able, like the man who turned the successors of Alexander into a race of leonine though crazy demi-gods--to insidiously idealize these ugly and insignificant features; by what means did he turn these dead men into things beautiful to see? I have said that he took up art where Græco-Roman Antiquity had left it. Remark that I say Græco-Roman, and I ought to add much more Roman than Greek. For Greek sculpture, nurtured in the habit of perfect form, art to whom beauty was a cheap necessity, invariably idealized portrait, idealized it into beauty or inanity. But when Greek art had run its course; when beauty of form had well-nigh been exhausted or begun to pall; certain artists, presumably Greeks, but working for Romans, began to produce portrait work of quite a new and wonderful sort: the beautiful portraits of ugly old men, of snub little boys, work which was clearly before its right time, and was swamped by idealized portraits, insipid, nay, inane, from the elegant revivalist busts of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius down to the bonnet blocks of the lower empire. Of this Roman portrait art, of certain heads of half-idiotic little Cæsar brats, of sly and wrinkled old men, things which ought to be so ugly and yet are so beautiful, we say, at least, perhaps unformulated, we think, "How Renaissance!" And the secret of the beauty of these few Græco-Roman busts, which is also that of Renaissance portrait sculpture, is that the beauty is quite different in kind from the beauty of Greek ideal sculpture, and obtained by quite different means. It is, essentially, that kind of beauty which I began by saying belonged to realistic art, to the art which is not squeamish about the object which it represents, but is squeamish about the manner and medium in which that indifferent object is represented; it is a kind of beauty, therefore, more akin to that of Rembrandt and Velasquez than to that of Michael Angelo or Raphael. It is the beauty, not of large lines and harmonies, beauty residing in the real model's forms, beauty real, wholesale, which would be the same if the man were not marble but flesh, not in a given position but moving; but it is a beauty of combinations of light and surface, a beauty of texture opposed to texture, which would probably be unperceived in the presence of the more regal beauty of line and colour harmonies, and which those who could obtain this latter would employ only as much as they were conducive to such larger beauties. And this beauty of texture opposed to texture and light combined with surface is a very real thing; it is the great reality of Renaissance sculpture: this beauty, resulting from the combination, for instance, in a commonplace face, of the roughness and coarser pore of the close shaven lips and chin with the smoothness of the waxy hanging cheeks; the one catching the light, the other breaking it into a ribbed and forked penumbra. The very perfection of this kind of work is Benedetto da Maiano's bust of Pietro Mellini in the Bargello at Florence. The elderly head is of strongly marked osseous structure, yet fleshed with abundant and flaccid flesh, hanging in folds or creases round the mouth and chin, yet not flobbery and floppy, but solid, though yielding, creased, wrinkled, crevassed rather as a sandy hillside is crevassed by the trickling waters; semi-solid, promising slight resistance, waxy, yielding to the touch. But all the flesh has, as it were, gravitated to the lower part of the face, conglomerated, or rather draped itself, about the mouth, firmer for sunken teeth and shaving; and the skin has remained alone across the head, wrinkled, yet drawn in tight folds across the dome-shaped skull, as if, while the flesh disappeared, the bone also had enlarged. And on the temples the flesh has once been thick, the bone (seemingly) slight; and now the skin is being drawn, recently, and we feel more and more every day, into a radiation of minute creases, as if the bone and flesh were having a last struggle. Now in this head there is little beauty of line (the man has never been good-looking), and there is not much character in the sense of strongly marked mental or moral personality. I do not know, nor care, what manner of man this may have been. The individuality is one, not of the mind but of the flesh. What interests, attaches, is not the character or temperament, but the bone and skin, the creases and folds of flesh. And herein also lies the beauty of the work. I do not mean its interest or mere technical skill, I mean distinctly visible and artistic beauty. Thus does the sculptor of the Renaissance get beauty, visible beauty, not psychologic interest, out of a plain human being; but the beauty (and this is the distinguishing point of what I must call realistic decorative art) does not exist necessarily in the plain human being: he merely affords the beginning of a pattern which the artist may be able to carry out. A person may have in him the making of a really beautiful bust and yet be ugly; just as the same person may afford a subject for a splendid painting and for an execrable piece of sculpture. The wrinkles and creases in a face like that of Benedetto da Maiano's Mellini would probably be ugly and perhaps disgusting in the real reddish, flaccid, discoloured flesh; while they are admirable in the solid and supple-looking marble, in its warm and delicate bistre and yellow. Material has an extraordinary effect upon form; colour, though not a positive element in sculpture, has immense negative power in accentuating or obliterating the mere line. All form becomes vague and soft in the dairy flaccidness of modern ivory; and clear and powerful in the dark terra cotta, which can ennoble even the fattest and flattest faces with its wonderful faculty for making mere surface markings, mere crowsfeet, interesting. Thus also with bronze: the polished, worked bronze, of fine chocolate burnish and reddish reflections, mars all beauty of line; how different the unchased, merely rough cast, greenish, with infinite delicate greys and browns, making, for instance, the head of an old woman like an exquisite withered, shrivelled, veined autumnal leaf. It is moreover, as I have said, a question of combination of surface and light, this art which makes beautiful busts of ugly men. The ideal statue of the Greeks intended for the open air; fit to be looked at under any light, high or low, brilliant or veiled, had indeed to be prepared to look well under any light; but to look well under any light means not to use any one particular relation of light as an ally; the surface was kept modestly subordinated to the features, the features which must needs look well at all moments and from all points of view. But the Renaissance sculptor knew where his work would be placed; he could calculate the effect of the light falling invariably through this or that window; he could make a fellow-workman of that light, present for it to draw or to obliterate what features he liked, bid it sweep away such or such surfaces with a broad stream, cut them with a deep shadow, caress their smooth chiselling or their rough grainings, mark as with a nail the few large strokes of the point which gave the firmness to the strained muscle or stretched skin. Out of this model of his, this plain old burgess, he and his docile friend the light, could make quite a new thing; a new pattern of bosses and cavities, of smooth sweeps and tracked lines, of creases and folds of flesh, of pliable linen and rough brocade of dress: something new, something which, without a single feature being straightened or shortened, yet changed completely the value of the whole assemblage of features; something undreamed of by nature in moulding that ugly old merchant or humanist. With this art which produced works like Desiderio da Settignano's Carlo Marsuppini and Benedetto da Maiano's Pietro Mellini, is intimately connected the art of the great medallists of the Renaissance--Pasti, Guacialotti, Niccolò Fiorentino, and, greatest of all, Pisanello. Its excellence depends precisely upon its independence of the ideal work of Antiquity; nay, even upon the fact that, while the ancients, striking their coins in chased metal dies, obtained an astonishing minuteness and clearness of every separate little stroke and dint, and were therefore forced into an almost more than sculptural perfection of mere line, of mere profile and throat and elaborately composed hair, a sort of sublime abstraction of the possible beauty of a human face, as in the coins of Syracuse and also of Alexander; the men of the fifteenth century employed the process of casting the bronze in a concave mould obtained by the melting away of a medallion in wax; in wax, which taking the living impress of the artist's finger, and recalling in its firm and yet soft texture the real substance of the human face, insensibly led the medallist to seek, not sharp and abstract lines, but simple, strongly moulded bosses; not ideal beauty, but the real appearance of life. It is, moreover, a significant fact that while the men who, half a century or so later, made fine, characterless die-stamped medals in imitation of the antique, Caradossi and Benvenuto for instance, were goldsmiths and sculptors, workers with the chisel, artists seeking essentially for abstract elegance of line; the two greatest medallists of the early Renaissance, Vittore Pisano and Matteo di Pasti, were both of them painters; and painters of the Northern Italian school, to whom colour and texture were all important, and linear form a matter of indifference. And indeed, if we look at the best work of what I may call the wax mould medallists of the fifteenth century, even at the magnificent marble medallions of the laurel-wreathed head of Sigismund Malatesta on the pillars of his church at Rimini, modelled by Pasti, we shall see that these men were preoccupied almost exclusively with the almost pictorial effect of the flesh in its various degrees of boss and of reaction of the light; and that the character, the beauty even, which they attained, is essentially due to a skilful manipulation of texture, and surface, and light--one might almost say of colour. We all know Pisanello's famous heads of the Malatesti of Rimini: the saturnine Sigismund, the delicate dapper Novello, the powerful yet beautiful Isotta; but there are other Renaissance medals which illustrate my meaning even better, and connect my feelings on the subject of this branch of art more clearly with my feelings towards such work as Benedetto's Pietro Mellini. Foremost among these is the perhaps somewhat imperfect and decidedly grotesque, but astonishingly powerful, naïf and characteristic Lorenzo dei Medici by Niccolò real grandeur of whose conception of this coarse yet imaginative head may be profitably contrasted with the classicizing efforts after the demi-god or successor of Alexander in Pollaiolo's famous medal of the Pazzi conspiracy. Next to this I would place a medal by Guacialotti of Bishop Niccolò Palmieri, with the motto, "Nudus egressus sic redibo"--singularly appropriate to the shameless fleshliness of the personage, with his naked fat chest and shoulders, his fat, pig-like cheeks and greasy-looking bald head; a hideous beast, yet magnificent in his bestiality like some huge fattened porker. These medals give us, as does the bust of Pietro Mellini, beauty of the portrait despite ugliness of the original. But there are two other medals, this time by Pisanello, and, as it seems to me, perhaps his masterpieces, which show the quite peculiar way in which this homely charm of portraiture amalgamates, so as to form a homogeneous and most seemingly simple whole, with the homely charm of certain kinds of pure and simple youthful types. One of these (the reverse of which fantastically represents the four elements, the wooded earth, the starry sky, the rippled sea, the sun, all in one sphere) is the portrait of Don Inigo d'Avalos; the other that of Cecilia Gonzaga. This slender beardless boy in the Spanish shovel hat and wisp of scarf twisted round the throat; and this tall, long-necked girl, with sloping shoulders and still half-developed bosom; are, so to speak, brother and sister in art, in Pisanello's wonderful genius. The relief of the two medals is extremely low, so that in certain lights the effigies vanish almost completely, sink into the pale green surface of the bronze; the portraits are a mere film, a sort of haze which has arisen on the bronze and gathered into human likeness; but in this film, this scarce perceptible relief, we are made to perceive the slender osseous structure, the smooth, sleek, childish blond flesh and hair, the delicate, undecided pallor of extreme youth and purity, even as we might in some elaborate portrait by Velasquez, but with a spring-like healthiness which Velasquez, painting his lymphatic Hapsburgs, rarely has. Such is this Renaissance art of medals, this side branch of the great realistic portraiture in stone of the Benedettos, Desiderios, and Rossellinos; a perfect thing in itself; and one which, if we muse over it in connection with the more important works of fifteenth century sculpture, will perhaps lead us to think that, as the sculpture of Antiquity, in its superb idealism, its devotion to the perfect line and curve of beauty, achieved the highest that mere colourless art can achieve--thanks to the very purity, sternness, and narrowness of its sculpturesque feeling--so also, perhaps, modern sculpture, should it ever re-arise, must be a continuation of the tendencies of the Renaissance, must be the humbler sister of painting, must seek for the realistic portrait and begin, perhaps, with the realistic medal. II. This kind of realism, where only the model is ugly, while the portrait is beautiful; which seeks decorative value by other means than the intrinsic excellence of form in the object represented, this kind of realism is quite different in sort from the realisms of immature art, which, aiming at nothing beyond a faithful copy, is content with producing an ugly picture of an ugly thing. Now this latter kind of realism endured in painting some time after decorative realism such as I have described had reached perfection in sculpture. Nor was it till later, and when the crude scholastic realism had completely come to an end, that there became even partially possible in painting decorative realism analogous to what we have noticed in sculpture; while it was not till after the close of the Italian Renaissance period that the painters arose in Spain and the Netherlands who were able to treat their subjects with the uncompromising decorative realism of Desiderio or Rosellino or Benedetto da Maiano. For the purely imitative realism of the painters of the early Renaissance was succeeded in Italy by idealism, which matured in the great art of intrinsically beautiful linear form of Michael Angelo and Raphael, and the great art of intrinsically beautiful colour form of Giorgione and Titian. These two schools were bound to be, each in its degree, idealistic. Complete power of mere representation in tint and colour having been obtained through the realistic drudgery of the early Renaissance, selection in the objects thus to be represented had naturally arisen; and the study of the antique had further hastened and directed this movement of art no longer to study but to achieve, to be decorative once more, decorative no longer in subservience to architecture, but as the separate and self-sufficing art of painting. Selection, therefore, which is the only practical kind of idealism, had begun as soon as painting was possessed of the power of representing objects in their relations of line and colour, with that amount of light and shadow requisite to the just appreciation of the relations of form and the just relations of colour. Now art which stops short at this point of representation must inevitably be, if decorative at all, idealistically decorative; it must be squeamish respecting the objects represented, respecting their real structure, colour, position, and grouping. For, of the visible impressions received from an object, some are far more intrinsic than others. Suppose we see a woman, beautiful in the structure of her body, and beautiful in the colour of her person and her draperies, standing under a light which is such as we should call beautiful and interesting: of these three qualities one will be intrinsic in the woman, the second very considerably so, the third not at all. For, let us call that woman away and replace her immediately by another woman chosen at random. We shall immediately perceive that we have lost one pleasurable impression, that of beautiful bodily structure: the woman has taken away her well-shapen body. Next we shall perceive a notable diminution in the second pleasurable impression: the woman has taken with her, not indeed her well-tinted garments, which we may have bestowed on her successor, but her beautifully coloured skin and hair, so that of the pleasing colour-impression will remain only as much as was due to, and may have been retained with, the original woman's clothes. But if we look for our third pleasurable impression, our beautiful light, we shall find that unchanged, whether it fall upon a magnificently arrayed goddess or upon a sordid slut And, conversely, the beautiful woman, when withdrawn from that light and placed in any other, will be equally lovely in form, even if we cast her in plaster, and lose the colour of her skin and hair; or if we leave her not only the beautiful tints of her flesh and hair, but her own splendidly coloured garments, we shall still have, in whatsoever light, a magnificent piece of colour. But if we recall the poor ugly creature who has succeeded her from out of that fine effect of light, we shall have nothing but a hideous form invested in hideous colour. This rough diagram will be sufficient to explain my thought respecting the relative degree to which the art dealing with linear form, that dealing with colour and that dealing with light, with the medium in which form and colour are perceived; is each respectively bound to be idealistically or realistically decorative. Now painting was æsthetically mature, possessed the means to achieve great beauty, at a time when of the three modes of representation there had as yet developed only those of linear form and colour; and the very possibility and necessity of immediately achieving all that could be achieved by these means delayed for a long time the development of the third mode of representation: the representation of objects as they appear with reference to the light through which they are seen. A beginning had indeed been made. Certain of Correggio's effects of light, even more an occasional manner of treating the flesh and hair, reducing both form and colour to a kind of vague boss and vague sheen, such as they really present in given effects of light, a something which we define roughly as eminently modern in the painting of his clustered cherubs; all this is certainly a beginning of the school of Velasquez. Still more so is it the case with Andrea del Sarto, the man of genius whom critics love to despatch as a mediocrity, because his art, which is art altogether for the eyes, and in which he innovated more than any of his contemporaries, does not afford any excuse for the irrelevancies of ornamental criticism; with him the appearance of form and colour, acted upon by light, the relative values of which flesh and draperies consist with reference to the surrounding medium, all this becomes so evident a preoccupation and a basis for decorative effects, as to give certain of his works an almost startling air of being modern. But this tendency comes to nothing: the men of the sixteenth century appear scarcely to have perceived wherein lay the true excellence of this "Andrea senza errori," deeming him essentially the artist of linear perfection; while the innovations of Correggio in the way of showing the relations of flesh tones and light ended in the mere coarse gala illuminations in which his successors made their seraphs plunge and sprawl. There was too much to be done, good and bad, in the way of mere linear form and mere colour; and as art of mere linear form and colour, indifferent of all else, did the art of the Italian Renaissance run to seed. I said at the beginning of this paper that the degree to which any art is strictly idealistic, can be measured by the terms which it will make with portrait. For as portrait is due to the desire to represent a person quite apart from that person affording material for decoration, it is evident that only the art which can call in the assistance of decorative materials, independent of the represented individual, can possibly make a beautiful picture out of an ugly man; while the art which deals only with such visible peculiarities as are inherent in the individual, has no kind of outlet, is cornered, and can make of a repulsive original only a repulsive picture. The analogy to this we have already noticed in sculpture: antique sculpture, considering only the linear bosses which existed equally in the living man and in the statue, could not afford to represent plain people; while Renaissance sculpture, extracting a large amount of beauty out of combinations of surface and light, was able, as long as it could arrange such an artificial combination, to dispense with great perfection in the model. Nay, if we except Renaissance statuary as a kind of separate art, we may say that this independence of the object portrayed is a kind of analytic test, enabling us to judge at a glance, and by the degree of independence from the model, the degree to which any art is removed from the mere line and boss of antique sculpture. In the statue standing free in any light that may chance to come, every form must be beautiful from every point; but in proportion as the new elements of painting enter, in proportion as the actual linear form and boss is marked and helped out by grouping, colour, and light and shade, does the actual perfection of the model become less important; until, under the reign of light as the chief factor, it becomes altogether indifferent. In this fact lies the only rational foundation for the notion, made popular by Hegel, that painting is an art in which beauty is of much less account than in sculpture; failing to understand that the sum total of beauty remained the same, whether dependent upon the concentration of a single element or obtained by the co-operation of several consequently less singly important elements. But to return to the question of portrait art. From what we have seen, it is clear that art which requires perfection of form will be reduced to ugliness if cramped in the obtaining of such perfection, whereas art which can obtain beauty by other means will still have a chance when reduced to imitate ugly object? Hence it is that while the realistically decorative art of the seventeenth century can make actually beautiful things of the portraits of ugly people, the idealistically decorative art of the Renaissance produces portraits which are cruelly ugly in proportion as the art is purely idealistic. Yet even in idealism there are degrees: the more the art is confined to mere linear form, to the exclusion of colour, the uglier will be the portraits. With Michael Angelo the difficulty was simplified to impossibility: he could not paint portrait at all; and in his sculptured portraits of the two Medicean dukes at S. Lorenzo he evaded all attempt at likeness, making those two men into scarcely more than two architectural monsters, half-human cousins of the fantastic creatures who keep watch on the belfries and gurgoyles of a Gothic cathedral. It is almost impossible to think of Michael Angelo attempting portrait: the man's genius cannot be constrained to it, and what ought to be mere ugliness would come out idealized into grandiose monstrosity. Men like Titian and Tintoret are at the other end of the scale of ideal decoration: they are bordering upon the domain of realism. Hence they can raise into interest, by the mere power of colour, many an insignificant type; yet even they are incapable of dealing with absolute ugliness, with absence of fine colour, or, if they do deal with it, there is an immediate improvement upon the model, and the appearance of truthfulness goes. Between the absolute incapacity for dealing with ugliness of Michael Angelo, and the power of compromising with it of Titian and Tintoret, Raphael stands half-way: he can call in the assistance of colour just sufficiently to create a setting of carefully harmonized draperies and accessories, beautiful enough to allow of his filling it up with the most cruelly ugly likeness which any painter ever painted. Far too much has been written about Raphael in general, but not half enough about Raphael as a portrait-painter; for by the side of the eclectic idealist, who combined and balanced beauty almost into insipidity, is the most terribly, inflexibly veracious portrait-painter that ever was. Compared with those sternly straightforward portraits of his Florentine and Roman time, where ugliness and baseness are never attenuated by one tittle, and alloyed nobility or amiability, as with his finer models, like the two Donis, husband and wife, and Bibbiena, is never purified of its troubling element; compared with them the Venetian portraits are mere insincere, enormously idealized pieces of colour-harmony; nay, the portraits of Velasquez are mere hints--given rapidly by a sickened painter striving to make those scrofulous Hapsburgs no longer mere men, but keynotes of harmonies of light--of what the people really are. For Velasquez seems to show us the temperament, the potentiality of his people, and to leave us, with a kind of dignified and melancholy silence as to all further, to find out what life, what feelings and actions, such a temperament implies. But Raphael shows us all: the temperament and the character, the real active creature, with all the marks of his present temper and habits, with all the indications of his immediate actions upon him: completely without humour or bitterness, without the smallest tendency to twist the reality into caricature or monstrosity, nay, perhaps without much psychologic analysis to tell him the exact meaning of what he is painting, going straight to the point, and utterly ruthless from sheer absence of all alternative of doing otherwise than he does. There is nothing more cruelly realistic in the world, cruel not only to the base originals but to the feelings of the spectator, than the harmony of villainies, of various combinations of black and hog-like bestiality, and fox and wolf-like cunning and ferocity with wicked human thought and self-command, which Raphael has enshrined in that splendid harmony of scarlet silk and crimson satin, and purple velvet and dull white brocade, as the portraits of Leo X. and his cardinals Rossi and Dei Medici. The idealistic painter, accustomed to rely upon the intrinsic beauty which he has hitherto been able to select or create; accustomed also to think of form as something quite independent of the medium through which it is seen, scarcely conscious of the existence of light and air in his habit of concentrating all attention upon a figure placed, as it were, in a sort of vacuum of indifference;--this idealistic artist is left without any resources when bid to paint an ugly man or woman. With the realistic artist, to whom the man or woman is utterly indifferent, to whom the medium in which they are seen is everything, the case Is just reversed: let him arrange his light, his atmospheric effect, and he will work into their pattern no matter what plain or repulsive wretch. To Velasquez the flaccid yellowish fair flesh, with its grey downy shadows, the limp pale drab hair, which is grey in the light and scarcely perceptibly blond in the shade, all this unhealthy, bloodless, feebly living, effete mass of humanity called Philip IV. of Spain, shivering in moral anæmia like some dog thorough bred into nothingness, becomes merely the foundation for a splendid harmony of pale tints. Again, the poor little baby princess, with scarce visible features, seemingly kneaded (but not sufficiently pinched and modelled) out of the wet ashes of an _auto da fè_, in her black-and-white frock (how different from the dresses painted by Raphael and Titian!), dingy and gloomy enough for an abbess or a cameriera major, this childish personification of courtly dreariness, certainly born on an Ash Wednesday, becomes the principal strands for a marvellous tissue of silvery and ashy light, tinged yellowish in the hair, bluish in the eyes and downy cheeks, pale red in the lips and the rose in the hair; something to match which in beauty you must think of some rarely seen veined and jaspered rainy twilight, or opal-tinted hazy winter morning. Ugliness, nay, repulsiveness, vanish, subdued into beauty, even as noxious gases may be subdued into health-giving substances by some cunning chemist. The difference between such portraits as these and the portraits by Raphael does not however consist merely in the beauty: there is also the fact that if you take one of Velasquez's portraits out of their frame, reconstitute the living individual, and bid him walk forth in whatsoever light may fall upon him, you will have something infinitely different from the portrait, and of which your only distinct feeling will be that a fine portrait might be made of the creature; whereas it is a matter of complete indifference whether you see Raphael's Leo X. in the flesh or in his gilded frame. Whatever may fairly be said respecting the relative value of idealistic and realistic decorative art is really also connected with this latter point. Considering that realistic art is merely obtaining beauty by attention to other factors than those which preoccupy idealistic art, that the one fulfils what the other neglects--taking the matter from this point of view, it would seem as if the two kinds of arts were, so to speak, morally equal; and that any vague sense of mysterious superior dignity clinging to idealistic art was a mere shred of long discarded pedantry. But it is not so. For realistic art does more than merely bring into play powers unknown to idealistic art: it becomes, by the possession of these powers, utterly indifferent to the intrinsic value of the forms represented: it is so certain of making everything lovely by its harmonies of light and atmosphere that it almost prefers to choose inferior things for this purpose. I am thinking at present of a picture by I forget what Dutchman in our National Gallery, representing in separate compartments five besotten-looking creatures, symbolical of the five senses: they are ugly, brutish, with I know not what suggestion of detestable temperament in their bloodshot flesh and vermilion lips, as if the whole man were saturated with his appetite. Yet the Dutchman has found the means of making these degraded types into something which we care to look at, and to look at on account of its beauty; even as, in lesser degree, Rubens has always managed to make us feel towards his flaccid, veal-complexioned, fish-eyed women, something of what we feel towards the goddesses of the Parthenon; towards the white-robed, long-gloved ladies, with meditative face beneath their crimped auburn hair, of Titian. Viewed in one way, there is a kind of nobility in the very fact that such realistic art can make us pardon, can redeem, nay almost sanctify, so much. But is it right thus to pardon, redeem, and sanctify; thus to bring the inferior on to the level of the superior? Nay, is it not rather wrong to teach us to endure so much meanness and ugliness in creatures, on account of the nobility with which they are represented? Is this not vitiating our feelings, blunting our desire for the better, our repugnance for the worse? A great and charitable art, this realistic art of the seventeenth century, and to be respected for its very tenderness towards the scorned and castaway things of reality; but accustoming us, perhaps too much, like all charitable and reclaiming impulses, to certain unworthy contacts: in strange contrast herein with that narrow but ascetic and aristocratic art of idealism, which, isolated and impoverished though it may be, has always the dignity of its immaculate purity, of its unswerving judgment, of its obstinate determination to deal only with the best. A hard task to judge between them. But be this as it may, it is one of the singular richnesses of the Italian Renaissance that it knew of both tendencies; that while in painting it gave the equivalent of that rigid idealism of the Greeks which can make no compromise with ugliness; in sculpture it possessed the equivalent of the realism of Velasquez, which can make beauty out of ugly things, even as the chemist can make sugar out of vitriol. * * * * * THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO. "Le donne, i cavalieri, l' armi, gli amori." I. Throughout the tales of Charlemagne and his warriors, overtopping by far the crowd of paladins and knights, move two colossal mailed and vizored figures--Roland, whom the Italians call Orlando and the Spaniards Roldan, the son of Milon d'Angers and of Charlemagne's sister; and Renaud or Rinaldo, the lord of Montauban, and eldest of the famous four sons of Aymon. These are the two representative heroes, equal but opposed, the Achilles and Odysseus, the Siegfried and Dietrich, of the Carolingian epic; and in each is personified, by the unconscious genius of the early Middle Ages, one of the great political movements, of the heroic struggles, of feudalism. For there existed in feudalism two forces, a centripetal and a centrifugal--a force which made for the supremacy of the kingly overlordship, and a force which made for the independence of the great vassals. Hence, in the poetry which is the poetry of feudalism, two distinct currents of feeling, two distinct epics---the epic of the devoted loyalty of all the heroes of France to their wise and mighty emperor Charlemagne, triumphant even in misfortune; and the epic of the hopeless resistance against a craven and capricious despot Charles of the most righteous and whole-hearted among his feudatories: the epic of Roland, and the epic of Renaud. Of the first there remains to us, in its inflexible and iron solemnity, an original rhymed narrative, "The Chanson de Roland," which we may read perhaps almost in the self-same words in which it was sung by the Normans of William in their night watch before the great battle. The centripetal force of feudalism gained the upper hand, and the song of the great empire, of the great deeds of loyal prowess, was consecrated in the feudal monarchy. The case was different with the tale of resistance and rebellion. The story of Renaud soon became a dangerous lesson for the great barons; it fell from the hands of the nobles to those of humbler folk; and it is preserved to us no longer in mediæval verse, but in a prose version, doubtless of the fifteenth century, under the name, familiar on the stalls of village fairs, of "The Quatre Fils Aymon." But, as Renaud is the equal of Roland, so is this humble prose tale nevertheless the equal of the great song of Roncevaux; and even now, it would be a difficult task to decide which were the grander, the tale of loyalty or the tale of resistance. In each of these tales,"The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon," there is contained a picture of its respective hero, which sums up, as it were, the whole noble character of the book; and which, the picture of the dying Roland and the picture of the dying Renaud, I would fain bring before you before speaking of the other Roland and the other Renaud, the Orlando of Ariosto and the Rinaldo of Boiardo. The traitor Ganelon has enabled King Marsile to overtake with all his heathenness the rear-guard of Charlemagne between the granite walls of Roncevaux; the Franks have been massacred, but the Saracens have been routed; Roland has at last ceded to the prayers of Oliver and of Archbishop Turpin; three times has he put to his mouth his oliphant and blown a blast to call back Charlemagne to vengeance, till the blood has foamed round his lips and his temple has burst. Oliver is dead, the archbishop is dying, Roland himself is slowly bleeding to death. He goes down into the defile, heaped with corpses, and seeks for the bodies of the principal paladins, Ivon and Ivaire, the Gascon Engelier, Gérier and Gérin, Bérenger and Otho, Anseis and Salamon, and the old Gerard of Rousillon; and one by one drags them to where the archbishop lies dying. And then, when to these knights Roland has at last added his own beloved comrade Oliver, he bids the archbishop bless all the dead, before he die himself. Then, when he has reverently crossed Turpin's beautiful priestly hands over his breast, he goes forth to shatter his sword Durendal against the rocks; but the good sword has cut the rock without shivering; and the coldness of death steals, over Roland. He stretches himself upon a hillock looking towards Spain, and prays for the forgiveness of his sins; then, with Durendal and his ivory horn by his side, he stretches out the glove of his right hand to God. "He has stretched forth to God the glove of his right hand; St. Gabriel has received it... Then his head has sunk on his arm; he has gone, with clasped hands, to his end. God sends him one of his cherubim and St. Michael of Peril. St. Gabriel has come with them. They carry the soul of the Count: up to paradise." More solitary, and solemn and sad even, is the end of the other hero, of the great rebel Renaud of Montauban. At length, after a lifetime wasted in fruitless, attempts to resist the iniquity of the emperor, to baffle his power, to shame him by magnanimity into, justice, the four sons of Aymon, who have given up their youth, their manhood, the dearest things to their heart, respect to their father and loyalty to their sovereign, rather than countenance the injustice of Charlemagne to their kinsman, have at last obtained to be pardoned; to be pardoned, they, heroes, by this, dastardly tyrant, and to quietly sink, broken-hearted into nothingness. The eldest, Renaud, returning from his exile and the Holy Land, finds that his wife Clarisse has pined for him and died; and then, putting away his armour from him, and dressing in a pilgrim's frock made of the purple serge of the dead lady's robe, he goes forth to wander through the world; not very old in years, but broken-spirited; at peace, but in solitude of heart. And one evening he arrives at Cologne. We can imagine the old knight, only half aware of the sunshine of the evening, the noise of the streets, the looks of the crowd, the great minster rising half-finished in the midst of the town by the Rhine, the cries and noise and chipping of the masons; unconscious of all this, half away: with his brothers hiding in the Ardennes, living on roots and berries, at bay before Charlemagne; or wandering ragged and famishing through France; with King Yon brilliant at Toulouse, seeing perhaps for the first time his bride Clarisse, or the towers of Montauban rising under the workmen's hands; thinking perhaps of the frightful siege, when all, all had been eaten in the fortress, and his children Aymonnet and Yonnet, all thin and white, knelt down and begged him to slaughter his horse Bayard that they might eat; perhaps of that journey, when he and his brothers, all in red-furred robes with roses in their hands, rode prisoners of King Charles across the plain of Vaucouleurs; perhaps of when he galloped up to the gallows at Montfaucon, and cut loose his brother Richard; or of that daring ride to Paris, where he and his horse won the race, snatched the prize from before Charlemagne and sped off crying out that the winner was Renaud of Montauban; or, perhaps, seeing once more the sad, sweet face of the Lady Clarisse, when she had burned all her precious stuffs and tires in the castle-yard, and lay dead without him to kiss her cold mouth; of seeing once more his good horse Bayard, when he kissed him in his stall before giving him to be killed by Charlemagne. Thinking of all that past, seeing it all within his mind, and seeing but little of the present; as, in the low yellow light, he helped, for his bread, the workmen to heave the great beams, to carry the great stones of the cathedral, to split the huge marble masses while they stared in astonished envy; as he sat, unconscious of their mutterings, eating his dry bread and porridge in the building docks by the river. And then, when wearied, he had sunk to sleep in the hay-loft, dreaming perchance that all this evil life was but a dream and the awakening therefrom to happiness and strength; the jealous workmen came and killed him with their base tools, and cast him into the Rhine. They say that the huge body floated on the water, surrounded by a great halo; and that when the men of the banks, seeing this, reverently fished it out, they found that the noble corpse was untouched by decay, and still surrounded by a light of glory. And thus, it seems to me, this Renaud, this rebel baron of whose reality we know nothing, has floated surrounded by a halo of poetry down the black flood of the Middle Ages (in which so much has sunk); and when we look upon his face, and see its beauty and strength and solemness, we feel, like the people of the Rhine bank, inclined to weep, and to say of this mysterious corpse, "Surely this is some great saint." Of each of these heroes thus shown us by the Middle Ages, the Italian Renaissance also, by the hand of two of her greatest poets, has given us a picture. And first, of Roland. Of him, of Count Orlando, we are told by Messer Lodovico Ariosto, that in consequence of his having discovered, in a certain pleasant grotto among the ferns and maidenhair, words graven on the rock (interrupted, doubtless, by the lover's kisses) which revealed that the Princess Angelica of Cathay had disdained him for Medoro, the fair-haired page of the King of the Moors; Count Orlando went straightway out of his mind, and hanging up his armour and stripping off his clothes, galloped about on his bare-backed horse, slaughtering cows and sheep instead of Saracens; until it pleased God, moved by the danger of Christendom and the prayers of Charlemagne, to permit Astolfo to ride on the hippogriffs back up to the moon, and bring back thence the wits of the great paladin contained in a small phial. We all know that merry tale. What the Renaissance has to say of Renaud of Montauban is even stranger and more fantastic. One day, says Matteo Boiardo, in the fifteenth canto of the second part of his "Orlando Innamorato," as Rinaldo of Montalbano, the contemner of love, was riding in the Ardennes, he came to a clearing in the forest, where, close to the fountain of Merlin, a wonderful sight met his eyes. On a flowery meadow were dancing three naked damsels, and singing with them danced also a naked youth, dark of eyes and fair of hair, the first down on his lips, so that some might have said it was and others that it was not there. On Rinaldo's approach they broke through their singing and dancing, and rushed upon him, pelting him with roses and hyacinths and violets from their baskets, and beating him with great sheaves of lilies, which burnt like flames through the plates of his armour to the very marrow of his bones. Then when they had dragged him, tied with garlands, by the feet round and round the meadow; wings, eyed not with the eyes of a peacock but with the eyes of lovely damsels, suddenly sprouted out of their shoulders, and they flew off, leaving the poor baron, bruised on the grass, to meditate upon the vanity of all future resistance to love. Such are the things which the Middle Ages and the Renaissance found to tell us of the two great heroes of Carolingian poetry. And the explanation of how it came to pass, that for the Roland of the song of Roncevaux was substituted the Orlando of Ariosto, and for the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon" the Rinaldo of Matteo Boiardo--means simply that which I desire here to study: the metamorphoses of mediæval romance stuffs, and, more especially, the vicissitudes of the cycle of Charlemagne. II. We are apt to think of the Middle Ages as if they were the companion-piece to Antiquity; but no such ideal correspondence exists between the two periods. Antiquity is all of a piece, and the Middle Ages, on the contrary, are heterogeneous and chaotic. For Antiquity is the steady and uniform development of civilization in one direction and with one meaning; there are great differences between its various epochs, but they are as the differences between the budding, the blossoming, and the fading stages of one plant: life varies, but is one. The Middle Ages, on the other hand, are a series of false starts, of interruptions and of new departures; a perpetual confusion. For, if we think over them, we shall see that these centuries called mediæval are occupied by the effort of one people, or one generation, to put to rights and settle down among as much as it can save of the civilization of Antiquity. And the sudden overwhelming of this people or this generation by another, which puts all the elaborate arrangements into disarray, adds to the ruins of Antiquity the ruins of more recent times; and then this destroying generation tries to put things straight, to settle down, and is in its turn interrupted by the advent of some new comer who begins the game afresh. As it is with peoples, so also is it with ideas; scarcely has a scheme of life or of philosophy or of art taken shape and consistence before, from out of the inexhaustible chaos of mediæval thought and feeling, there issue new necessities, new aspirations, which put into confusion all previous ones. The Middle Ages were like some financial crisis: a little time, a little credit, money will fructify, wealth will reappear, the difficult moment will be tided over; and so with civilization. But unfortunately the wealth of ideas began to accumulate in the storehouse only just long enough to bring down a rout of creditors, people who rifled the bank, and went home to consume or invest their money in order to be succeeded by others. Hence, in the matter of civilization, the Middle Ages ended in an extraordinary slow ruin, a bankruptcy like that which overtook France before '89, and from which, as France was restored by the bold seizure and breaking up of property of the revolution, the world was restored by the bold breaking of feudal and spiritual mortmain, the restoring of wasted energies to utility, of that great double revolution, the Renaissance and the Reformation. Be this as it may, mankind throughout the Middle Ages appears to have been in a chronic condition of packing up and unpacking, and packing up again; one after another a nation, a race, a philosophy, a political system came to the front and was pushed back again into limbo: Germans and Kelts and Latins, French civilization of the day of Abélard, Provençal civilization of the days of the Raymonds, brilliant and evanescent Hohenstauffen supremacy, papacy at Canossa and at Avignon, Templars triumphant and Templars persecuted; scholasticism, mysticism, feudalism, democracy, communism: influences all these perpetually rising up and being trodden down, till they all rotted away in the great stagnation of the fifteenth century; and only in one part of the world, where the conflict was more speedily ended, where one set of tendencies early triumphed, where stability was temporarily obtained, in Italy alone did civilization continue to be nurtured and developed for the benefit of all mankind. In such a state of affairs only such things could flourish and mature as were safe from what I have called, for want of a better expression, the perpetual unpacking and repacking, the perpetual being on the move, of the Middle Ages; and among such things foremost was art, the essential art of the times, architecture, which, belonging to the small towns, to the infinite minority of the democracy, who worked and made money and let the great changes pass over their heads, thrived almost as something too insignificant for notice. But it was different with literature. Cathedrals once built cannot so easily be changed; new peoples, new ideas, must accept them. But poetry--the thing which every nation insists upon having to suit its own taste, the thing which every nation and every generation carries about with it hither and thither, the thing which can be altered to suit every passing whim--poetry was, of all the fluctuating things of the Middle Ages, perhaps the most fluctuating. And fluctuating also because, as none of these various nations, tendencies, aspirations, dominated sufficiently long to produce any highly organized art, there remained no standard works, nothing recognizedly perfect, which would be kept for its perfection and gather round it imitations, so as to form the nucleus of any homogeneous tradition. The Middle Ages, so full of fashions in literary matters, possessed no classics; the minnesingers knew nothing of the stern old Teutonic war songs; the meistersängers had forgotten the minnesingers; the trouvères and troubadours knew nothing of "The Chanson de Roland," and Villon knew nothing of them; only in Italy, where the Middle Ages came to an end and the Renaissance began with the Lombard league, was there established a tradition of excellence, with men like Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, handed down from generation to generation; even as, while in the north there came about the strange modification which substituted the French of Rabelais for the French of Chrestien de Troyes, the German of Luther for the German of Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Italian language, from Ciullo d'Alcamo almost to Boiardo and Lorenzo dei Medici, remained virtually identical. The result of this, which I may call the heterogeneousness and instability of the Middle Ages was that not merely literary forms were for ever arising and being superseded, but literary subject matter was continually undergoing a process of transformation. While in Antiquity the great epic and tragic stuffs remained well-nigh unaltered, and the stories of Valerius Flaccus and Apollonius Rhodius were merely the stories which had been current since the days of Homer, during the course of the Middle Ages every epic cycle, and every tale belonging thereunto, was gradually adulterated, mingled with, swamped by, some other cycle or tale; nay, rather, every other, cycle and every other tale, the older ones trying to save their popularity by admixture with the more recent, till at last all mythical significance, all historical meaning, all national character, all psychological reality, were lost in the chaotic result. And meanwhile, in the absence of any stable language, of any durable literary fashion, the Middle Ages were unable to give to these epic stuffs, at any one period of their life of metamorphose, a form sufficiently artistically valuable to secure anything beyond momentary vogue, to secure for them the immortality of the great Greek tales of adventure and warfare and love. Thus it came about that the epic cycle of Charlemagne, after supplanting in men's minds the grand sagas of the pagan North, was itself supplanted by the Arthurian cycle; that the Frankish stories absorbed the wholly discrepant elements of their more fortunate Keltic rivals; that both cycles, having lost all character through fusion and through obliteration by time, became more meaningless generation by generation and year by year, until when the Middle Ages had come to an end, and the great poets of the Renaissance were ready to give this old mediæval epic stuff a definitive and durable artistic shape, there came to the hands of Boiardo and Ariosto, of Tasso and Spenser, only a strange, trumpery material, muddled by jongleurs and romance writers, and reduced to mere fairy stuff, taken seriously only by Don Quixote, and by the authors of the volumes of insane twaddle called after Amadis of Gaul and all his kinsmen. Such a condition of perpetual change as explains, in my belief, why the mediæval epic subjects were wanted, can be made clear only by examples. I shall therefore try to show the transformations which were undergone by one or two principal mediæval epic subjects as a result of a mixture with other epic cycles; of a gradual adaptation to a new state of civilization; and finally of their gradual separation from all kind of reality and real interests. First of all, let us look at the epic cycle, which, although known to us only in poems no older than those of the trouvères and minnesingers who sang of Charlemagne and Arthur, is in reality far more ancient, and on account of its antiquity and its consequent disconnection with mediæval religious and political interests, was thrown aside even by the nations to which it belonged, by the Scandinavians who took to writing sagas about the wars of Charlemagne against Saracens, and by the Germans who preferred to hear the adventures of Welsh and Briton, Launcelots and Tristrams. I am alluding to the stories connected with the family and life of the hero called Sigurd by the Scandinavians, and Siegfried by the Germans. Of these we possess a Norse version called the Volsunga Saga, magnificently done into English by Mr. William Morris; which, although written down at the end of the twelfth century, in the very time therefore of Chrestien de Troyes, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg, and subsequently to the presumed writing of "The Chanson de Roland" and the Nibelungenlied, shows us in reality the product of a people, the distant Scandinavians of Iceland, who were five or six hundred years behind the French, Germans, and English of the twelfth century. In the Volsunga Saga, neither Christianity nor feudalism is yet dreamed of; and it is for this reason that I wish to compare it with the Nibelungenlied, in order to show how enormously the old epic stuff was altered by the new civilization. The whole social and moral condition of the two versions is different. In the old Scandinavian civilization, where the Viking is surrounded and served by clansmen, the feeling of blood relationship is the strongest in people's hearts; strangely and fearfully shown in the introductory tale of Signy, who, in order to avenge her father Volsung, killed by her husband, murders her children by the latter, and then, altered in face by magic arts, goes forth to the woods to her brother Sigmund, that, un-wittingly, he may beget with her the only man fit to avenge the Volsungs. And then she sends the boy Sinfjotli to the man he has hitherto considered merely as his uncle, bidding the latter kill him if he prove unworthy of his incestuous birth, or train him to vengeance. The three together murder the husband and legitimate children of Signy, and set the palace on fire; which, being done, the queen, having accomplished her duty to her kin, accomplishes that towards her husband, and calmly returns to die in the burning hall. Here (and apparently again in the case of the children of Sigurd and Brynhilt) incest becomes a family virtue. This being the frightful preponderance of the feeling of blood relationship, it is quite natural that the Scandinavian Chriemhilt (called in the Volsunga Saga, Gudrun) should not resent the murder of her husband Siegfried or Sigurd by her brothers at the instigation of the jealous Brynhilt (who has in a manner been Sigurd's wife before he made her over to Chriemhilt's eldest brother); and that, so far from seeking any revenge against them, she should, when her second husband Atli sends for her brothers in order to rob and murder them, first vainly warn them of the plot, and then, when they have been massacred, kill Atli and her children by him in order to avenge her brothers. The slackening of the tribal feeling, the idea of fidelity in love and sanctity of marriage belonging to Christianity and feudalism, rendered such a story unintelligible to the Germans of the Othos and Henrys. In the Nibelungenlied, the whole story of the massacre of the brothers is changed. Chriemhilt never forgives the murder of Siegfried, and it is not Etzel--Atli for the sake of plunder, but she herself for the sake of revenge, who decoys her brothers and murders them; it is she who with her own hand cuts off the head of Gunther to expiate his murder of Siegfried. To our feelings, more akin to those of the feudal Christians of Franconia than to those of the tribal Scandinavians of the Edda, the second version is far more intelligible and interesting--the story of this once gentle and loving Chriemhilt, turned by the murder of her beloved into a fury, and plotting to avenge his death by the death of all his kinsfolk, must be much grander and more pathetic than the story of this strange Gudrun, who sits down patiently beneath the injury done to her by her brothers, but savagely avenges them on her new husband, and her own and his innocent children; to us this persistence of tribal feeling, destroying all indignation and love, is merely unnatural, confusing, and repulsive. But this alteration for the better in one of the incidents of the tale is a mere fluke; and the whole main plot of the originally central figures are completely obliterated by the new state of civilization, and rendered merely trivial and grotesque. In the Volsunga Saga Sigurd, overcome by enchantments, has forgotten his wife (or mistress, a vague mythical relationship); and, with all sense of the past obliterated, has made her over to the brother of his new wife Gudrun; and Brynhilt kills her faithless love to dissolve the second marriage and be reunited with him in death. In the Nibelungenlied Siegfried, although the flower of knighthood, conquers by foul play the Amazon Brunhilt to reward Gunther for the hand of his sister; nay, in a comic and loathsome scene he forces her into the embraces of the craven Gunther; and then he gets killed by Brunhilt's machinations; when, after most unqueenly bickerings, the proud Amazon is brutally told by Siegfried's wife of the dirty trick which has given her to Gunther. After this, it is impossible to realize, when Siegfried is murdered and all our sympathies called on to his side, the utterly out-of-character, blackguardly behaviour which has brought the hero to his death. Similarly the conception of the character and position of Brynhilt is entirely disfigured and rendered inane in the Nibelungenlied: of that superb demi-goddess of the Scandinavians, burnt on the pyre with her falcons and dogs and horses and slaves, by the side of the demi-god Sigurd, whom she has loved and killed, lest the door of Valhalla, swinging after him, should shut her out from his presence; of her there remains in the German mediæval poem only a virago (more like the giantesses of the Amadis romances) enraged at having been defeated and grotesquely and grossly pummelled into wedlock by a man not her husband, and then slanged like a fishwife by her envious sister-in-law. The old, consistent, grandly tragic tale of the mysterious incests and revenges of a race of demi-gods has lost its sense, its point in the attempt to arrange it to suit Christian and feudal ideas. The really fine portions of the Nibelungenlied are exactly those which have no real connection with the original story, gratuitous additions by mediæval poets. The delicately indicated falling in love of Siegfried and Chriemhilt, the struggles of Markgraf Rüdger between obedience to his feudal superior and fidelity towards his friends and guests; and, above all, the canto of the death of Siegfried. This last is different, intensely different, from the rugged and dreary monotony of the rest; this most poetical, almost Spenserian or Ariostesque realization of the scene; this beautiful picture (though worked with the needle of the arras-worker rather than with pencil or brush) of the wood, the hunt, the solitary fountain in the Odenwald, where, with his spear leaned against the lime-tree, Siegfried was struck down into the clover and flowers, and writhed with Hagen's steel through his back. This canto is certainly interpolated by some first-rate poet, at least a Gottfried or a Walther, to whom that passage of the savage old droning song of death had suggested a piece of new art; it is like the fragments of exquisitely chiselled leafage and figures which you sometimes find encrusted--by whom? wherefore?--quite isolated in the midst of the rough and lichen-stained stones of some rude Lombard church. All the rest of the Nibelungenlied gives an impression of effeteness; there is no definiteness of idea such as that of the Volsunga Saga; the battles are mere vague slaughter, no action, no realized movement, or (excepting Rüdger) no realized motive of conduct. Shape and colour would seem to have been obliterated by repetition and alteration. Yet even these alterations could not make the tale of Siegfried survive among the Germans of the Middle Ages; nay, the more the alterations the less the interest; the want of consistency and colour due to rearrangement merely accelerated the throwing aside of a subject which, dating from pagan and tribal times, had become repugnant to the new generations. All the mutilations in the world could not make the old Scandinavian tales of betrayed trust, of revenge and triumphant bloodshed, at all sympathetic to men whose religious and social ideals were those of forgiveness and fidelity; even stripped of its incestuous mysteries and of its fearful tribal love, the tale of Sigurd and Brynhilt, reduced to the tale of Chriemhilt's revenge, was unpalatable: no more attempts were made at re-writing it, and the poems of Walther, of Gottfried, of Wolfram, of Ulrich, and of Tannhäuser, full as they are of references to stories of the Carolingian and Arthurian cycles, nay, to Antique and Oriental tales, contain no allusion to the personages of the Nibelungenlied. The old epic of the Gothic races had been pushed aside by the triumphant epic of the obscure and conquered Kelts. There are few phenomena in the history of ideas and forms more singular than that of the sudden conquest of the poetry of dominant or distant nations by the poetic subjects of a comparatively small race, sheared of all political importance, restricted to a trifling territory, and well-nigh deprived of their language; and of this there can be found no more striking example than the sudden ousting of the Carolingian epic by the cycle of Arthur. The Kelts of Britain and Ireland possessed an epic cycle of their own, which came to notice only when they were dispossessed of their last strongholds by Saxons and Normans, and which immediately spread with astounding rapidity all over Europe. The vanquished race became fashionable; themselves, their art and their poetry, began to be sought for as a precious and war-enhanced loot. The heroic tales of the Kelts were transcribed in Welsh, and translated into Latin, by order of the Norman and Angevine kings, glad, it would seem, to oppose the Old Briton to the Saxon element. The Keltic songs were carried all over France by Breton bards, to whose music and rhymes, with only a general idea of the subjects, the neo-Latin-speaking Franks listened with the sort of stolid satisfaction with which English or Germans of a hundred years ago listened to Italians singing Metastasio's verses. But soon the songs and tales were translated; and French poets imitated in their language, northern and southern, the graceful metres of the Keltic lays, and altered and arranged their subjects. So that, in a very short time, France, and through it Germany, was inundated with Keltic stories. This triumph of the vanquished race was not without reason. The Kelts, early civilized by Rome and Christianity, had a set of stories and a set of heroes extremely in accordance with mediæval ideas, and requiring but very little alteration. The considerable age of their civilization had long obliterated all traces of pagan and tribal feeling in their tales. Their heroes, originally, like those of all other people, divinities intimately connected with natural phenomena, had long lost all cosmic characteristics, long ceased to be gods, and, manipulated by the fancy of a race whose greatness was quite a thing of the past, had become a sort of golden age ideals--the men of a distant period of glory, which was adorned with every kind of perfection, till it became as unreal as fairyland. Fairyland, in good sooth, was this country of the Keltic tales; and there is a sort of symbolical significance in the fact of its lawgiver Merlin, and its emperor Arthur, being both of them not dead, like Sigurd, like Dietrich, like Charlemagne and Roland, but lying in enchanted sleep. Long inaction and the day-dreaming of idleness had refined and idealized the heroes of this Keltic race--a race of brilliant fancy and almost southern mobility, and softened for a long time by contact with Roman colonists and Christian priests. They were not the brutal combatants of an active fighting age, like the heroes of the Edda and of the Carolingian cycles; nor had they any particular military work to do, belonging as they did to a people huddled away into inactivity. Their sole occupation was to extend abroad that ideal happiness which reigned in the ideal court of Arthur; to go forth on the loose and see what ill-conditioned folk there might yet be who required being subdued or taught manners in the happy kingdom, which the poor insignificant Kelts connected with some princelet of theirs who centuries before may have momentarily repelled the pagan Saxons. Hence in the Keltic stories, such as they exist in the versions previous to the conquest by the Norman kings, and previous also to any communications with other peoples, the distinct beginning of what was later to be called knight-errantry; of heroes, creations of an inactive nation, having no special military duties, going forth to do what good they may at random, unforced by any necessity, and following a mere æsthetico-romantic plan of perfecting themselves by deeds of valour to become more worthy of their God, their King, and their Lady: religion, loyalty, and love, all three of them mere æsthetic abstractions, becoming the goal of an essentially æsthetic, unpractical system of self-improvement, such as was utterly incompatible with any real and serious business in life. Idle poetic fancies of an inert people, the Knights of the Round Table have no mission save that of being poetically perfect. Such was the spirit of Keltic poetry; and, as it happened, this spirit satisfied the imaginative wants of mediæval society just at the moment when political events diffused in other countries the knowledge of the Arthurian legends. The old Teutonic tales of Sigurd, Gudrun, and Dietrich, had long ceased to appeal, in their mutilated and obliterated condition, to a society to whom tribal feeling and pagan heroism were odious, and whose religion distinctly reproved revenge. These semi-mythological tales had been replaced by another cycle: the purely realistic epic, which had arisen during the struggles between the Christian west against the pagan north-east and the Mohammedan south, and which, originating in the short battle-songs narrating the exploits of the predecessors and help-mates of Charlemagne, had constituted itself into large narratives of which the "Song of Roland" represents artistic culmination. These narratives of mere military exploits, of the battles of a strong feudal aristocracy animated by feudal loyalty and half-religious, half-patriotic fury against invading heathenness, had perfectly satisfied the men of the earliest Middle Ages, of the times when feudalism was being established and the church being reformed; when the strong military princelets of the North were embarking with their barons to conquer new kingdoms in England and in Italy and Greece; when the whole of feudal Europe hurled itself against Asia in the first Crusades. But the condition of things soon altered: the feudal hierarchy was broken up into a number of semi-independent little kingdoms or principalities, struggling, with the assistance of industrial and mercantile classes, to become absolute monarchies; princes who had been mere generals became stay-at-home diplomatists, studious of taxation and intrigue, surrounded no longer by armed vassals, but by an essentially urban court, in constant communication with the money-making burghers. Religion, also, instead of being a matter of fighting with infidel invaders, turned to fantastic sectarianism and emotional mysticism. With the sense of futility, of disappointment, attendant on the later Crusades, came also a habit of roaming in strange countries, of isolated adventure in search of wealth or information, a love of the distant, the half-understood, the equivocal; perhaps even a hankering after a mysterious compromise between the religion of Europe and the religions of the East, such as appears to have existed among the Templars and other Franks settled in Asia. There was, throughout feudal society, a sort of enervated languor, a morbid longing for something new, now that the old had ceased to be possible or had proved futile; after the great excitement of the Crusades it was impossible to be either sedately idle or quietly active, even as it is with all of us during the days of weariness and restlessness after some long journey. To such a society the strongly realistic Carolingian epic had ceased to appeal: the tales of the Welsh and Breton bards, repeated by trouvère and jongleur, troubadour and minnesinger, came as a revelation. The fatigued, disappointed, morbid, imaginative society of the later Crusades recognized in this fairyland epic of a long refined, long idle, nay, effete race, the realization of their own ideal: of activity unhampered by aim or organization, of sentiment and emotion and action quite useless and unnecessary, purely subservient to imaginative gratification. These Arthurs, Launcelots, Tristrams, Kays, and Gawains, fantastic phantoms, were also far more artistically malleable than the iron Rolands, Olivers, and Renauds of earlier days; that unknown kingdom of Britain could much more easily be made the impossible ideal, in longing for which squeamish and lazy minds might refuse all coarser reality. Moreover, those who listened to the tales of chivalry were different from those who had listened to the Carolingian stories; and, therefore, required something different. They were courtiers, and one half of them were women. Now the Carolingian tales, originally battle-songs, sung in camps and castles to mere soldiers, had at first possessed no female characters at all; and when gradually they were introduced, it was in the coarsest barrack or tap-room style. The Keltic tales, on the contrary, whether from national tradition, or rather from longer familiarity with Christian culture and greater idleness of life, naturally made women and women's love the goal of a great many adventures which an effete nation could no longer ascribe to patriotic movements. But this was not all. The religious feeling of the day was extremely inclined to mysticism, in which æsthetic, erotic, and all kinds of morbid and ill-defined tendencies were united, which was more than anything else tinged with a semi-Asiatic quietism, a longing for the passive ecstasy of Nirvâna. This religious side of mediæval life was also gratified by the Arthurian romances. Oddly enough, there existed an old Welsh or Breton tale about the boy Peredur, who from a complete simpleton became the prince of chivalry, and his many adventures connected with a certain mysterious blood-dripping lance, and a still more mysterious basin or _grail_ (an allusion to which is said by M. de la Villemarqué to be contained in the originally Keltic name of Percival), which possessed magic properties akin to those of the purse of Fortunatus, or the pipkin in the story of "Little pot, boil!" The story, whose original mythical meaning had been lost in the several centuries of Christianity, was very decayed and obscure; and the fact of the blood on the lance being that of a murdered kinsman of Peredur, and of the basin containing the head of the same person cut off by Gloucester witches, was evidently insufficient to account for all the mystery with which these objects were surrounded. The French poets of the Middle Ages, strongly imbued with Oriental legends brought back by the Crusaders, saw at a glance the meaning of the whole story: the lance was the lance with which Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side; the Grail was the cup which had received His blood, nay, it was the cup of the Last Supper. A tale about the preservation of these precious relics by Joseph of Arimathæa, was immediately connected therewith; a theory was set up (doubtless with the aid of quite unchristian, Oriental legends) of a kind of kingdom of the keepers of the Grail, of a vague half-material, half-spiritual state of bliss connected with the service of the Grail, which fed its knights (and here the Templars and their semi-oriental mysteries, for which they were later so frightfully misused, certainly come into play) with food which is at once of the body and of the soul. Thus the Keltic Peredur, bent upon massacring the Gloucester witches to avenge his uncle, was turned into a saintly knight, seeking throughout a more and more perfect life for the kingdom of the Grail: the Perceval of Chrestien de Troyes, the Parzifal of Wolfram von Eschenbach, whom later romance writers (wishing to connect everything more closely with Arthur's court) replaced by the Sir Galahad of the "Morte d'Arthur," while the guest of the Grail became a sort of general mission of several knights, a sort of spiritual crusade to whose successful champions Percival, Bors, and Galahad, the Middle Ages did not hesitate to add the arch-adulterer Launcelot. Thus did the Arthurian tales answer the requirements of the languid, dreamy, courtly, lady-serving and religiously mystic sons and grandsons of those earlier Crusaders whose aspirations had been expressed by the rough and solemn heroes of Carolingian tales. The Carolingian tales were thrown aside, or were kept by the noble mediæval poets only on condition of their original meaning being completely defaced by wholesale admixture of the manners and adventures belonging to the Arthurian cycles. The paladins were forced to disport themselves in the same fairyland as the Knights of the Round Table; and many mediæval poems the heroes of which, like Ogier of Denmark and Huon of Bordeaux, already existed in the Carolingian tales, are in reality, with their romantic loves, their useless adventures, their Morgana's castles and Oberon's horns, offshoots of the Keltic stories, which were as rich in every kind of supernatural (being, in fact, pagan myths turned into fairy tales) as the genuine Carolingian subjects, whose origin was entirely historical, were completely devoid of such things. Arthur and his ladies and knights: Guenevere, Elaine, Enid, Yseult, Launcelot, Geraint, Kay, Gawain, Tristram, and Percival-Galahad, were the real heroes and heroines of the courtly nobles and the courtly poets of this second phase of mediæval life. The Teuton Charlemagne, Roland and Oliver were as completely forgotten of the poets who met in that memorable combat of the Wartburg, as were the Teuton Sigurd and Dietrich. And if the Carolingian cycle survived, however much altered, I think it must have been thanks to the burghers and artizans of the Netherlands and of Provence, to whom the bluff, matter-of-fact heroism, the simple, gross, but not illegitimate amours of Carolingian heroes, were more satisfactory than any mystic quest of the Grail, any refined adultery of Guenevere or Yseult. But the inevitable fate of all mediæval epics awaited this triumphant Arthurian cycle: the fate of being obliterated by passing from one nation and civilization to another, long before the existence of any poetic art adequate to its treatment. Of this I will take as an example one of the mediæval poems which has the greatest reputation the masterpiece (according to most critics, with whom I find it difficult, in the presence of a poet like Gottfried von Strassburg, to agree) of probably the most really poetical and earnest school of poetry which the pre-Dantesque Middle Ages possessed--the "Parzifal" of Wolfram von Eschenbach. The paramount impression (I cannot say the strongest, for strong impressions are incompatible with such work as this) left by the masterpiece of Wolfram von Eschenbach, is that of the most astonishing vagueness, fluidity, haziness, vaporousness. In reading it one looks back to that rudely hewn and extremely obliterated Nibelungenlied, as to something quite astonishingly clear, detailed and strongly marked as to something distinctly artistic. Indeed by the side of "Parzifal" everything seems artistic; Hartmann von Aue reads like Chaucer, "Aucassin et Nicolette" is as living as "Cymbeline," "Chevy Chase" seems as good as the battles of Homer. It is not a narrative, but a vague mooning; a knight illiterate, not merely like his fellow minnesingers, in the way of reading and writing, but in the sense of complete absence of all habit of literary form; extremely noble and pure of mind, chaste, gentle, with a funny, puzzled sense of humour, reminding one distantly of Jean Paul in his drowsy moments; a hanger-on of courts, but perfectly simple-hearted and childlike; very poor and easily pleased: such is, for good and for bad, Herr Wolfram von Eschenbach, the only real personality in his poem. And he narrates, in a mooning, digressive, good-natured, drowsy tone, with only a rare awaking of interest, a story which he has heard from some one else, and that some one else from a series of other some one elses (Chrestien de Troyes, a legendary Provençal Chiot or Guyot, perhaps even the original Welsh bard); all muddled, monotonous, and droning; events and persons ill-defined, without any sense of the relative importance of anything, without clear perception of what it is all about, or at least without the power of keeping the matter straight before the reader. A story, in point of fact, which is no story at all, but a mere series of rambling adventures (adventures which are scarcely adventures, having no point or plot) of various people with not much connection and no individuality--Gachmuret, Parzifal, Gawain, Loherangrein, Anfortas, Feirefis--pale ghosts of beings, moving in a country of Kennaqwhere, Aquitaine, Anjou, Brittany, Wales, Spain, and heaven knows what wondrous Oriental places; a misty country with woods and towns and castles which are infinitely far apart and yet quite near each other; which seem to sail about like cloud castles round the only solid place in the book, Plimizöl, where Arthur's court, with round table constantly spread, is for ever established. A no place, nowhere; yet full of details; minute inventories of the splendid furniture of castles (castles where? how reached?); infinitely inferior in this matter even to the Nibelungenlied, where you are made to feel so vividly (one of the few modern and therefore clear things therein) the long, dreary road from Worms to Bechlarn, and thence to Etzelburg, though of none of them is there anything beyond a name. For the Nibelungen story had been localized in what to narrator and audience was a reality, the country in which themselves lived, where themselves might seek out the abbey in which Siegfried was buried, the well in the Odenwald near which he was stabbed; where they knew from merchant and pilgrim the road taken by the Nibelungs from Santen to Worms, by the Burgundians from Worms to Hungary. But here in "Parzifal" we are in a mere vague world of anywhere, the world of Keltic and Oriental romance become mere cloudland to the Thuringian knight. And similarly have the heroes of other nations, the Arthurs, Gawains, Gachmurets, of Wales and Anjou, become mere vague names; they have become liquified, lost all shape and local habitation. They are mere names, these ladies and knights of Herr Wolfram, names with fair pink and white faces, names magnificently draped in bejewelled Oriental stuffs and embossed armour; they have no home, no work, nothing to do. This is the most remarkable characteristic of "Parzifal," and what makes it so typical of the process of growing inane through overmuch alteration, which prevented the mediæval epics ever turning into an Iliad or an Odyssey; this that it is essentially idle and all about nothing. The feudal relations strongly marked in the German Nibelungenlied have melted away like the distinctions of race: every knight is independent, not a vassal nor a captain, a Volker or Hagen, or Roland or Renaud followed by his men; but an isolated individual, without even a squire, wandering about alone through this hazy land of nowhere. Knight-errantry, in the time of the great Guelph and Ghibelline struggles, every bit as ideal as that of Spenser or Cervantes; and with the difference that Sir Calidore and Sir Artegal have an appointed task, some Blatant Beast or other nuisance to overcome; and that Don Quixote has the general rescuing of all the oppressed Princesse Micomiconas, and the destruction of all windmills, and the capturing of all helmets of Mambrino, and the establishing all over the world of the worship of Dulcinea. But these knights of Wolfram von Eschenbach have no more this mission than they have the politico-military missions, missions of a Rüdger or a Roland. They are all riding about at random, without any particular pagans, necromancers, or dragons to pursue. The very service of the Holy Grail, which is the main interest of the poem, consists in nothing apparently except living virtuously at the Castle of Montselväsche, and virtuously eating and drinking the victuals provided miraculously. To be admitted to this service, no initiation, no mission, nothing preliminary seems required. Parzifal himself merely wanders about vaguely, without doing any specified thing. The fact is that in this poem all has become purely ideal; ideal to the point of utter vacuity: there is no connection with any human business. Of all the heroes and heroines we hear that they are perfectly chaste, truthful, upright; and they are never put into any situation to test these qualities: they are never placed in the way of temptation, never made to fight with evil, or to decide between it and good. The very religion of the Holy Grail consists in doing nothing: not a word about relieving the poor or oppressed, of tending the sick, of delivering the Holy Sepulchre, of defending that great injured One, Christ. To be Grail Knight or even Grail King means to be exactly the same as before. Where in this vague dreamland of passive purity and heroism, of untempted chastity and untried honour, where are the earthly trials of Tristram, of Guenevere, of Rüdger, of Renaud? Where the moral struggles of the Middle Ages? Where is Godfrey, or Francis, or Dominick? Nowhere. All has disappeared, melted away; Christianity and Paganism themselves have melted away or into each other, as in the easy meeting of the Pagan Feirefis and the Christian Parzifal, and in the double marriage of Gachmuret with the Indian Belakane and the Welsh Herzeloid; there remains only a kind of Buddhistic Nirvâna of vague passive perfection, but without any renunciation; and in a world devoid of evil and full of excellent brocade and armour and eatables, and lovely maidens who dress and undress you, and chastely kiss you on the mouth; a world without desire, aspiration, or combat, vacantly happy and virtuous. A world purely ideal, divorced from all reality, unsubstantial like the kingdom of Gloriana, but, unlike Spenser's, quite unshadowed by any puritan sadness, by any sense of evil, untroubled by allegorical vices; cheerful, serene, filled with flowers and song of birds, but as unreal as the illuminated arabesques of a missal. In truth, perhaps more to be compared with an eighteenth century pastoral, an ideal created almost in opposition to reality; a dream of passiveness and liberty (as of light leaves blown about) as the ideal of the fiercely troubled, struggling, tightly fettered feudal world. The ideal, perhaps, of only one moment, scarcely of a whole civilization; or rather (how express my feeling?) an accidental combination of an instant, as of spectre vapour arisen from the mixture of Kelt and Teuton, of Frank and Moslem. Is it Christian, Pagan, Mohammedan? None of all these. A simple-looking vaporous chaos of incongruous, but not conflicting, elements: a poem of virtue without object, of knighthood without work, of religion without belief; in this like its central interest, the Grail: a mystery, a cup, a stone; a thing which heals, feeds, speaks; animate or inanimate? Stone of the Caaba or chalice of the Sacrament? Merely a mysterious holy of holies and good of goods, which does everything and nothings means nothing and requires nothing--is nothing. III. Thus was obliterated, in all its national and traditional meaning, the heroic cycle of Arthur; and by the same process of slow adaptation to new intellectual requirements which had completely wiped out of men's memory the heroic tales of Siegfried, which had entirely altered the originally realistic character of the epic of Charlemagne. But unreal and ideal as had become the tales of the Round Table, and disconnected with any national tradition, the time came when even these were not sufficiently independent of reality to satisfy the capricious imagination of the later Middle Ages. At the end of the fourteenth century was written, most probably in Portuguese by Vasco de Lobeira, the tale of "Amadis de Gaula," which was followed by some forty or fifty similar books telling the adventures of all the brothers, nephews, sons, grandsons sons, and great-grandsons, an infinite succession, of the original Amadis; which, translated into all languages and presently multiplied by the press, seem to have usurped the place of the Arthurian stories in feudal countries until well-nigh the middle of the sixteenth century; and which were succeeded by no more stories of heroes, but by the realistic comic novels of the type of "Lazarillo de Tormes," and the buffoon philosophic extravaganzas of "Gargantua." Further indeed it was impossible to go than did mediæval idealism in the Amadises. Compared with them the most fairy-tale-like Arthurian stories are perfect historical documents. There remains no longer any connection whatsoever with reality, historical or geographical: the whole world seems to have been expeditiously emptied of all its contents, to make room for kingdoms of Gaul, of Rome, of the Firm Island, of Sobradisa, etc., which are less like the Land West of the Moon and East of the Sun than they are like Sancho Panza's island. All real mankind, past, present, and future, has similarly been swept away and replaced by a miraculous race of Amadises, Lisvarts, Galaors, Gradasilias, Orianas, Pintiquinestras, Fradalons, and so forth, who flit across our vision, in company with the indispensable necromancers, fairies, dwarfs, giants, and duennas, like some huge ballet: things without character, passions, pathos; knights who are never wounded or killed, princesses who always end with marrying the right man, enchanters whose heads are always chopped off, foundlings who are always reinstated in their kingdom, inane paper puppets bespangled with impossible sentiment, tinsel and rags which are driven about like chaff by the wind-puffs of romance. The advent of the Amadises is the coming of the Kingdom of Nonsense, the sign that the last days of chivalric romance have come; a little more, and the Licentiate Alonzo Perez will take his seat in Don Quixote's library, and Nicholas the Barber light his faggots in the yard. But, as if in compensation of the usurpation of which they had been the victims, the Carolingian tales, pushed out of the way by the Arthurian cycle, were not destined to perish. Thrown aside with contempt by the upper classes, engrossed with the Round Table and the Holy Grail, the tales of Charlemagne and his paladins, largely adulterated with Arthurian elements, were apparently cherished by a lower class of society: burgesses, artizans, and such-like, for whom that Arthurian world was far too etherial and too delicately immoral; and to this circumstance is due the fact that the humiliated Carolingian tales eventually received an artistic embodiment which was not given to the Arthurian stories. While troubadours and minnesingers were busy with the court of Arthur, and grave Latinists like Rusticiano of Pisa wrote of Launcelot and Guenevere; the Carolingian epics seem to have been mainly sung about by illiterate jongleurs, and to have busied the pens of prose hackwriters for the benefit of townsfolk. The free towns of the Netherlands and of Germany appear to have been full of this unfashionable literature: the Carolingian cycle had become democratic. And, inasmuch as it was literature no longer for knights and courtiers, but for artizans and shopkeepers, it went, of course, to the pre-eminently democratic country of the Middle Ages--Italy. This was at a time when Italian was not yet a recognized language, and when the men and women who talked in Tuscan, Lombard, or Venetian dialects, wrote in Latin and in French; and while Francesca and Paolo read the story of Launcelot most probably in good mediæval _langue d'oil_, as befitted people of high birth; the jongleurs, who collected crowds so large as to bar the streets and require the interference of the Bolognese magistrates, sang of Roland and Oliver in a sort of _lingua Franca_ of French Lombard. French jongleurs singing in impossible French-Italian; Italian jongleurs singing in impossible French; Paduan penny-a-liners writing Carolingian cyclical novels in French, not of Paris, assuredly, but of Padua--a comical and most hideous jabber of hybrid languages--this was how the Carolingian stories became popular in Italy. Meanwhile, the day came when the romantic Arthurian tales had to dislodge in Italy before the invasion of the classic epic. Troy, Rome, and Thebes had replaced Tintagil and Cærleon in the interest of the cultured classes long before the beginning of the fifteenth century; when Poggio, in the very midst of the classic revival, still told of the comically engrossed audience which surrounded the vagabonds singing of Orlando and Rinaldo. The effete Arthurian cycle, superseded in Spain and France by the Amadis romances, was speedily forgotten in Italy; but the Carolingian stories remained; and when Italian poetry arose once more after the long interregnum between Petrarch and Lorenzo dei Medici, and looked about for subjects, it laid its hand upon them. But when, in the second half of the fifteenth century, those old tales of Charlemagne received, after so many centuries of alterations and ephemeral embodiments, that artistic form which the Middle Ages had been unable to give them, the stories themselves, and the way in which they were regarded, were totally different from what they had been in the time of Theroulde, or of the anonymous author of "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" the Renaissance, with its keen artistic sense, made out of the Carolingian tales real works of art, but works of art which were playthings. To begin with, the Carolingian stories had been saturated with Arthurian colour: they had been furnished with all the knight-rrantry, all the gallantry, all the enchantments, the fairies, giants, and necromancers of the Keltic legends; and, moreover, they had lost, by infinite repetition, all the political realism and meaning so striking in "The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" a confusion and unreality further increased by the fact that the Italians had no original connection with those tales, that to them real men and plans were no better than imaginary ones, and that the minstrels who sang in the market-place, and the laborious prose-writers who compiled such collections as that called of the "Reali di Francia," were equally free in their alterations and adaptations, creating unknown relationships, inventing new adventures, suppressing essential historical points, with no object save amusing their audience or readers with new stories about familiar heroes. Such was the condition of the stories themselves. The attitude of the public towards them was, by the middle of the fifteenth century, one of complete incredulity and frivolous amusement; the paladins were as unreal as the heroes of any granny's fairy tale. The people wanted to hear of wonderful battles and adventures, of enchantments and love-makings; but they wanted also to laugh; and, sceptical, practical, democratic, the artizans and shopkeepers of Florence--to whom, paying, as they did, expensive mercenaries who stole poultry and never got wounded on any account, all chivalry or real military honour was the veriest nursery rubbish--such people as crowded round the _cantastoria_ of _mercato vecchio_, must indeed have found much to amuse them in these tales of so different an age. And into such crowds there penetrated to listen and watch (even as the Magnificent Lorenzo had elbowed among the carnival ragamuffins of Florence, and had slid in among the holiday-making peasants of Poggio a Caiano) a learned man, a poet, an intimate of the Medicis, of Politian, Ficino, and Pico della Mirandola, Messer Luigi Pulci, the same who had written the semi-allegorical, semi-realistic poem about Lorenzo dei Medici's gala tournament. There was a taste in the house of the Medici, together with those for platonic philosophy, classical erudition, religious hymns, and Hebrew kabbala, for a certain kind of realism, for the language and mode of thinking of the lower classes, as a reaction from Petrarchesque conventionality. As the Magnificent Lorenzo had had the fancy to string together in more artistic shape the quaint and graceful love poems, hyperbolical, realistic, tender, and abusive, of the Tuscan peasantry; so also Messer Luigi Pulci appears to have been smitten with the notion of trying his hand at a chivalric poem like those to which he and his friends had listened among the butchers and pork-shops, the fishmongers and frying booths of the market, and giving an impression, in its ideas and language, of the people to whom such strains were sung. But Luigi Pulci was vastly less gifted as a poet than Lorenzo dei Medici; Florentine prentices are less æsthetically pleasing than Tuscan peasants, and the "Morgante Maggiore" is a piece of work of a sort utterly inferior to the "Nencia da Barberino." Still the "Morgante Maggiore" remains, and will remain, as a very remarkable production of grotesque art. Just as Lorenzo dei Medici was certainly not without a deliberate purpose of selecting the quaintness and gracefulness of peasant life; even so, and perhaps more, Luigi Pulci must have had a deliberate intention of producing a ludicrous effect; in both cases the deliberate attempt is very little perceptible, in the "Nencia da Barberino" from the genius of Lorenzo, in the "Morgante Maggiore" from the stolidity of Pulci. The "Morgante," of which parts were probably written as a mere sample to amuse a supper party, became interesting to Pulci, in the mere matter of inventing and stringing together new incidents; and despite its ludicrous passages, it must have been more seriously written by him, and more seriously listened to by his friends, than would a similar production now-a-days. For the men of the Renaissance, no matter how philosophized and cultured, retained the pleasure in mere incident, which we moderns seem to have given over to children and savages; and Lorenzo, Ficino, and Politian probably listened to the adventures of Luigi Pulci's paladins and giants with much the same interest, and only a little more conscious sense of grotesqueness, with which the crowd in the market listened to Cristofano dell' Altissimo and similar story-tellers. The "Morgante Maggiore," therefore, is neither really comic nor really serious. It is not a piece of realistic grotesqueness like "Gargantua" or "Pantagruel," any more than it is a serious ideal work like "Amadis de Gaula:" the proportion of deliberately sought effects is small; the great bulk, serious or comic, seems to have come quite at random. It is not a caricatured reproduction of the poems of chivalry sung in the market, for they were probably serious, stately, and bald, with at most an occasional joke; it is the reproduction of the joint impression received from the absurd, harum-scarum, unpractical world of chivalry of the poet, and the real world of prose, of good-humoured buffoonish coarseness with which the itinerant poet was surrounded. The paladins are no Don Quixotes, the princesses no Dulcineas, the battles are real battles; but the language is that of Florentine wool-workers, housewives, cheese-sellers, and ragamuffins, crammed with the slang of the market-place, its heavy jokes and perpetual sententious aphorism. Moreover the prominence given to food and eating is unrivalled except by Rabelais: the poet must have lounged with delight through the narrow mediæval lanes, crowded with booths and barrows, sniffing with rapture the mingled scents of cheese, pork, fish, spices, and a hundred strange concomitant market smells. And the market, that classic _mercato vecchio_ (alas, finally condemned and destroyed by modern sanitary prudishness, and which only those who have seen can conceive in its full barbarous, nay, barbaric Pantagruelian splendour of food, blood, and stenches) of Florence, is what we think of throughout the poem. And, when Messer Luigi comes to narrate, with real gravity and after the due invocation of the Virgin, the Trinity, and the saints, the tremendous disaster of Roncevaux, he uses such words and such similes, that above the neighing of horses and the clash of hurtling armour and the yells of the combatants we suddenly hear the nasal sing-song of Florentine tripe-vendors and pumpkin-pod-sellers, the chaffer and oaths and laughter of the gluttonous crowd pouring through the lanes of Calimala and Pellicceria; nay (horrible and grotesque miracle), there seems to rise out of the confused darkness of the battle-filled valley, there seems to disengage itself (as out of a mist) from the chaos of heaped bodies, and the flash of steel among the whirlwinds of dust, a vision, more and more distinct and familiar, of the crowded square with its black rough-hewn, smoke-stained houses, ornamented with Robbia-ware angels and lilies or painted madonnas; of its black butchers dens, outside which hang the ghastly disembowelled sheep with blood-stained fleeces, the huge red-veined hearts and livers; of the piles of cabbage and cauli-flowers, the rows of tin ware and copper saucepans, the heaps of maccaroni and pastes, of spices and drugs; the garlands of onions and red peppers and piles of apples; the fetid sliminess of the fish tressels; the rough pavement oozy and black, slippery with cabbage-stalks, puddled with bullock's blood, strewn with plucked feathers--all under the bright blue sky, with Giotto's dove-coloured belfry soaring high above; a vision, finally, of one of those deep dens, with walls, all covered with majolica plates and dishes and flashing brass-embossed trenchers, in the dark depths of which crackles perennially a ruddy fire, while a huge spit revolves, offering to the flames now one now the other side of scores of legs of mutton, rounds of beef, and larded chickens, trickling with the butter unceasingly ladled by the white-dressed cooks. Roncisvalle, Charlemagne, the paladins, paganism, Christendom--what of them? "I believe in capon, roast or boiled, and sometimes done in butter; in mead and in must; and I believe in the pasty and the pastykins, mother and children; but above all things I believe in good wine "--as Margutte snuffles out in his catechism; and as to Saracens and paladins, past, present, and future, a fig for them! But meanwhile, for all that Florentine burgesses, artizans, and humorists may think, there is in this Italy of the Renaissance something besides Florence; there is a school of poetry, disconnected with the realisms of Lorenzo and Pulci, with the Ovidian Petrarchisms of Politian. There is Ferrara. Lying, as they do, between the Northern Apennine slopes of Modena and the Euganean hills, the dominions of the House of Este appear at first sight merely as part and parcel of Lombardy, and we should expect from them nothing very different from that which we expect from Milan or Bologna or Padua. But the truth is different; all round Ferrara, indeed, stretches the fertile flatness of Lombard cornfields, and they produce, as infallibly as they produce their sacks of grain and tuns of wine and heaps of silk cocoon, the intellectual and social equivalents of such things in Renaissance Italy: industry, wealth, comfort, scepticism, art. But on either side, into the defiles of the Euganean hills to the north, into the widening torrent valleys of the Modenese Apennines to the south, the Marquisate of Este stretches up into feudalism, into chivalry, into the imaginative kingdom of the Middle Ages. Mediævalism, feudalism, chivalry, indeed, of a very modified sort; and as different from that of France and Germany as differ from the poverty-stricken plains and forests and and moors of the north these Italian mountain slopes, along which the vines crawl in long trellises, and the chestnuts rise in endlessly superposed tiers of terraces, cultivated by a peasant who is not the serf, but the equal sharer in profits with the master of the soil. And on one of those fertile hill-sides, looking down upon a narrow valley all a green-blue shimmer with corn and vine-bearing elms, was born, in the year 1434, Matteo Maria Boiardo, in the village which gave him the title, one of the highest in the Estensian dominions, of Count of Scandiano. Here, in the Apennines, Scandiano is a fortified village, also a castle, doubtless half turned into a Renaissance villa, but mediæval and feudal nevertheless; but the name of Scandiano belongs also, I know not for what reason, to a certain little red-brick palace on the outskirts of Ferrara, beautifully painted with half-allegorical, half-realistic pageant frescoes by Cosimo Tura, and enclosing a sweet tangled orchard-garden; to all of which, being the place to which Duke Borso and Duke Ercole were wont to retire for amusement, the Ferrarese have given the further name of Schifanoia, which means, "fly from cares." This little coincidence of Scandiano the feudal castle in the Apennines, and Scandiano the little pleasure palace at Ferrara, seems to give, by accidental allegory, a fair idea of the double nature of Matteo Boiardo, of the Ferrarese court to which he belonged, and of the school of poetry (including the more notable but less original work of Ariosto) which the genius of the man and the character of the court succeeded together in producing. To understand Boiardo we must compare him with Ariosto; and to understand Ariosto we must compare him with Boiardo; both belong to the same school, and are men of very similar genius, and where the one leaves off the other begins. But first, in order to understand the character of this poetry which, in the main, is identical in Boiardo and in his more successful but less fascinating pupil Ariosto, let us understand Ferrara. It was, in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, a chivalric town of Ariostesque chivalry: feudalism turned courtly and elegant, and moreover, very liberal and comfortable by preponderance of democratic and industrial habits; a military court, of brave mercenary captains full of dash and adventure, not mere brigands and marauders having studied strategy, like the little Umbrian chieftains; a court orderly, elegant, and brilliant: a prince not risen from behind a counter like Medicis and Petruccis, nor out of blood like Baglionis and Sforzas, but of a noble old house whose beginnings are lost in the mist of real chivalry and real paladinism; a duke with a pretence of feudal honour and decorum, at whose court men were all brave and ladies all chaste--with the little licenses of baseness and gallantry admitted by Renaissance chivalry. A bright, brilliant court at the close of the fifteenth century; and more stable than the only one which might have rivalled it, the Feltrian court of Urbino, too small and lost among the Umbrian bandits. A bright, brilliant town, also, this Ferrara: not mercantile like Florence, not mere barracks like Perugia; a capital, essentially, in its rich green plain by the widened Po, with its broad handsome streets (so different from the mediæval exchanges of Bologna, and the feudal alleys of Perugia), its well-built houses, so safe and modern, needing neither _bravi_ nor iron window bars, protected (except against some stray murder by one of the Estensi themselves), by the duke's well-organized police; houses with well-trimmed gardens, like so many Paris hôtels; and with the grand russet brick castle, military with its moat and towers, urban with its belvederes and balconies, in the middle, well placed to sweep away with its guns (the wonderful guns of the duke's own making) any riot, tidily, cleanly, without a nasty heap of bodies and slop of blood as in the narrow streets of other towns Imagine this bright capital, placed, moreover, in the richest centre of Lombardy, with glitter of chivalry from the Euganean hills and Apennines (castellated with Este, Monselice, Canossa, and Boiardo's own Scandiano); with gorgeous rarities of commerce from Venice and Milan--a central, unique spot. It is the natural home of the chivalrous poets of the Renaissance, Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso; as Florence is of the Politians and Pulcis (Hellenism and back-shopery); and Venice of the literature of lust, jests, cynicism, and adventure, Aretine, Beolco, Calmo, and Poliphilo-Colonna. In that garden, where the white butterflies crowd among the fruit trees bowed down to the tall grass of the palace of Schifanoia--a garden neither grand nor classic, but elegiac and charming--we can imagine Boiardo or Ariosto reading their poems to just such a goodly company as Giraldi Cinthio (a Ferrarese, and fond of romance, too) describes in the prologue of his "Ecatomiti:" gentle and sprightful ladies, with the splendid brocaded robes, and the gold-filleted golden hair of Dosso Dossi's wonderful Alcina Circe; graceful youths like the princely St. John of Benvenuto Garofalo; jesters like Dosso's at Modena; brilliant captains like his St. George and St. Michael; and a little crowd of pages with doublets and sleeves laced with gold tags, of sedate magistrates in fur robes and scarlet caps, of white-dressed maids with instruments of music and embroidery frames and hand looms, like those which Cosimo Tura painted for Duke Borso on the walls of this same Schifanoia palace. Such is the audience; now for the poems. The stuff of Boiardo and Ariosto is the same: that old mediæval stuff of the Carolingian poems, coloured, scented with Arthurian chivalry and wonder. The knight-errantry of the Keltic tales is cleverly blended with the pseudo-historical military organization of the Carolingian cycle. Paladins and Saracens are ingeniously manoeuvred about, now scattered in little groups of twos and threes, to encounter adventures in the style of Sir Launcelot or Amadis; now gathered into a compact army to crash upon each other as at Roncevaux; or else wildly flung up by the poet to alight in fairyland, to find themselves in the caverns of Jamschid, in the isles where Oberon's mother kept Cæsar, and Morgana kept Ogier, in the boats, entering subterranean channels, of Sindbad and Huon of Bordeaux; a constant alternation of individual adventure and wholesale organized campaigns, conceived and carried out with admirable ingenuity. So much for the deeds of arms. The deeds of love are also compounded of Carolingian and Arthurian, but flavoured with special Renaissance feeling. There is a great deal of rapid love-making between too gallant knights and too impressionable ladies; licentious amours which we moderns lay at the door of Boiardo and Ariosto, not knowing that the licentiousness of the Olivers and Ogiers and Guerins and Huons of mediæval poetry, of the sentimental Amadises, Galaors, and Lisvarts of the fourteenth century, whom the Renaissance has toned down in Rogers and Rinaldos and Ricciardettos, is by many degrees worse. A moral improvement also (for all the immorality of the Renaissance) in the eschewing of the never-failing adultery of the Arthurian romances, and the appropriation to legitimately faithful love of the poetical devotion which Tristram and Launcelot bear to other men's wives. To this are added, and more by Ariosto than by Boiardo, two essentially Italian elements: something of the nobility of passion of the Platonic sonneteers; and a good dose of the ironical, scurrilous, moralizing immoral anecdote gossiping of Boccaccio and Sacchetti. Such is the stuff. The conception, though rarely comic, and sometimes _bond fide_ serious, is never earnest. All this is a purely artistic world, a world of decorative arabesque incident, intended to please, scarcely ever to move, or to move, at most, like some Decameronian tale of Isabella and the Basil Plant, or Constance and Martuccio. On the other hand, there is none of the grotesque irreverence of Pulci. Boiardo and Ariosto are not in earnest; they are well aware that their heroes and heroines are mere modern men and women tricked out in pretty chivalric trappings, driven wildly about from Paris to Cathay, and from Spain to the Orkneys--on Tony Lumpkin's principle of driving his mother round and round the garden plot till she thought herself on a heath six miles off--without ever really changing place. But they do not, like Pulci, make fun of their characters. They write chivalry romances not for Florentine pork-butchers and wool-carders, but for gallant ladies and gentlemen, to whom, with duels, tournaments, serenades, and fine speeches, chivalry is an admired name, though no longer a respected reality. The heroes of Boiardo and of Ariosto are always bold and gallant and glittering, the spirit of romance is in them; a giant Sancho Panza like Morgante, redolent of sausage and cheese, would never be admitted into the society of a Ferrarese Orlando. The art of Boiardo and of Ariosto is eminently pageant art, in which sentiment and heroism are but as one element among many; there is no pretence at reality (although there is a good deal of incidental realism), and no thought of the interest in subject and persons which goes with reality. It is a masquerade, and one whose men and women must, I think, be imagined in a kind of artistic fancy costume: a mixture of the Renaissance dress and of the antique, as we see it in the prints of contemporary pageants, and in Venetian and Ferrarese pictures; that Circe of Dosso's, in the Borghese gallery of Rome, seated in her stately wine-lees and gold half-heraldically and half-cabalistically patterned brocade, before the rose-bushes of the little mysterious wood, is the very ideal of the Falerinas and Alcinas, of the enchantresses of Boiardo and Ariosto. Pageant people, these of the Ferrarese poets; they only play at being in forests and deserts, as children play at being on volcanoes or in Green-land by the nursery fire. It is a kind of dressing up, a masquerading of the fancy; not disguising in order to deceive, but rather laying hold of any pretty or brilliant impressive garb that comes to hand, and putting that on in conjunction with many odds and ends, as an artist's guests might do with the silks and velvets and Oriental properties of a studio. These knights and ladies, for ever tearing about from Scotland to India, never, in point of fact, get any further than the Apennine slopes where Boiardo was born, where Ariosto governed the Garfagnana. They ride for ever (while supposed to be in the Ardennes or in Egypt) across the velvet moss turf, all patterned with minute starry clovers and the fallen white ropy chestnut blossom, amidst the bracken beneath the slender chestnut trees, the pale blue sky looking in between their spreading branches; at most they lose their way in the intricacies of some seaside pineta, where the feet slip on the fallen needles, and the sun slants along the vistas of serried, red, scaly trunks, among the juniper and gorse and dry grass and flowers growing in the sea sand. Into the vast mediæval forests of Germany and France, Boiardo and Ariosto's fancy never penetrated. Such is the school: a school represented in its typical character only by Boiardo and Ariosto, but to which belong, nevertheless, with whatever differences, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens, all the poets of Renaissance romance. Now of the two leaders thereof. Here I feel that I can speak only personally; tell only of my own personal impressions and preferences. Comparing together Boiardo and Ariosto, I am, of course, aware of the infinite advantages of the latter. Ariosto is a man of far more varied genius; he is an artist, while Boiardo is an amateur; he is learned in arranging and ornamenting; he knows how to alternate various styles, how to begin and how to end. Moreover, he is a scholarly person of a more scholarly time: he is familiar with the classics, and, what is more important, he is familiar with the language in which he is writing. He writes exquisitely harmonious, supple, and brilliant Tuscan verse, with an infinite richness of diction; while poor Boiardo jogs along in a language which is not the Lombard dialect in which he speaks, and which is very uncouth and awkward, as is every pure language for a provincial; indeed, so much so, that the pedantic Tuscans require Berni to make Tuscan, elegant, to _ingentilire_, with infinite loss to quaintness and charm, the "Orlando Innamorato" of poor Ferrarese Boiardo. Moreover, Ariosto has many qualities unknown to Boiardo; wit, malice, stateliness, decided eloquence and power of simile and apostrophe; he is a symphony for full orchestra, and Boiardo a mere melody played on a single fiddle, which good authorities (and no one dare contest with Italians when they condemn anything not Tuscan as jargon) pronounce to be no Cremona. All these advantages Ariosto certainly has; and I do not quarrel with those who prefer him for them. But many of them distinctly take away from my pleasure. I confess that I am bored by the beautifully written moral and allegorical preludes of Ariosto's cantos; I would willingly give all his aphorism and all his mythology to get quickly to the story. Also, I resent his admirable rhetorical flourishes about his patrons, his Ercoles, Ippolitos, and Isabellas they ring false, dreadfully false and studied; and Boiardo's quickly despatched friendly greeting of his friends, his courteous knights and gentle ladies, pleases me much better. Moreover, the all-pervading consciousness of the existence of Homer, Virgil, nay, Statius and Lucan, every trumpery antique epic-monger, annoys me, giving an uncomfortable doubt as to whether Ariosto did not try to make all this nonsense serious, and this romance into an epic; all this occasional Virgilian stateliness, alternated with a kind of polished Decameronian gossipy cynicism, diverts my attention, turns paladins and princesses too much into tutor-educated gentlemen, into Bandello and Cinthio-reading ladies of the sixteenth century. The picture painted by Ariosto is finer, but you see too much of the painter; he and his patrons take up nearly the whole foreground, and they have affected, idealized faces and would-be dignified and senatorial poses. For these and many other reasons, I personally prefer Boiardo; and perhaps the best reason for my preference is the irrational one that he gives me more pleasure. My preferences, my impressions, I have said, are in this matter, much less critical than personal. Hence I can speak of Boiardo only as he affects me. When first I read Boiardo, I was conscious of a curious phenomenon in myself. I must confess to reading books usually in a very ardent or rather weary manner, either way in a hurry to finish them. As it happened, when I borrowed Boiardo, I had a great many other things on hand which required my time and attention; yet I could not make up my mind to return the book until I had finished it, though my intention had been merely to satisfy my curiosity by a dip into it. I went on, without that eager desire to know what follows which one has in a novel; drowsily with absolute reluctance to leave off, like the reluctance to rise from the grass beneath the trees with only butterflies and shadows to watch, or the reluctance to put aside some fairy book of Walter Crane's. It was like strolling in some quaint, ill-trimmed, old garden, finding fresh flowers, fresh bits of lichened walls, fresh fragments of broken earthenware ornaments; or, rather, more like a morning in the Cathedral Library at Siena, the place where the gorgeous choir books are kept, itself illuminated like missal pages by Pinturicchio: amused, delighted, not moved nor fascinated; finding every moment something new, some charming piece of gilding, some sweet plumed head, some quaint little tree or town; making a journey of lazy discovery in a sort of world of Prince Charmings, the real realm of the "Färy Queen," quite different in enchantment from the country of Spenser's Gloriana, with its pale allegoric ladies and knights, half-human, half-metaphysical, and its make-believe allegorical ogres and giants. This is the real Fairyland, this of Boiardo: no mere outskirts of Ferrara, with real, playfully cynical Ferrarese men and women tricked out as paladins and Amazons, and making fun of their disguise, as in Ariosto; no wonderland of Tasso, with enchanted gardens copied out of Bolognese pictures and miraculous forests learned from theatre mechanicians, wonders imitated by a great poet from the cardboard and firework wonders of Bianca Cappello's wedding feasts. This is the real fairyland, the wonderland of mediæval romance and of Persian and Arabian tales, no longer solemn or awful, but brilliant, sunny, only half believed in; the fairyland of the Renaissance, superficially artistic, with its lightest, brightest fancies, and its charming realities; its cloistered and painted courts with plashing fountains, its tapestried and inlaid rooms, its towered and belvedered villas, its quaint clipped gardens full of strange Oriental plants and beasts; and all this transported into a country of wonders, where are the gardens of the Hesperides, the fountain of Merlin, the tomb of Narcissus, the castle of Morgan-le-Fay; every quaint and beautiful fancy, antique and mediæval, mixed up together, as in some Renaissance picture of Botticelli or Rosselli or Filippino, where knights in armour descend from Pegasus before Roman temples, where swarthy white-turbaned Turks, with oddly bunched-up trousers and jewelled caftans, and half-naked, oak-crowned youths, like genii descended, pensive and wondering, from some antique sarcophagus, and dapper princelets and stalwart knights, and citizens and monks, all crowd round the altar of some wonder-working Macone or Apolline or Trevigante; some comic, dreadful, apish figure, mummed up in half-antique, half-oriental garb. Or else we are led into some dainty, pale-tinted panel of Botticelli, where the maidens dance in white clinging clothes, strewing flowers on to the flower-freaked turf; or into some of Poliphilo's vignettes, where the gentle ladies, seated with lute and viol under vine-trellises, welcome the young gallant, or poet, or knight. Such is the world of Boiardo. Spenser has once or twice peeped in, painted it, and given us exquisite little pictures, as that of Malecasta's castle, all hung with mythological tapestries, that of the enchanted chamber of Britomart, and those of Sir Calidore meeting the Graces and of Hellenore dancing with the Satyrs; but Spenser has done it rarely, trembling to return to his dreary allegories. Equal to these single pictures by Spenser, Boiardo has only one or two, but he keeps us permanently in the world where such pictures are painted. Boiardo is not a great artist like Spenser: but he is a wizard, which is better. He leads us, unceasingly, through the little dreamy laurelwoods, where we meet crisp-haired damsels tied to pine-trees, or terrible dragons, or enchanted wells, through whose translucent green waters we see brocaded rooms full of fair ladies; he ferries us ever and anon across shallow streams, to the castles where _gentil donzelle_ wave their kerchiefs from the pillared belvedere; he slips us unseen into the camps and council-rooms of the splendidly trapped Saracens, like so many figures out of Filippino's frescoes; he conducts us across the bridges where giants stand warders, to the mysterious carved tombs whence issue green and crested snakes, who, kissed by a paladin, turn into lovely enchantresses; he takes us beneath the beds of rivers and through the bowels of the earth where kings and knights turned into statues of gold, sit round tables covered with jewels, illumined by carbuncles more wonderful than that of Jamschid; or through the mazes of fairy gardens, where every ear of corn, cut off, turns into a wild beast, and every fallen leaf into a bird, where hydras watch in the waters and lamias rear themselves in the grass, where Orlando must fill his helmet with roses lest he hear the voice of the sirens; where all the wonders of Antiquity--the snake-women, the Circes, the sirens, the hydras and fauns live, strangely changed into something infinitely quaint and graceful, still half-antique, yet already half-Arabian or Keltic, in the midst of the fairyland of Merlin and of Oberon--live, move, transform themselves afresh; where the golden-haired damsels and the stripling knights, delicate like Pinturicchio's Prince Charmings, gallop for ever on their enchanted coursers, within enchanted armour, invincible, invulnerable, under a sky always blue, and through an unceasing spring, ever onwards to new adventures. Adventures which the noble, gentle Castellan of Scandiano, poet and knight and humorist, philanthropical philosopher almost from sheer goodness of heart, yet a little crazy, and capable of setting all the church bells ringing in honour of the invention of the name of Rodomonte relates not to some dully ungrateful Alfonso or Ippolito, but to his own guests, his own brilliant knights and ladies, with ever and anon an effort to make them feel, through his verse, some of those joyous spring-tide feelings which bubble up in himself; as when he remembers how, "Once did I wander on a May morning in a fair flower-adorned field on a hillside overlooking the sea, which was all tremulous with light; and there, among the roses of a green thorn-brake, a damsel was singing of love; singing so sweetly that the sweetness still touches my heart; touches my heart, and makes me think of the great delight it was to listen;" and how he would fain repeat that song, and indeed an echo of its sweetness runs through his verse. Meanwhile, stanza pours out after stanza, adventure grows out of adventure, each more wonderful, more gorgeous than its predecessor. To which listen the ladies, with their white, girdled dresses and crimped golden locks; the youths, with their soft beardless faces framed in combed-out hair, with their daggers on their hips and their plumed hats between their fingers; and the serious bearded men, in silken robes; drawing nearer the poet, letting go lute or violin or music-book as they listen on the villa terrace or in some darkened room, where the sunset sky turns green-blue behind the pillared window, and the roses hang over the trellise of the cloister. And as they did four hundred years ago, so do we now, rejoice. The great stalwart naked forms of Greece no longer leap and wrestle or carry their well-poised baskets of washed linen before us; the mailed and vizored knights of the Nibelungen no longer clash their armour to the sound of Volker's red fiddle-bow; the glorified souls of Dante no longer move in mystic mazes of light before the eyes of our fancy. All that is gone. But here is the fairyland of the Renaissance. And thus Matteo Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, goes on, adding adventure to adventure, stanza to stanza, in his castle villa, or his palace at Ferrara. But suddenly he stops and his bright fiddle and lute music jars and ends: "While I am singing, O Redeeming God, I see all Italy set on fire by these Gauls, coming to ravage I know not what fresh place." And thus, with the earlier and more hopeful Renaissance of the fifteenth century, Matteo Boiardo broke off with his "Orlando Innamorato." The perfect light-heartedness, the delight in play of a gentle, serious, eminently kindly nature, which gives half the charm to Boiardo's work, seems to have become impossible after the ruin of Italian liberty and prosperity the frightful showing up of Italy's moral and social and political insignificance at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Lombardy especially became a permanent battle-field, and its towns mere garrison places of French, German, Spanish, and Swiss barbarians, whose presence meant slaughter and pillage and every foulest outrage; and then, between the horrors of the unresisted invasions and the unresisted exactions, came plague and famine, and industry and commerce gradually died out. A few princes, subsidised and guarded by French or Imperialists, kept up an appearance of cheerfulness, but the courts even grew more gloomy as the people grew more miserable. There is more joking, more resonant laughter in Ariosto than in Boiardo, but there is very much less serenity and cheerfulness; ever and anon a sort of bitterness, a dreary moralizing tendency, a still more dreary fit of prophesying future good in which he has no belief, comes over Ariosto. Berni, who rewrote the "Orlando Innamorato" in choice Tuscan, and who underlined every faintly marked jest of Boiardo's, with evident preoccupation of the ludicrous effects of the "Morgante Maggiore"--Berni even could not keep up his spirits; into the middle of Boiardo's serene fairyland adventures he inserted a description of the sack of Rome which is simply harrowing. All real cheerfulness departed from the people, to be replaced only by pleasure in the debaucheries of the buffoonish obscenity of Aretino, Bandello, and so forth, to which the men of the dying Italy of the Renaissance listened as the roysterers of the plague of Florence, with the mortal sickness almost upon them, may have listened to the filthy songs which they trolled out in their drunkenness. Or at best, the poor starved, bruised, battered, humiliated nation may have tried to be cheerful on the principle of its harlequin playwright Beolco, who, more honest than the Ariostos and Bibbienas, and Aretines, came forward on his stage of planks at Padua, and after describing the ruin and wretchedness of the country, the sense of dreariness and desolation, which made young folk careless of marriage, and the very nightingales (he thought) careless of song, recommended his audience, since they could not even cry thoroughly and to feel any the better for it, to laugh, if they still were able. Boiardo was forgotten; his spirit was unsuited to the depression, gloomy brutality, gloomy sentimentality, which grew every day as Italy settled down after its Renaissance-Shrovetide in the cinders and fasting of the long Lent of Spanish and Jesuit rule. Still the style of Boiardo was not yet exhausted; the peculiar kind of fairy epic, the peculiar combination of chivalric and classic elements of which the "Orlando Innamorato" and the "Orlando Furioso," had been the great examples, still fascinated poets and public. The Renaissance, or what remained of it, was now no longer confined to Italy; it had spread, paler, more diluted, shallower, over the rest of Europe. To follow the filiation of schools, to understand the intellectual relationships of individuals, of the latter half of the sixteenth century, it becomes necessary to move from one country to another. And thus the two brother poets of the family of Boiardo, its two last and much saddened representatives, came to write in very different languages and under very different circumstances. These two are Tasso and our own Spenser. They are both poets of the school of the "Orlando Innamorato," both poets of a reaction, of a kind of purified Renaissance: the one of the late Italian Renaissance emasculated by the Council of Trent and by Spain; the other of the English Renaissance, in its youth truly, but, in the individual case of Spenser, timidly drawn aside from the excesses of buoyant life around. In the days of the semi-atheist dramatists, all flesh and blood and democracy, Spenser steeps himself in Christianity and chivalry, even as Tasso does, following on the fleshly levity and scepticism of Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto. There is in both poets a paleness, a certain diaphanous weakness, an absence of strong tint or fibre or perfume; in Tasso the pallor of autumn, in Spenser the paleness of spring: autumn left sad and leafless by the too voluptuous heat and fruitfulness of summer; spring still pale and pinched by winter, with timid nipped grass and unripe stiff buds and catkins, which never suggest the tangle of bush, grasses, and magnificent flowers and fruits, sweet, splendid, or poisonous, which the sun will make out of them. The Renaissance, in the past for Tasso, in the proximate and very visible future for Spenser, has frightened both; the cynicism and bestiality of men like Machiavelli and Aretino; the godless, muscular lustiness of Marlowe, Greene, and Peele, seen in a glimpse by Tasso and Spenser, have given a shock to their sensitive nature, have made them turn away and hide themselves from a second sight of it. They both take refuge in a land of fiction, of romance, from the realities into which they dread to splash; a world unsubstantial, diaphanous, faint-hued, almost passionless, which they make out of beauty and heroism and purity, which they alembicize and refine, but into which there never enters any vital element, anything to give it flesh and bone and pulsing life: it is a mere soap bubble. And beautiful as is this world of their own making, it is too negative even for them; they move in it only in imagination, calm, serene, vacant, almost sad. There is in it, and in themselves, a something wanting; and the remembrance of that unholy-life of reality which jostled and splashed their delicate souls, comes back and haunts them with its evil thought. There is no laugh--what is worse, no smile --in these men. Incipient puritanism, not yet the terrible brawny reality of Bunyan, but a vague, grey spectre, haunts Spenser; and the puritanism of Don Quixote, the vague, melancholy, fantastic reverting from the evil world of to-day to an impossible world of chivalry, is troubling the sight of Tasso. He cannot go crazy like Don Quixote, and instead he grows melancholy; he cannot believe in his own ideals; he cannot give them life, any more than can Spenser give life to his allegoric knights and ladies, because the life would have to be fetched by Tasso out of the flesh of Ariosto, and by Spenser out of the blood of Marlowe; and both Tasso and Spenser shrink at the thought of what might with it be inoculated or transfused; and they rest satisfied with phantoms. The phantoms of Spenser are more shadowy much more utterly devoid of human character; they are almost metaphysical abstractions, and they do not therefore sadden us: they are too unlike living things to seem very lifeless. But the phantoms of Tasso, he would fain make realities; he works at every detail of character, history, or geography, which may make his people real; they are not, as with Spenser, elves and wizards flitting about in a nameless fairyland, characterless and passionless; they are historical creatures, captains and soldiers in a country mapped out by the geographer; but they are phantoms all the more melancholy, these beautiful and heroic Clorindas and Erminias and Tancreds and Godfreys--why? because the real world around Tasso is peopled with Brachianos and Corombonas, and Annabellas and Giovannis, creatures for Webster and Ford; and because this world of chivalry is, in his Italy, as false as the world of Amadis and Esplandian in Toboso and Barcelona for poor Don Quixote. Melancholy therefore, and dreamy, both Tasso and Spenser, with nothing they can fully love in reality, because they see it tainted with reality and evil; without the cheerful falling back upon everyday life of Ariosto and Shakespeare, and with a strange fancy for fairyland, for the distant, for the Happy Islands, the St. Brandan's Isles, the country of the fountain of youth, the country of which vague reports have come back with the ships of Raleigh and Ponce de Leon. Tasso and Spenser are happiest, in their calm, melancholy way, when they can let themselves go in day-dreams, and talk of things in which they do not believe, of diamond shields which stun monsters of ointments which cure all ills of body and of soul of enchanted groves whose trees sound with voices, and lutes, of boats in which, steered by fairies, we can glide across the scarcely rippled summer sea, and watching the ruins of the past, time and reality left behind, set sail for some strange land of bliss. And there is in the very sensuousness and love of beauty-of these men a vagueness and melancholy, a constant: sense of the fleeting and of the eternal, as in that passage, translated from the languidly sweet Italian perfection of Tasso into the timid, almost scentless, English of Spenser--"Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un giorno." So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre No more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady, and many a Paramowre. Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre; Gather the Rose of love whitest yet is time, Whitest loving thou mayest loved be withe equall crime. A sense of evanescence, of dreamlikeness, quite different from the thoughtless enjoyment of Boiardo, from the bold and manly facing of the future, the solemn, strong sense of life and death as of waking realities, of the Elizabethan dramatists, even of weaklings like Massinger and Beaumont. In Tasso and in Spenser there is no such joyousness, no such solemnity; only a dreamy watching, a regret which is scarcely a regret, at the evanescence of pale beauty and pale life, of joys feebly felt and evils meekly borne. With Tasso and Spenser comes to a close the school of Boiardo, the small number of real artists who finally gave an enduring and beautiful shape to that strangely mixed and altered material of romantic epic left behind by the Middle Ages; comes to an end at least till our own day of appreciative and deliberate imitation and selection and rearrangement of the artistic forms of the past. Until the revival (after much study and criticism) by our own poets of Arthur and Gudrun and the Fortunate Isles, the world had had enough of mediæval romance. Chivalry had avowedly ended in chamberlainry; the devotion to women in the official routine of the _cicisbeo_; the last romance to which the late Renaissance had clung, which made it sympathize with Huon, Ogier, Orlando, and Rinaldo, which had made it take delight still in the fairyland of Oberon, of Fallerina, of Alcina, of Armida, of Acrasia, the romance of the new world, had also turned into prose, prose of blood-stained filth. The humanistic and rationalistic men of the Renaissance had doubtless early begun to turn up their noses in dainty dilettantism or scientific contempt, at what were later to be called by Montaigne, "Ces Lancelots du Lac, ces Amadis, ces Huons et tels fatras di livres à quoy l'enfance s'amuse;" and by Ben Jonson: Public nothings, Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister, Sent out to poison courts, and infect manners-- the public at large was more constant, and still retained a love for mediæval romance. But more than humanities, more than scientific scepticism and religious puritanism, did the slow dispelling of the illusion of Eldorado and the Fortunate Isles. Mankind set sail for America in brilliant and knightly gear, believing in fountains of youth and St. Brandan's Isles, with Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser still in its pockets. It returns from America either as the tattered fever-stricken ruffian, or as the vulgar, fat upstart of Spanish comedy, returns without honour or shame, holding money (and next to money, negroes) of greater account than any insignia of paladinship or the Round Table; it is brutal, vulgar, cynical; at best very sad, and it gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Blas," and from "Gil Blas" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. Thus did the mediæval romantic-epic stuffs suffer alteration, adulteration, and loss of character, throughout the long period of the Middle Ages, without ever receiving an artistic shape, such as should make all men preserve and cherish them for the only thing which makes men preserve and cherish such things--that never to be wasted quality, beauty. The Middle Ages were powerless to endow therewith their own subjects; so the subjects had to wait, altering more and more with every passing day, till the coming of the Renaissance. And by that time these subjects had ceased to have any serious meaning whatever; the Roland of the song of Roncevaux had become the crazy Orlando of Ariosto; the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon," had become the Rinaldo, thrashed with sheaves of lilies by Cupid, of Matteo Boiardo. The Renaissance took up the old epic-romantic materials and made out of them works of art; but works of art which, as I said before, were playthings gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which, from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Bias," and from "Gil Bias" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. * * * * * MEDIEVAL LOVE. On laying down the "Vita Nuova" our soul is at first filled and resounding with the love of Beatrice. Whatever habits or capacities of noble loving may lurk within ourselves, have been awakened by the solemn music of this book, and have sung in unison with Dante's love till we have ceased to hear the voice of his passion and have heard only the voice of our own. When the excitement has diminished, when we have grown able to separate from our own feelings the feelings of the man dead these five centuries and a half, and to realize the strangeness, the obsoleteness of this love which for a moment had seemed our love; then a new phase of impressions has set in, and the "Vita Nuova" inspires us with mere passionate awe: awe before this passion which we feel to be no longer our own, but far above and distant from us, as in some rarer stratum of atmosphere; awe before this woman who creates it, or rather who is its creation. Even as Dante fancied that the people of Florence did when the bodily presence of this lady came across their path, so do we cast down our glance as the image of Beatrice passes across our mind. Nay, the glory of her, felt so really while reading the few, meagre words in the book, is stored away in our heart, and clothes with a faint aureole the lady--if ever in our life we chance to meet her--in whom, though Dante tells us nothing of stature, features, eyes or hair, we seem to recognize a likeness to her on whose passage "ogni lingua divien tremando muta, e gli occhi non ardiscon di guardare." Passion like this, to paraphrase a line of Rossetti's, is genius; and it arouses in such as look upon it the peculiar sense of wonder and love, of awe-stricken raising up of him who contemplates, which accompanies the contemplation of genius. But it may be that one day we feel, instead of this, wonder indeed, but wonder mingled with doubt. This ideal love, which craves for no union with its object; which seeks merely to see, nay, which is satisfied with mere thinking on the beloved one, will strike us with the cold and barren glitter of the miraculous. This Beatrice, as we gaze on her, will prove to be no reality of flesh and blood like ourselves; she is a form modelled in the semblance of that real, living woman who died six centuries ago, but the substance of which is the white fire of Dante's love. And the thought will arise that this purely intellectual love of a scarce-noticed youth for a scarce-known woman is a thing which does not belong to life, neither sweetening nor ennobling any of its real relations; that it is, in its dazzling purity and whiteness, in fact a mere strange and sterile death light, such as could not and should not, in this world of ours, exist twice over. And, lest we should ever be tempted to think of this ideal love for Beatrice as of a wonderful and beautiful, but scarcely natural or useful phenomenon, I would wish to study the story of its origin and its influence. I would wish to show that had it not burned thus strangely concentrated and pure, the poets of succeeding ages could not have taken from that white flame of love which Dante set alight upon the grave of Beatrice, the spark of ideal passion which has, in the noblest of our literature, made the desire of man for woman and of woman for man burn clear towards heaven, leaving behind the noisome ashes and soul-enervating vapours of earthly lust. I. The centuries have made us; forcing us into new practices, teaching us new habits, creating for us new capacities and wants; adding, ever and anon, to the soul organism of mankind features which at first were but accidental peculiarities, which became little by little qualities deliberately sought for and at lengths inborn and hereditary characteristics. And thus, in, what we call the Middle Ages, there was invented by the stress of circumstances, elaborated by half-conscious effort and bequeathed as an unalienable habit, a new manner of loving. The women of classical Antiquity appear to us in poetry and imaginative literature as one of two things: the wife or the mistress. The wife, Penelope, Andromache, Alkestis, nay, even the charming young bride in Xenophon's "Oeconomics," is, while excluded from many concerns, distinctly reverenced and loved in her own household capacity; but the reverence is of the sort which the man feels for his parents and his household gods, and the affection is calm and gently rebuking like that for his children. The mistress, on the other hand, is the object of passion which is often very vehement, but which is always either simply fleshly or merely fancifully æsthetic or both, and which entirely precludes any save a degrading influence upon the sensual and suspicious lover. Even Tibullus, in love matters one of the most modern among the ancients, and capable of painting many charming and delicate little domestic idyls even in connection with a mere bought mistress, is perpetually accusing his Delia of selling herself to a higher bidder, and sighing at the high probability of her abandoning him for the Illyrian prætor or some other rich amateur of pretty women. The barbarous North--whose songs have come down to us either, like the Volsunga Saga translated by Mr. Morris, in an original pagan version, or else, as the Nibelungenlied, recast during the early Middle Ages--the North tells us nothing of the venal paramour, but knows nothing also beyond the wedded wife; more independent and mighty perhaps than her counterpart of classical Antiquity, but although often bought, like Brynhilt or Gudrun, at the expense of tremendous adventures, cherished scarcely more passionately than the wives of Odysseus and Hector. Thus, before the Middle Ages, there existed as a rule only a holy, but indifferent and utterly unlyrical, love for the women, the equals of their husbands, wooed usually of the family and solemnly given in marriage without much consultation of their wishes; and a highly passionate and singing, but completely profligate and debasing, desire for mercenary though cultivated creatures like the Delias and Cynthlas of Tibullus and Propertius, or highborn women, descended, like Catullus' Lesbia, in brazen dishonour to their level, women towards whom there could not possibly exist on the part of their lovers any sense of equality, much less of inferiority. To these two kinds of love, chaste but cold, and passionate but unchaste, the Middle Ages added, or rather opposed, a new manner of loving, which, although a mere passing phenomenon, has left the clearest traces throughout our whole mode of feeling and writing. To describe mediæval love is a difficult matter, and to describe it except in negations is next to impossibility. I conceive it to consist in a certain sentimental, romantic, idealistic attitude towards women, not by any means incompatible however with the grossest animalism; an attitude presupposing a complete moral, æsthetical, and social superiority on the part of the whole sex, inspiring the very highest respect and admiration independently of the individual's qualities; and reaching the point of actual worship, varying from the adoration of a queen by a courtier to the adoration of a shrine by a pilgrim, in the case of the one particular lady who happens to be the beloved; an attitude in the relations of the sexes which results in love becoming an indispensable part of a noble life, and the devoted attachment to one individual woman, a necessary requisite of a gentlemanly training. Mediæval love is not merely a passion, a desire, an affection, a habit; it is a perfect occupation. It absorbs, or is supposed to absorb, the Individual; it permeates his life like a religion. It is not one of the interests of life, or, rather, one of life's phases; it is the whole of life, all other interests and actions either sinking into an unsingable region below it, or merely embroidering a variegated pattern upon its golden background. Mediæval love, therefore, never obtains its object, however much it may obtain the woman; for the object of mediæval love, as of mediæval religious mysticism, is not one particular act or series of acts, but is its own exercise, of which the various incidents of the drama between man and woman are merely so many results. It has not its definite stages, like the love of the men of classical Antiquity or the heroic time of the North: its stages of seeking, obtaining, cherishing, guarding; it is always at the same point, always in the same condition of half-religious, half-courtier-like adoration, whether it be triumphantly successful or sighingly despairing. The man and the woman--or rather, I should say, the knight and the lady, for mediæval love is an aristocratic privilege, and the love of lower folk is not a theme for song--the knight and the lady, therefore, seem always, however knit together by habit, nay, by inextricable meshes of guilt, somehow at the same distance from one another. Once they have seen and loved each other, their passion burns on always evenly, burns on (at least theoretically) to all eternity. It seems almost as if the woman were a mere shrine, a mysterious receptacle of the ineffable, a grail cup, a consecrated wafer, but not the ineffable itself. For there is always in mediæval love, however fleshly the incidents which it produces, a certain Platonic element; that is to say, a craving for, a pursuit of, something which is an abstraction; an abstraction impossible to define in its constant shifting and shimmering, and which seems at one moment a social standard, a religious ideal, or both, and which merges for ever in the dazzling, vague sheen of the Eternal Feminine. Hence, one of the most distinctive features of mediæval love, an extraordinary sameness of intonation, making it difficult to distinguish between the _bonâ fide_ passion for which a man risks life and honour, and the mere conventional gallantry of the knight who sticks a lady's glove on his helmet as a compliment to her rank; nay, between the impure adoration of an adulterous lamia like Yseult, and the mystical adoration of a glorified Mother of God; for both are women, both are ladies, and therefore the greatest poet of the early Middle Ages, Gottfried von Strassburg, sings them both with the same religious respect, and the same hysterical rapture. This mediæval love is furthermore a deliberately expected, sought-for, and received necessity in a man's life; it is not an accident, much less an incidental occurrence to be lightly taken or possibly avoided: it is absolutely indispensable to man's social training, to his moral and æsthetical self-improvement; it is part and parcel of manhood and knighthood. Hence, where it does not arise of itself (and where a man is full of the notion of such love, it is rare that it does not come but too soon) it has to be sought for. Ulrich von Liechtenstein, in his curious autobiography written late in the twelfth century, relates how ever since his childhood he had been aware of the necessity of the loyal love service of a lady for the accomplishment of knightly duties; and how, as soon as he was old enough to love, he looked around him for a lady whom he might serve; a proceeding renewed in more prosaic days and with a curious pedantic smack, by Lorenzo dei Medici; and then again, perhaps for the last time, by the Knight of La Mancha, in that memorable discussion which ended in the enthronement as his heart's queen of the unrivalled Dulcinea of Toboso. _Frowendienst,_ "lady's service," is the name given by Ulrich von Liechtenstein, a mediæval Quixote, outshining by far the mad Provençals Rudel and Vidal, to the memoirs very delightfully done into modern German by Ludwig Tieck; and "lady's service" is the highest occupation of knightly leisure, the subject of the immense bulk of mediæval poetry. "Lady's service" in deeds of arms and song, in constant praise and defence of the beloved, in heroic enterprise and madcap mummery, in submission and terror to the wondrous creature whom the humble servant, the lover, never calls by her sacred name, speaking of her in words unknown to Antiquity, _dompna, dame, frowe, madonna_--words of which the original sense has almost been forgotten, although there cleave to them even now ideas higher than those associated with the _puella_ of the ancients, the _wib_ of the heroic days--lady, mistress--the titles of the Mother of God, who is, after all, only the mystical Soul's Paramour of the mediæval world. "Lady's service"--the almost technical word, expressing the position, half-serf-like, half-religious, the bonds of complete humility and never-ending faithfulness, the hopes of reward, the patience under displeasure, the pride in the livery of servitude, the utter absorption of the life of one individual in the life of another; which constitute in Provence, in France, in Germany, in England, in Italy, in the fabulous kingdoms of Arthur and Charlemagne, the strange new thing which I have named Mediæval Love. Has such a thing really existed? Are not these mediæval poets leagued together in a huge conspiracy to deceive us? Is it possible that strong men have wept and fainted at a mere woman's name, like the Count of Nevers in "Flamenca," or that their mind has swooned away in months of reverie like that of Parzifal in Eschenbach's poem; that worldly wise and witty men have shipped off and died on sea for love of an unseen woman like Jaufre Rudel; or dressed in wolf's hide and lurked and fled before the huntsmen-like Peire Vidal; or mangled their face and cut off their finger, and, clothing themselves in rags more frightful than Nessus' robe, mixed in the untouchable band of lepers like Ulrich von Liechtenstein? Is it possible to believe that the insane enterprises of the Amadises, Lisvarts and Felixmartes of late mediæval romance, that the behaviour of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, ever had any serious models in reality? Nay, more difficult still to believe--because the whole madness of individuals is more credible than the half-madness of the whole world--is it possible to believe that, as the poems of innumerable trouvères and troubadours, minnesingers and Italian poets, as the legion of mediæval romances of the cycles of Charlemagne, Arthur, and Amadis would have it, that during so long a period of time society could have been enthralled by this hysterical, visionary, artificial, incredible religion of mediæval love? It is at once too grotesque and too beautiful, too high and too low, to be credible; and our first impulse, on closing the catechisms and breviaries, the legendaries and hymn-books of this strange new creed, is to protest that the love poems must be allegories, the love romances solar myths, the Courts of Love historical bungles; that all this mediæval world of love is a figment, a misinterpretation, a falsehood. But if we seek more than a mere casual impression; if, instead of feeling sceptical over one or two fragments of evidence, we attempt to collect the largest possible number of facts together; if we read not one mediæval love story, but twenty--not half a dozen mediæval love poems, but several scores; if we really investigate into the origin of the apparent myth, the case speedily alters. Little by little this which had been inconceivable becomes not merely intelligible, but inevitable; the myth becomes an historical phenomenon of the most obvious and necessary sort. Mediæval love, which had seemed to us a poetic fiction, is turned into a reality; and a reality, alas, which is prosaic. Let us look at it. Mediæval love is first revealed in the sudden and almost simultaneous burst of song which, like the twitter and trill so dear to trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, fills the woods that yesterday were silent and dead, and greeted the earliest sunshine, the earliest faint green after the long winter numbness of the dark ages, after the boisterous gales of the earliest Crusade. The French and Provençals sang first, the Germans later, the Sicilians last; but although we may say after deliberate analysis, such or such a form, or such or such a story, was known in this country before it appeared in that one, such imitation or suggestion was so rapid that with regard to the French, the Provençals, and the Germans at least, the impression is simultaneous; only the Sicilians beginning distinctly later, forerunners of the new love lyric, wholly different from that of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, of the Italians of the latter thirteenth century. And this simultaneous revelation of mediæval love takes place in the last quarter of the twelfth century, when Northern France had already consolidated into a powerful monarchy, and Paris, after the teachings of Abélard, was recognized as the intellectual metropolis of Europe; when south of the Loire the brilliant Angevine kings held the overlordship of the cultured Raymonds of Toulouse and of the reviving Latin municipalities of Provence \ when Germany was welded as a compact feudal mass by the most powerful of the Stauffens; and the papacy had been built up by Gregory and Alexander into a political wall against which Frederick and Henry vainly battered; when the Italian commonwealths grew slowly but surely, as yet still far from guessing that the day would come when their democracy should produce a new civilization to supersede this triumphant mediæval civilization of the early Capetiens, the Angevines, and the Hohenstauffens. Europe was setting forth once more for the East; but no longer as the ignorant and enthusiastic hordes of Peter the Hermit: Asia was the great field for adventure, the great teacher of new luxuries, at once the Eldorado and the grand tour of all the brilliant and inquisitive and unscrupulous chivalry of the day. And, while into the West were insidiously entering habits and modes of thought of the East; throughout Germany and Provence, and throughout the still obscure free burghs of Italy, was spreading the first indication of that emotional mysticism which, twenty or thirty years later, was to burst out in the frenzy of spiritual love of St. Francis and his followers. The moment is one of the most remarkable in all history: the premature promise in the twelfth century of that intellectual revival which was delayed throughout Northern Europe until the sixteenth. It is the moment when society settled down, after the anarchy of eight hundred years, on its feudal basis; a basis fallaciously solid, and in whose presence no one might guess that the true and definitive Renaissance would arise out of the democratic civilization of Italy. Such is the moment when we first hear the almost universal song of mediæval love. This song comes from the triumphantly reorganized portion of society, not from the part which is slowly working its way to reorganization; not from the timidly encroaching burghers, but from the nobles. The reign of town poetry, of fabliaux and meistersang, comes later; the poets of the early Middle Ages, trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are, with barely one or two exceptions, all knights. And their song comes from the castle. Now, in order to understand mediæval love, we must reflect for a moment upon this feudal castle, and upon the kind of life which the love poets of the late twelfth and early thirteenth century--whether lords like Bertram de Born, and Guillaume de Poitiers, among the troubadours; the Vidame de Chartres, Meurisses de Craon, and the Duke of Brabant among the trouvères of Northern France; like Ulrich von Liechtenstein among the minnesingers; or retainers and hangers-on like Bernard de Ventadour and Armand de Mareulh, like Chrestiens de Troyes, Gaisses Brulez, or Quienes de Béthune, like Walther, Wolfram, and Tannhäuser--great or small, good or bad, saw before them and mixed with in that castle. The castle of a great feudatory of the early Middle Ages, whether north or south of the Loire, in Austria or in Franconia, is like a miniature copy of some garrison town in barbarous countries: there is an enormous numerical preponderance of men over women; for only the chiefs in command, the overlord, and perhaps one or two of his principal kinsmen or adjutants, are permitted the luxury of a wife; the rest of the gentlemen are subalterns, younger sons without means, youths sent to learn their military duty and the ways of the world: a whole pack of men without wives, without homes, and usually without fortune. High above all this deferential male crowd, moves the lady of the castle: highborn, proud, having brought her husband a dower of fiefs often equal to his own, and of vassals devoted to her race. About her she has no equals; her daughters, scarcely out of the nurse's hands, are given away in marriage; and her companions, if companions they may be called, are the waiting ladies, poor gentlewomen situated between the maid of honour and the ladies' maid, like that Brangwaine whom Yseult sacrifices to her intrigue with Tristram, or those damsels whom Flamenca gives over to the squires of her lover Guillems; at best, the wife of one of her husband's subalterns, or some sister or aunt or widow kept by charity. Round this lady--the stately, proud lady perpetually described by mediæval poets--flutters the swarm of young men, all day long, in her path: serving her at meals, guarding her apartments, nay, as pages, admitted even into her most secret chamber; meeting her for ever in the narrowness of that castle life, where every unnecessary woman is a burden usurping the place of a soldier, and, if possible, replaced by a man. Servants, lacqueys, and enjoying the privileges of ubiquity of lacqueys, yet, at the same time, men of good birth and high breeding, good at the sword and at the lute; bound to amuse this highborn woman, fading away in the monotony of feudal life, with few books to read or unable to read them, and far above all the household concerns which devolve on the butler, the cellarer, the steward, the gentleman, honourably employed as a servant. To them, to these young men, with few or no young women of their own age to associate, and absolutely no unmarried girls who could be a desirable match, the lady of the castle speedily becomes a goddess, the impersonation at once of that feudal superiority before which they bow, of that social perfection which they are commanded to seek, and of that womankind of which the castle affords so few examples. To please her, this lazy, bored, highbred woman, with all the squeamishness and caprice of high birth and laziness about her, becomes their ideal; to be favourably noticed, their highest glory; to be loved, these wretched mortals, by this divinity--that thought must often pass through their brain and terrify them with its delicious audacity; oh no, such a thing is not possible. But it is. The lady at first, perhaps most often, singles out as a pastime some young knight, some squire, some page; and, in a half-queenly, half-motherly way, corrects, rebukes his deficiencies, undertakes to teach him his duty as a servant. The romance of the "Petit Jehan de Saintre," written in the fifteenth century, but telling, with a delicacy of cynicism worthy of Balzac, what must have been the old, old story of the whole feudal Middle Ages, shows the manner in which, while feeling that he is being trained to knightly courtesy and honour, the young man in the service of a great feudal lady is gradually taught dissimulation, lying, intrigue; is initiated by the woman who looms above him like a saint into all the foulness of adultery. Adultery; a very ugly word, which must strike almost like a handful of mud in the face whosoever has approached this subject of mediæval love in admiration of its strange delicacy and enthusiasm. Yet it is a word which must be spoken, for in it is the explanation of the whole origin and character of this passion which burst into song in the early Middle Ages. This almost religious love, this love which conceives no higher honour than the service of the beloved, no higher virtue than eternal fidelity--this love is the love for another man's wife. Between unmarried young men and young women, kept carefully apart by the system which gives away a girl without her consent and only to a rich suitor, there is no possibility of love in these early feudal courts; the amours, however licentious, between kings' daughters and brave knights, of the Carolingian tales, belong to a different rank of society, to the prose romances made up in the fourteenth century for the burgesses of cities; the intrigues, ending in marriage, of the princes and princesses of the cycle of Amadis, belong to a different period, to the fifteenth century, and to courts where feudal society scarcely exists; the squires, the young knights who hang about a great baronial establishment of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have still to make their fortune, and do not dream of marriage. The husband, on the other hand, the great lord or successful knightly adventurer, married late in life, and married from the necessity, for ever pressing upon the feudal proprietor, of adding on new fiefs and new immunities, of increasing his importance and independence in proportion to the hourly increasing strength and claims of the overlord, the king, who casts covetous eyes upon him--the husband has not married for love; he has had his love affairs with the wives of other men in his day, or may still have them; this lady is a mere feudal necessity, she is required to give him a dower and give him an heir, that is all. If the husband does not love, how much less can the wife; married, as she is, scarce knowing what marriage is, to a man much older than herself, whom most probably she has never seen, to whom she is a mere investment. Nay, there is not even the after-marriage love of the ancients: this wife is not the housekeeper, the woman who works that the man's house may be rich and decorous; not even the nurse of his children, for the children are speedily given over to the squires and duennas; she is the woman of another family who has come into his, the stranger who must be respected (as that most typical mediæval wife, Eleanor of Guienne, was respected by her husbands) on account of her fiefs, her vassals, her kinsfolk; but who cannot be loved. Can there be love between man and wife? There cannot be love between man and wife. This is no answer of mine, fantastically deduced from mediæval poetry. It is the answer solemnly made to the solemnly asked question by the Court of Love held by the Countess of Champagne in 1174, and registered by Master Andrew the King of France's chaplain: "Dicimus enim et stabilito tenore firmamus amorem non posse inter duos jugales suas extendere vires." And the reason alleged for this judgment brings us back to the whole conception of mediæval love as a respectful service humbly waiting for a reward: "For," pursues the decision published by André le Chapelain, "whereas lovers grant to each other favours freely and from no legal necessity, married people have the duty of obeying each other's wishes and of refusing nothing to one another." "No love is possible between man and wife," repeat the Courts of Love which, consisting of all the highborn ladies of the province and presided by some mighty queen or princess, represent the social opinions of the day. "But this lady," says a knight (Miles) before the love tribunal of Queen Eleanor, "promised to me that if ever she should lose the love of her lover, she would take me in his place. She has wedded the man who was her lover, and I have come to claim fulfilment of her promise." The court discusses for awhile. "We cannot," answers Queen Eleanor, "go against the Countess of Champagne's decision that love cannot exist between man and wife. We therefore desire this lady to fulfil her promise and give you her love." Again, there come to the Court of Love of the Viscountess of Narbonne a knight and a lady, who desire to know whether, having been once married, but since divorced, a love engagement between them would be honourable. The viscountess decides that "Love between those who have been married together, but who have since been divorced from one another, is not to be deemed reprehensible; nay, that it is to be considered as honourable." And these Courts of Love, be it remarked, were frequently held on occasion of the marriage of great personages; as, for instance, of that between Louis VII. and Eleanor of Poitiers in 1137. The poetry of the early Middle Ages follows implicitly the decisions of these tribunals, which reveal a state of society to which the nearest modern approach is that of Italy in the eighteenth century, when, as Goldoni and Parini show us, as Stendhal (whose "De l'Amour" may be taken as the modern "Breviari d'Amor") expounds, there was no impropriety possible as long as a lady was beloved by any one except her own husband. No love, therefore, between unmarried people (the cyclical romances, as before stated, and the Amadises, belong to another time of social condition, and the only real exception to my rule of which I can think is the lovely French tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette"); and no love between man and wife. But love there must be; and love there consequently is; love for the married woman from the man who is not her husband. The feudal lady, married without being consulted and without having had a chance of knowing what love is, yet lives to know love; lives to be taught it by one of these many bachelors bound to flutter about her in military service or social duty; lives to teach it herself. And she is too powerful in her fiefs and kinsmen, too powerful in the public opinion which approves and supports her, to be hampered by her husband. The husband, indeed, has grown up in the same habits, has known, before marrying, the customs sanctioned by the Courts of Love; he has been the knight of some other man's wife in his day, what right has he to object? As in the days of Italian _cecisbei_, the early mediæval lover might say with Goldoni's Don Alfonso or Don Roberto, "I _serve_ your wife--such or such another serves mine, what harm can there be in it?" ("Io servo vostra moglie, Don Eugenio favorisce la mia; che male c' e?" I am quoting from memory.) And as a fact, we hear little of jealousy; the amusement of En Barral when Peire Vidal came in and kissed his sleeping wife; and the indignation of all Provence for the murder of Guillems de Cabestanh (buried in the same tomb with the lady who had been made to eat of his heart)--showing from opposite sides how the society accustomed to Courts of Love looked upon the duties of husbands. Such was the social life in those feudal courts whence first arises the song of mediæval love, and that this is the case is proved by the whole huge body of early mediæval poetry. We must not judge, as I have said, either by poems of much earlier date, like the Nibelungen and the Carolingian _chansons de geste_, which merely received a new form in the early Middle Ages; still less from the prose romances of Mélusine, Milles et Amys, Palemon and Arcite, and a host of others which were elaborated only later and under the influence of the quite unfeudal habits of the great cities; and least of all from that strange late southern cycle of the Amadises, from which, odd as it seems, many of our notions of chivalric love have, through our ancestors, through the satirists or burlesque poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, been inherited. We must look at the tales which, as we are constantly being told by trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, were the fashionable reading of the feudal classes of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries: the tales best known to us in the colourless respectability of the collection made in the reign of Edward IV. by Sir Thomas Malory, and called by him the "Morte d'Arthur"--of the ladies and knights of Arthur's court; of the quest of the Grail by spotless knights who were bastards and fathers of bastards; of the intrigues of Tristram of Lyoness and Queen Yseult; of Launcelot and Guenevere; the tales which Francesca and Paolo read together. We must look, above all, at the lyric poetry of France, Provence, Germany, and Sicily in the early Middle Ages. Vos qui très bien ameis i petit mentendeis Por l'amor de Ihesu les pucelles ameis. Nos trouvons en escris de sainte auctoriteis Ke pucelle est la fleur de loyaulment ameir. This strange entreaty to love the maidens for the sake of Christ's love, this protest of a nameless northern French poet (Wackernagel, Altfranzösische Lieder and Leiche IX.) against the adulterous passion of his contemporaries, comes to us, pathetically enough, solitary, faint, unnoticed in the vast chorus, boundless like the spring song of birds or the sound of the waves, of poets singing the love of other men's wives. But, it may be objected--how can we tell that these love songs, so carefully avoiding all mention of names, are not addressed to the desired bride, to the legitimate wife of the poet? For several reasons; and mainly, for the crushing evidence of an undefinable something which tells us that they are not. The other reasons are easily stated. We know that feudal habits would never have allowed to unmarried women (and women were married when scarcely out of their childhood) the opportunities for the relations which obviously exist between the poet and his lady; and that, if by some accident a young knight might fall in love with a girl, he would address not her but her parents, since the Middle Ages, who were indifferent to adultery, were, like the southern nations among whom the married woman is not expected to be virtuous, extreme sticklers for the purity of their unmarried womankind. Further, we have no instance of an unmarried woman being ever addressed during the early Middle Ages, in those terms of social respect--_madame, domna, frowe, madonna_--which essentially belong to the mistress of a household; nor do these stately names fit in with any theory which would make us believe that the lady addressed by the poet is the jealously guarded daughter of the house with whom he is plotting a secret marriage, or an elopement to end off in marriage. This is not the way that Romeo speaks to Juliet, nor even that the princesses in the cyclical romances and in the Amadises are wooed by their bridegrooms. This is not the language of a lover who is broaching his love, and who hopes, however timidly, to consummate it before all the world by marriage. It is obviously the language of a man either towards a woman who is taking a pleasure in keeping him dangling without favours which she has implicitly or explicitly promised; or towards a woman who is momentarily withholding favours which her lover has habitually enjoyed. And in a large proportion of cases the poems of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are the expression of fortunate love, the fond recollection or eager expectation of meetings with the beloved. All this can evidently not be connected with the wooing, however stealthy, however Romeo-and-Juliet-like of a bride; still less can it be explained in reference to love within wedlock. A man does not, however loving, worship his wife as his social superior; he does not address her in titles of stiff respect; he does not sigh and weep and supplicate for love which is his due, and remind his wife that she owes it him in return for loyal, humble, discreet service. Above all, a man (except in some absurd comedy perhaps, where the husband, in an age of _cicisbeos_, is in love with his own wife and dares not admit it before the society which holds "that there can be no love between married folk ")--a husband, I repeat, does not beg for, arrange, look forward to, and recall with triumph or sadness, secret meetings with his own wife. Now the secret meeting is, in nearly every aristocratic poet of the early poetry, the inevitable result of the humble praises and humble requests for kindness; it is, most obviously, _the_ reward for which the poet is always importuning. Mediæval love poetry, compared with the love poetry of Antiquity and the love poetry of the revival of letters, is, in its lyric form, decidedly chaste; but it is perfectly explicit; and, for all its metaphysical tendencies and its absence of clearly painted pictures, the furthest possible removed from being Platonic. One of the most important, characteristic, and artistically charming categories of mediæval love lyrics is that comprising the Provençal _serena_ and _alba,_ with their counterparts in the _langue d'oil_, and the so-called _Wachtlieder_ of the minnesingers; and this category of love poetry may be defined as the drama, in four acts, of illicit love. The faithful lover has received from his lady an answer to his love, the place and hour are appointed; all the day of which the evening is to bring him this honour, he goes heavy hearted and sighing: "Day, much do you grow for my grief, and the evening, the evening and the long hope kills me." Thus far the _serena_, the evening song, of Guiraut Riquier. A lovely anonymous _alba,_ whose refrain, "Oi deus, oi deus; de l' alba, tan tost ve!" is familiar to every smatterer of Provençal, shows us the lady and her knight in an orchard beneath the hawthorn, giving and taking the last kisses while the birds sing and the sky whitens with dawn. "The lady is gracious and pleasant, and many look upon her for her beauty, and her heart Is all in loving loyally; alas, alas, the dawn! how soon it: comes!--" "Oi deus, oi deus; de l'alba, tan tost ve!" The real _alba_ is the same as the German _Wachtlieder,_ the song of the squire or friend posted at the garden gate or outside the castle wall, warning the lovers to separate. "Fair comrade (Bel Companho), I call to you singing. 'Sleep no more, for I hear the birds announcing the day in the trees, and I fear that the jealous one may find you;' and in a moment it will be day, 'Bel Companho, come to the window and look at the signs in the sky! you will know me a faithful messenger; if you do it not, it will be to your harm" and in a moment it will be dawn (et ades sera l' alba)... Bel Companho, since I left you I have not slept nor raised myself from my knees; for I have prayed to God the Son of Saint Mary, that he should send me: back my faithful comrade, and in a moment it will be dawn In this _alba_ of Guiraut de Borneulh, the lover comes at last to the window, and cries to his watching comrade that he is too happy to care either for the dawn or for the jealous one. The German _Wachtlieder_ are even more explicit. "He must away at once and without delay," sings the watchman in a poem of Wolfram, the austere singer of Parzifal and the Grail Quest; "let him go, sweet lady; let him away from thy love so that he keep his honour and life. He trusted himself to me that I should bring him safely hence; it is day ..." "Sing what thou wilt, watchman," answers the lady, "but leave him here." In a far superior, but also far less chaste poem of Heinrich von Morungen, the lady, alone and melancholy, wakes up remembering the sad white light of morning, the sad cry of the watchman, which separated her from her knight. Still more frankly, and in a poem which is one of the few real masterpieces of Minnesang, the lady in Walther von der Vogelweide's "Under der linden an der Heide" narrates a meeting in the wood. "What passed between us shall never be known by any! never by any, save him and me--yes, and by the little nightingale that sang _Tandaradei_! The little bird will surely be discreet." The songs of light love for another's wife of troubadour, trouvère, and minnesinger, seem to have been squeezed together, so that all their sweet and acrid perfume is, so to speak, sublimated, in the recently discovered early Provençal narrative poem called "Flamenca." Like the "Tristram" of Gottfried von Strassburg, like all these light mediæval love _lyrics,_ of which I have been speaking, the rhymed story of "Flamenca," a pale and simple, but perfect petalled daisy, has come up in a sort of moral and intellectual dell in the winter of the Middle Ages--a dell such as you meet in hollows of even the most wind-swept southern hills, where, while all round the earth is frozen and the short grass nibbled away by the frost, may be found even at Christmas a bright sheen of budding wheat beneath the olives on the slope, a yellow haze of sun upon the grass in which the little aromatic shoots of fennel and mint and marigold pattern with greenness the sere brown, the frost-burnt; where the very leafless fruit trees have a spring-like rosy tinge against the blue sky, and the tufted little osiers flame a joyous orange against the greenness of the hill. Such spots there are--and many--in the winter of the Middle Ages; though it is not in them, but where the rain beats, and the snow and the wind tugs, that grow, struggling with bitterness, the great things of the day: the philosophy of Abélard, the love of man of St. Francis, the patriotism of the Lombard communes; nor that lie dormant, fertilized in the cold earth, the great things of art and thought, the great things to come. But in them arise the delicate winter flowers which we prize: tender, pale things, without much life, things either come too soon or stayed too late, among which is "Flamenca;" one of those roses, nipped and wrinkled, but stained a brighter red by the frost, which we pluck in December or in March; beautiful, bright, scentless roses, which, scarce in bud, already fall to pieces in our hand. "Flamenca" is simply the narrative of the loves of the beautiful wife of the bearish and jealous Count Archambautz, and of Guillems de Nevers, a brilliant young knight who hears of the lady's sore captivity, is enamoured before he sees her, dresses up as the priest's clerk, and speaks one word with her while presenting the mass book to be kissed, every holiday; and finally deceives the vigilance of the husband by means of a subterranean corridor, which he gets built between his inn and the bath-room of the lady at the famous waters of Bourbon-les-Bains. In this world of "Flamenca," which is in truth the same world as that of the "Romaunt of the Rose," the "Morte d'Arthur," and of the love poets of early France and Germany, conjugal morality and responsibility simply do not exist. It seems an unreal pleasure-garden, with a shadowy guardian--impalpable to us gross moderns--called Honour, but where, as it seems, Love only reigns. Love, not the mystic and melancholy god of the "Vita Nuova," but a foppish young deity, sentimental at once and sensual, of fashionable feudal life: the god of people with no apparent duties towards others, unconscious of any restraints save those of this vague thing called honour; whose highest mission for the knight, as put in our English "Romaunt of the Rose" is to-- Set thy might and alle thy witte Wymmen and ladies for to plese, And to do thyng that may hem ese; while, for the lady, it is expressed with perfect simplicity of shamelessness by Flamenca herself to her damsels, teaching them that the woman must yield to the pleasure of her lover. Now love, when young, when, so to speak, but just born and able to feed (as a newborn child on milk, without hungering for more solid food) on looks and words and sighs; love thus young, is a fair-seeming godhead, and the devotion to him a pretty and delicate piece of æstheticism. And such it is here in "Flamenca," where there certainly exists neither God nor Christ, both complete absentees, whose priest becomes a courteous lover's valet, whose church the place for amorous rendezvous, whose sacrifice of mass and prayer becomes a means of amorous correspondence: Cupid, in the shape of his slave Guillems de Nevers--become _patarin_(zealot) for love--peeping with shaven golden head from behind the missal, touching the lady's hand and whispering with the words of spiritual peace the declaration of love, the appointment for meeting. God and Christ, I repeat, are absentees. Where they are I know not; perhaps over the Rhine with the Lollards in their weavers' dens, or over the Alps in the cell of St. Francis; not here, certainly, or if here, themselves become the mere slaves of love. But this King Love, as long as a mere infant, is a sweet and gracious divinity, surrounded by somewhat of the freshness and hawthorn sweetness of spring which seem to accompany his favourite Guillems. Guillems de Nevers, "who could still grow," this brilliant knight and troubadour, in his white silken and crimson and purple garments and soundless shoes embroidered with flowers, this prince of tournaments and _tensos_, who hearing the sorrows of the beautiful Flamenca, loves her unseen, sits sighing in sight of her prison bower, and faints like a hero of the Arabian Nights at her name, and has visions of her as St. Francis has of Christ; this younger and brighter Sir Launcelot, is an ideal little figure, whom you might mistake for Love himself as described in the "Romaunt of the Rose;" Love's avatar or incarnation, on whose appearance the year blooms into spring, the fruit trees blossom, the birds sing, the girls dance at eve round the maypoles; behind whom, while reading this poem, we seem to see the corn shine green beneath the olives, the white-blossomed branches slant across the blue sky. For is he not the very incarnation of chivalry, of beauty, and of love? So much for this King Love while but quite young. Unfortunately he is speedily weaned of his baby food of mere blushing glances and sighed-out names; and then his aspect, his kingdom's aspect, the aspect of his votaries, undergoes a change. The profane but charming game of the loving clerk and the missal is exchanged for the more coarse hide-and-seek of hidden causeways and tightened bolts, with jealous husbands guarding the useless door; Guillems becomes but an ordinary Don Juan or Lovelace, Flamenca but a sorry, sneaking adulteress, and the gracious damsels mere common sluts, curtseying at the loan (during the interview of nobler folk) of the gallant's squires. For the scent of May, of fresh leaves and fallen blossoms, we get the nauseous vapours of the bath-room; and, alas, King Love has lost his aureole and his wings and turned keeper of the hot springs, sought out by the gouty and lepers, of Bourbon-les-Bains; and in closing this book, so delightfully begun, we sicken at the whiff of hot and fetid moral air as we should sicken in passing over the outlet of the polluted hot water. "But where is the use of telling us all this?" the reader will ask; "every one knows that illicit passion existed and exists, and has its chroniclers, its singers in prose and in verse. But what has all this poetry of common adultery to do with a book like the 'Vita Nuova,' with that strange new thing, that lifelong worship of a woman, which you call mediæval love?" This much: that out of this illicit love, and out of it, gross as it looks, alone arises the possibility of the "Vita Nuova;" arises the possibility of the romantic and semi-religious love of the Middle Ages. Or, rather, let us say that this mere loose love of the _albas_ and _Wachtlieder_ and "Flamenca," is the substratum, nay, is the very flesh and blood, of the spiritual passion to which, in later days, we owe the book of Beatrice. It is a harsh thing to say, but one which all sociology teaches us, that as there exists no sensual relation which cannot produce for its ennoblement a certain amount of passion, so also does there exist no passion (and Phædrus is there to prove it) so vile and loathsome as to be unable to weave about itself a glamour of ideal sentiment. The poets of the Middle Ages strove after the criminal possession of another man's wife. This, however veiled with fine and delicate poetic expressions, is the thing for which they wait and sigh and implore; this is the reward, the supremely honouring and almost sanctifying reward which the lady cannot refuse to the knight who has faithfully and humbly served her. The whole bulk of the love lyrics of the early Middle Ages are there to prove it; and if the allusions in them are not sufficiently clear, those who would be enlightened may study the discussions of the allegorical persons even in the English (and later) version of Guillaume de Lorris' "Roman de la Rose;" and turn to what, were it in _langue d'oc_, we should call a _tenso_ of Guillaume li Viniers among Mätzner's "Altfranzösische Lieder-dichter." The catastrophe of Ulrich von Liechtenstein's "Frowendienst," where the lady, the "virtuous," the "pure," as he is pleased to call her, after making him cut off his finger, dress in leper's clothes, chop off part of his upper lip, and go through the most marvellous Quixotic antics dressed in satin and pearls and false hair as Queen Venus, and jousting in this costume with every knight between Venice and Styria, all for her honour and glory; pulls the gallant in a basket up to her window, and then lets him drop down into the moat which is no better than a sewer; this grotesque and tragically resented end of Ulrich's first _love service_ speaks volumes on the point. The stones in Nostradamus' "Lives of the Troubadours," the incidents in Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," nay, the adventures even in our expunged English "Morte d'Arthur," relating to the birth of Sir Galahad, are as explicit as anything in Brantôme or the Queen of Navarre; the most delicate love songs of Provence and Germany are cobwebs spun round Decameronian situations. And all this is permitted, admitted, sanctioned by feudal society even as the _cecisbeos_ of the noble Italian ladies were sanctioned by the society of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the mediæval castle, where, as we have seen, the lady, separated from her own sex, is surrounded by a swarm of young men without a chance of marriage, and bound to make themselves agreeable to the wife of a military superior; the woman soon ceases to be the exclusive property of her husband, and the husband speedily discovers that the majority, hence public ridicule, are against any attempt at monopolizing her. Thus adultery becomes, as we have seen, accepted as an institution under the name of _service_; and, like all other social institutions, developes a morality of its own--a morality within immorality, of faithfulness within infidelity. The lady must be true to her knight, and the knight must be true to his lady: the Courts of Love solemnly banish from society any woman who is known to have more than one lover. Faithfulness is the first and most essential virtue of mediæval love; a virtue unknown to the erotic poets of Antiquity, and which modern times have inherited from the Middle Ages as a requisite, even (as the reproaches of poets of the Alfred de Musset school teach us) in the most completely illicit love. Tristram and Launcelot, the two paragons of knighthood, are inviolably constant to their mistress: the husband may and must be deceived, but not the wife who helps to deceive him. Yseult of Brittany and Elaine, the mother of Galahad, do not succeed in breaking the vows made to Yseult the Fair and to Queen Guenevere. The beautiful lady in the hawthorn _alba_ "a son cor en amar lejalmens." But this loyal loving is for the knight who is warned to depart, certainly not for the husband, the _gilos_, in whose despite ("Bels dous amios, baizem nos eu e vos--Aval els pratzon chantols auzellos--_Tot O fassam en despeit del gilos_") they are meeting. The ladies of the minnesingers are "pure," "good," "faithful" (and each and all are pure, good, and faithful, as long as they do not resist) from the point of view of the lover, not of the husband, if indeed a husband be permitted to have any point of view at all. And as fidelity is the essential virtue in these adulterous connections, so infidelity is the greatest crime that a woman (and even a man) can commit, the greatest misfortune which fate can send to an unhappy knight. That he leaves a faithful mistress behind him is the one hope of the knight who, taking the cross, departs to meet the scimitars of Saladin's followers, the fevers, the plagues, the many miserable deaths of the unknown East. "If any lady be unfaithful," says Quienes de Béthune, "she will have to be unfaithful with some base wretch." Et les dames ki castement vivront Se loiauté font a ceus qui iront; Et seles font par mal conseil folaje, A lasques gens et mauvais le feront, Car tout li bon iront en cest voiage. "I have taken the cross on account of my sins," sings Albrecht von Johansdorf, one of the most earnest of the minnesingers; "now let God help, till my return, the woman who has great sorrow on my account, in order that I may find her possessed of her honour; let Him grant me this prayer. But if she change her life (_i.e_., take to bad courses), then may God forbid my ever returning." The lady is bound (the Courts of Love decide this point of honour) to reward her faithful lover. "A knight," says a lady, in an anonymous German song published by Bartsch, "has served me according to my will. Before too much time elapse, I must reward him; nay, if all the world were to object, he must have his way with me" ("und waerez al der Werlte leit, so muoz sîn wille an mir ergän"). But, on the other hand, the favoured knight is bound to protect his lady's good fame. Se jai mamie en tel point mis, Que tout motroit (m'octroit) sans esformer, Tant doi je miex sonnor gaiter-- thus one of the interlocutors in a French _jeu-parti_, published by Mätzner; a rule which, if we may judge from the behaviour of Tristram and Launcelot, and from the last remnants of mediæval love lore in modern French novels, means simply that the more completely a man has induced a woman to deceive her husband, the more stoutly is he bound to deny, with lies, rows, and blows, that she has ever done anything of the sort. Here, then, we find established, as a very fundamental necessity of this socially recognized adultery, a reciprocity of fidelity between lover and mistress which Antiquity never dreamed of even between husband and wife (Agamemnon has a perfect right to Briseis or Chryseis, but Clytæmnestra has no right to Aegisthus); and which indeed could scarcely arise as a moral obligation except where the woman was not bound to love the man (which the wife is) and where her behaviour towards him depended wholly upon her pleasure, that is to say, upon her satisfaction with his behaviour towards her. This, which seems to us so obvious, and of which every day furnishes us an example in the relations of the modern suitor and his hoped-for wife, could not, at a time when women were married by family arrangement, arise except as a result of illegitimate love. Horrible as it seems, the more we examine into this subject of mediæval love, the more shall we see that our whole code of Grandisonian chivalry between lovers who intend marriage is derived from the practice of the Launcelots and Gueneveres, not from that of the married people (we may remember the manner in which Gunther woos his wife Brunhilt in the Nibelungenlied) of former ages; nay, the more we shall have to recognize that the very feeling which constitutes the virtuous love of modern poets is derived from the illegitimate loves of the Middle Ages. Let us examine what are the habits of feeling and thinking which grow out of this reciprocal fidelity due to the absence of all one-sided legal pressure in this illegitimate, but socially legitimated, love of the early Middle Ages; which are added on to it by the very necessities of illicit connection. The lover, having no right to the favours of his mistress, is obliged, in order to win and to keep them, to please her by humility, fidelity, and such knightly qualities as are the ideal plumage of a man: he must bring home to her, by showing the world her colours victorious in serious warfare, in the scarcely less dangerous play of tournaments, and by making her beauty and virtues more illustrious in his song than are those of other women in the songs of their lovers--he must bring home to her that she has a more worthy servant than her rivals; he must determine her to select him and to adhere to her selection. Now mediæval husbands select their wives, instead of being selected; and once the woman and the dowry are in their hands, trouble themselves but little whether they are approved of or not. On the other hand, the mistress appears to her lover invested with imaginative, ideal advantages such as cannot surround her in the eyes of her husband: she is, in nearly every case, his superior in station and the desired of many beholders; she is bound to him by no tie which may grow prosaic and wearisome; she appears to him in no domestic capacity, can never descend to be the female drudge; her possession is prevented from growing stale, her personality from becoming commonplace, by the difficulty, rareness, mystery, adventure, danger, which even in the days of Courts of Love attach to illicit amours; above all, being for this man neither the housewife nor the mother, she remains essentially and continually the mistress, the beloved. Similarly the relations between the knight and the lady, untroubled by domestic worries, pecuniary difficulties, and squabbles about children, remain, exist merely as love relations, relations of people whose highest and sole desire is to please one another. Moreover, and this is an important consideration, the lady, who is a mere inexperienced, immature girl when she first meets her husband, is a mature woman, with character and passions developed by the independence of conjugal and social life. When she meets her lover, whatever power or dignity of character she may possess is ripe; whatever intensity of aspiration and passion may be latent is ready to come forth; for the first time there is equality in love. Equality? Ah, no. This woman who is the wife of his feudal superior, this woman surrounded by all the state of feudal sovereignty, this woman who, however young, has already known so much of life, this woman whose love is a free, gift of grace to the obscure, trembling vassal who has a right not even to be noticed; this lady of mediæval love must always remain immeasurably above her lover. And, in the long day-dreams while watching her, as he thinks unseen, while singing of her, as he thinks unheard, there cluster round her figure, mistily seen in his fancy, those vague and-mystic splendours which surround the new sovereign of the Middle Ages, the Queen of Heaven; there mingles in the half-terrified raptures of the first kind glance, the first encouraging word, the ineffable passion stored up in the Christian's heart for the immortal beings who, in the days of Bernard and Francis, descend cloud-like on earth and fill the cells of the saints with unendurable glory. And thus, out of the baseness of habitual adultery, arises incense-like, in the early mediæval poetry, a new kind of love--subtler, more imaginative, more passionate, a love of the fancy and the heart, a love stimulating to the perfection of the individual as is any religion; nay, a religion, and one appealing more completely to the complete man, flesh and soul, than even the mystical beliefs of the Middle Ages. And as, in the fantastic song of Ritter Tannhäuser, whose liege lady, so legend tells, was Dame Venus herself, the lady bids the knight go forth and fetch her green water which has washed the setting sun, salamanders snatched from the flame, the stars out of heaven; so would it seem as if this new power in the world, this poetically worshipped woman, had sent forth mankind to seek wonderful new virtues, never before seen on earth. Nay, rather, as the snowflakes became green leaves, the frost blossoms red and blue flowers, the winter wind a spring-scented breeze, when Bernard de Ventadorn was greeted by his mistress; so also does it seem as if, at the first greeting of the world by this new love, the mediæval winter had turned to summer, and there had budded forth and flowered a new ideal of manly virtue, a new ideal of womanly grace. But evil is evil, and evil is its fruit. Out of circumstances hitherto unknown, circumstances come about for the first time owing to the necessities of illegitimate passion, have arisen certain new and nobler characters of sexual love, certain new and beautiful conceptions of manly and womanly nature. The circumstances to which these are owed are pure in themselves, they are circumstances which in more modern times have characterized the perfectly legitimate passion of lovers held asunder by no social law, but by mere accidental barriers--from Romeo and Juliet to the Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton; and pure so far have been the spiritual results. But these circumstances were due, in the early Middle Ages, to the fact of adultery; and to the new ideal of love has clung, even in its purity, in its superior nobility, an element of corruption as unknown to gross and corrupt Antiquity as was the delicacy and nobility of mediæval love. The most poetical and pathetic of all mediæval love stories, the very incarnation of all that is most lyric at once and most tragic in the new kind of passion, is the story, told and retold by a score of poets and prose writers, of the loves of Yseult of Ireland and of Sir Tristram who, as the knight was bringing the princess to his uncle and her affianced, King Mark of Cornwall drank together by a fatal mistake a philter which made all such as partook of it in common inseparable lovers even unto death. Every one knows the result r: how Yseult came to her husband already the paramour of Tristram; how Brangwaine, her damsel, feeling that this unhallowed passion was due to her having left-within reach the potion intended for the King and Queen of Cornwall, devoted herself, at the price of her maidenhood, to connive in the amours of the lovers whom she had made; how King Mark was deceived, and doubted, and was deceived again; how Tristram fled to Brittany, but how, despite his seeming marriage with another and equally lovely Yseult, he remained faithful to the Queen of Cornwall. One version tells that Mark slew his nephew while he sat harping to Queen Yseult; another that Tristram died of grief because his scorned though wedded wife told him that the white-sailed ship, bearing his mistress to meet him, bore the black sail which meant that she was not on board; but all versions, I think, agree in ending with the fact, that the briar-rose growing on the tomb of the one, slowly trailed its flowers and thorns along till it had reached also the grave of the other, and knit together, as love had knit together with its sweet blossoms and sharp spines, the two fated lovers. The Middle Ages were enthralled by this tale; but they were also, occasionally, a little shocked by it. Poets and prose writers tampered every now and then with incidents and characters, seeking to make it appear that, owing to the substitution of the waiting-maid, and the neglect of the wedded princess of Brittany, Yseult had never belonged to any man save Tristram, nor Tristram to any woman save Yseult; or that King Mark had sent his nephew to woo the Irish queen's daughter merely in hopes of his perishing in the attempt, and that his whole subsequent conduct was due to a mere unnatural hatred of a better knight than himself; touching up here and there with a view to justifying and excusing to some degree the long series of deceits which constituted the whole story. Thus the more timid and less gifted. But when, in the very first years (1210) of the thirteenth century, the greatest mediæval poet that preceded Dante, the greatest German poet that preceded Goethe, Meister Gottfried von Strassburg, took in hand the old threadbare story of "Tristan und Isolde," he despised all alterations of this sort, and accepted the original tale in its complete crudeness. For, consciously or unconsciously, Gottfried had conceived this story as a thing wholly unknown in his time, and no longer subject to any of those necessities of constant rearrangement which tormented mediæval poets: he had conceived it not as a tale, but as a novel. Gottfried himself was probably but little aware of what he was doing; the poem that he was writing probably fell for him into the very same category as the poems of other men; but to us, with our experience of so many different forms of narrative, it must be evident that "Tristan und Isolde" is a new departure, inasmuch as it is not the story of deeds and the people who did them, like the true epic from Homer to the Nibelungen; nor the story of people and the adventures which happened to them, like all romance poetry from "Palemon and Arcite," to the "Orlando Furioso;" but, on the contrary, the story of the psychological relations, the gradual metamorphosis of soul by soul, between two persons. The long introductory story of Tristram's youth must not mislead us, nor all the minute narrations of the killing of dragons and the drinking of love philters: Gottfried, we must remember, was certainly no deliberate innovator, and these thing's are the mere inevitable externalities of mediæval poetry, preserved with dull slavish care by the re-writer of a well-known tale, but enclosing in reality something essentially and startlingly modern: the history of a passion and of the spiritual changes which it brings about in those who are its victims. To meet again this purely psychological interest we must skip the whole rest of the Middle Ages, nay, skip even the great period of dramatic literature, not stopping till we come to the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth century, to the "Princesse de Clèves," to "Clarissa Harlowe," nay, really, to "The Nouvelle Heloise." For even in Shakespeare there is always interest and importance in the action and reaction of subsidiary characters, in the event, in the accidental; there is intrigue, chance, misunderstanding, fate--active agencies of which Othello and Hamlet, King Lear and Romeo, are helpless victims; there is, even in this psychological English drama of the Elizabethans, fate in the shape of Iago, in the shape of the Ghost, in the shape of the brothers of Webster's duchess; fate in the shape of a ring, a letter, a drug, but fate always. And in this "Tristan und Isolde" of Gottfried von Strassburg is there not fate also in the love potion intended for King Mark, and given by the mistake of Brangwaine to Mark's bride and his nephew? To this objection, which will naturally occur to any reader who is not acquainted with the poem of Gottfried, I simply answer, there is not. The love potion there is, but it does not play the same part as do, for instance, the drugs of Friar Laurence and his intercepted letter. Suppose the friar's narcotic to have been less enduring in its action, or his message to have reached in safety, why then Juliet would have been awake instead of asleep, or Romeo would not have supposed her to be dead, and instead of the suicide of the two lovers, we should have had the successful carying off of Juliet by Romeo. Not so with Gottfried. The philter is there, and a great deal is talked about it; but it is merely one of the old, threadbare trappings of the original story, which he has been too lazy to suppress; it is merely, for the reader, the allegorical signal for an outburst of passion which all our subsequent knowledge of Tristram and Yseult shows us to be absolutely inevitable. In Gottfried's poem, the drinking of the potion signifies merely that all the rambling, mediæval prelude, not to be distinguished from the stories of "Morte d'Arthur," and of half the romances of the Middle Ages, has come to a close and may be forgotten; and that the real work of the great poet, the real, matchless tragedy of the four actors--Tristram, Yseult, Mark, and Brangwaine--has begun. Yet if we seek again to account to ourselves for this astonishing impression of modernness which we receive from Gottfried's poem, we recognize that it is due to something far more important than the mere precocious psychological interest; nay, rather, that this psychological interest is itself dependent upon the fact which makes "Tristan und Isolde," so modern to our feelings. This fact is simply that the poem of Gottfried is the earliest, and yet perhaps almost the completest, example of a literary anomaly which Antiquity, for all its abominations, did not know: the glorification of fidelity in adultery, the glorification of excellence within the compass of guilt. Older times --more distant from our own in spirit, though not necessarily in years--have presented us with many themes of guilt: the guilt which exists according to our own moral standard, but not according to that of the narrator, as the magnificently tragic Icelandic incest story of Sigmund and Signy; the guilt which has come about no one well knows how, an unfortunate circumstance leaving the sinner virtually stainless, in his or her own eyes and the eyes of others, like the Homeric Helen; the heroic guilt, where the very heroism seems due to the self-sacrifice of the sinner's innocence, of Judith; the struggling, remorseful guilt, hopelessly overcome by fate and nature, of Phædra; the dull and dogged guilt, making the sinner scarce more than a mere physical stumbling-block for others, of the murderer Hagen in the Nibelungenlied; and, finally, the perverse guilt, delighting in the consciousness of itself, of demons like Richard and Iago, of libidinous furies like the heroines of Tourneur and Marston. The guilt theme of "Tristan und Isolde" falls into none of these special categories. This theme, unguessed even by Shakespeare, is that of the virtuous behaviour towards one another of two individuals united in sinning against every one else. Gottfried von Strassburg narrates with the greatest detail how Tristram leads to the unsuspecting king the unblushing, unremorseful woman polluted by his own embraces; how Yseult substitutes on the wedding night her spotless damsel Brangwaine for her own sullied self; then, terrified lest the poor victim of her dishonour should ever reveal it, attempts to have her barbarously murdered, and, finally, seeing that nothing can shake the heroic creature's faith, admits her once more to be the remorseful go-between in her amours. He narrates how Tristram dresses as a pilgrim and carries the queen from a ship to the shore, in order that Yseult may call on Christ to bear witness by a miracle that she is innocent of adultery, never having been touched save by that pilgrim and her own husband; and how, when the followers of King Mark have surrounded the grotto in the wood, Tristram places the drawn sword between himself and the sleeping queen, as a symbol of their chastity which the king is too honest to suspect. He draws, with a psychological power truly extraordinary in the beginning of the thirteenth century, the two other figures in this love drama: King Mark, cheated, dishonoured, oscillating between horrible doubt, ignominious suspicion and more ignominious credulity, his love for his wife, his trust in his nephew, his incapacity for conceiving ill-faith and fraud, the very gentleness and generosity of his nature, made the pander of guilt in which he cannot believe; and, on the other side, Brangwaine, the melancholy, mute victim of her fidelity to Yseult, the weak, heroic soul, rewarded only with cruel ingratitude, and condemned to screen and help the sin which she loathes and for which she assumes the awful responsibility. All this does Gottfried do, yet without ever seeming to perceive the baseness and wickedness of this tissue of lies, equivocations, and perjuries in which his lovers hide their passion; without ever seeming to guess at the pathos and nobility of the man and the woman who are the mere trumpery obstacles or trumpery aids to their amours. He heaps upon Tristram and Yseult the most extravagant praises: he is the flower of all knighthood, and she, the kindest, gentlest, purest, and noblest of women; he insists upon the wickedness of the world which is for ever waging war upon their passion, and holds up to execration all those who seek to spy out their secret. Gottfried is most genuinely overcome by the ideal beauty of this inextinguishable devotion, by the sublimity of this love which holds the whole world as dross; the crimes of the lovers are for him the mere culminating point of their moral grandeur, which has ceased to know any guilt save absence of love, any virtue save loving. And so serene is the old minnesinger's persuasion, that it obscures the judgment and troubles the heart even of his reader; and we are tempted to ask ourselves, on laying down the book, whether indeed this could have been sinful, this love of Tristram and Yseult which triumphed over everything in the world, and could be quenched only by death. That circle of hell where all those who had sinfully loved were whirled incessantly in the perse, dark, stormy air, appeared in the eyes even of Dante as a place less of punishment than of glory; and, especially since the Middle Ages, all mankind looks upon that particular hell-pit with admiration rather than with loathing. And herein consists, more even than in any deceptions practised upon King Mark or any ingratitude manifested towards Brangwaine, the sinfulness of Tristram and Yseult: sinfulness which is not finite like the individual lives which it offends, but infinite and immortal as the heart and the judgment which it perverts. For such a tale, and so told, as the tale of Gottfried von Strassburg, makes us sympathize with this fidelity and devotion of a man and woman who care for nothing in the world save for each other, who are dragged and glued together by the desire and habit of mutual pleasure; it makes us admire their readiness to die rather than be parted, when their whole life is concentrated in their reciprocal sin, when their miserable natures enjoy, care for, know, only this miserable love. It makes us wink with leniency at the dishonour, the baseness, the cruelty, to which all this easy virtue is due. And such sympathy, such admiration, such leniency, for howsoever short a time they may remain in our soul, leave it, if they ever leave it completely and utterly less strong, less clean than it was before. We have all of us a lazy tendency to approve of the virtue which costs no trouble; to contemplate in ourselves or others, with a spurious moral satisfaction, the development of this or that virtuous quality in souls which are deteriorating in undoubted criminal self-indulgence. We have all of us, at the bottom of our hearts, a fellow feeling for all human affection; and the sinfulness of sinners like Tristram and Yseult lies largely in the fact that they pervert this legitimate and holy sympathy into a dangerous leniency for any strong and consistent love, into a morbid admiration for any irresistible mutual passion, making us forget that love has in itself no moral value, and that while self-indulgence may often be innocent, only self-abnegation can ever be holy. The great mediæval German poem of Tristram and Yseult remained for centuries a unique phenomenon; only John Ford perhaps, that grander and darker twin spirit of Gottfried von Strassburg, reviving, even among the morbidly psychological and crime-fascinated followers of Shakespeare, that new theme of evil--the heroism of unlawful love. But Gottfried had merely manipulated with precocious analytical power a mode of feeling and thinking which was universal in the feudal Middle Ages; the great epic of adultery was forgotten, but the sympathetic and admiring interest in illegitimate passion remained; and was transmitted, wherever the Renaissance or the Reformation did not break through such transmission of mediæval habits, as an almost inborn instinct from father to son, from mother to daughter. And we may doubt whether the important class of men and women who write and read the novels of illicit love, could ever have existed, had not the psychological artists of modern times, from Rousseau to George Sand, and from Stendhal to Octave Feuillet, found ready prepared for them in the countries not re-tempered by Protestantism, an assoiation of romance, heroism, and ideality with mere adulterous passion, which was unknown to the corruption of Antiquity and to the lawlessness of the Dark Ages, and which remained as a fatal alloy to that legacy of mere spiritual love which was left to the world by the love poets of early feudalism. II. The love of the troubadours and minnesingers, of the Arthurian tales, which show that love in narrative form, was, as we have seen, polluted by the selfishness, the deceitfulness, the many unclean necessities of adulterous passion. Elevated and exquisite though it was, it could not really purify the relations of man and woman, since it was impure. Nay, we see that through its influence the grave and simple married love of the earlier tales of chivalry, the love of Siegfried for Chriemhilt, of Roland for his bride Belle Aude, of Renaud for his wife Clarisse, is gradually replaced in later fiction by the irregular love-makings of Huon of Bordeaux, Ogier the Dane, and Artus of Brittany; until we come at last to the extraordinary series of the Amadis romances, where every hero without exception is the bastard of virtuous parents, who subsequently marry and discover their foundling: a state of things which, even in the corrupt Renaissance, Boiardo and Ariosto found it necessary to reform in their romantic poems. With idealizing refinement, the chivalric love of the French, Provençal, and German poets brings also a kind of demoralization which, from one point of view, makes the spotless songs of Bernard de Ventadour and Armaud de Mareulh, of Ulrich von Liechtenstein and Frauenlob, less pure than the licentious poems addressed by the Greeks and Romans to women who, at least, were not the wives of other men. Shall all this idealizing refinement, this almost religious fervour, this new poetic element of chivalric love remain useless; or serve only to subtly pollute while pretending to purify the great singing passion? Not so. But to prevent such waste of what in itself is pure and precious, is the mission of another country, of another civilization; of a wholly different cycle of poets who, receiving the new element of mediæval love after it has passed through and been sifted by a number of hands, shall cleanse and recreate it in the fire of intellectual and almost abstract passion, producing that wonderful essence of love which, as the juices squeezed by alchemists out of jewels purified the body from all its ills, shall purify away all the diseases of the human soul. While the troubadours and minnesingers had been singing at the courts of Angevine kings and Hohenstauffen emperors, of counts of Toulouse and dukes of Austria; a new civilization, a new political and social system, had gradually been developing in the free burghs of Italy; a new life entirely the reverse of the life of feudal countries. The Italian cities were communities of manufacturers and merchants, into which only gradually, and at the sacrifice of every aristocratic privilege and habit, a certain number of originally foreign feudatories were gradually absorbed. Each community consisted of a number of mercantile families, equal before the law, and illustrious or obscure according to their talents or riches, whose members, instead of being scattered over a wide area like the members of the feudal nobility, were most often gathered together under one roof--sons, brothers, nephews, daughters, sisters and daughters-in-law, forming a hierarchy attending to the business of factory or counting-house under the orders of the father of the family, and to the economy of the house-under the superintendence of the mother; a manner of living at once business-like and patriarchal, expounded pounded by the interlocutors in Alberti's "Governo della Famiglia," and which lasted until the dissolution of the commonwealths and almost to our own times. Such habits imply a social organization, an intercourse between men and women, and a code of domestic morality the exact opposite to those of feudal countries. Here, in the Italian cities, there are no young men bound to loiter, far from their homes, round the wife of a military superior, to whom her rank and her isolation from all neighbours give idleness and solitude. The young men are all of them in business, usually with their own kinsfolk; not in their employer's house, but in his office; they have no opportunity of seeing a woman from dawn till sunset. The women, on their side, are mainly employed at home: the whole domestic arrangement depends upon them, and keeps their hands constantly full; working, and working in the company of their female relatives and friends. Men and women are free comparatively little, and then they are free all together in the same places; hence no opportunities for _tête-à-tête_. Early Italian poetry is fond of showing us the young poet reading his verses or explaining his passion to those gentle, compassionate women learned in love, of whom we meet a troop, beautiful, vague, half-arch, half-melancholy faces, consoling Dante in the "Vita Nuova," and reminding Guido Cavalcanti of his lady far off at Toulouse. But such women almost invariably form a group; they cannot be approached singly. Such a state of society inevitably produces a high and strict morality. In these early Italian cities a case of in' fidelity is punished ruthlessly; the lover banished or killed; the wife for ever lost to the world, perhaps condemned to solitude and a lingering death in the fever tracts, like Pia dei Tolomei. A complacent deceived husband is even more ridiculous (the deceived husband is notoriously the chief laughing stock of all mediæval free towns) than is a jealous husband among the authorized and recognized _cicisbeos_ of a feudal court. Indeed the respect for marriage vows inevitable in this busy democratic mediæval life is so strong, that long after the commonwealths have turned into despotisms, and every social tie has been dissolved in the Renaissance, the wives and daughters of men stained with every libidinous vice, nay, of the very despots themselves --Tiberiuses and Neros on a smaller scale--remain spotless in the midst of evil; and authorized adultery begins in Italy only under the Spanish rule in the late sixteenth century. Such were the manners and morals of the Italian commonwealths when, about the middle of the thirteenth century, the men of Tuscany, now free and prosperous, suddenly awoke to the consciousness that they had a soul which desired song, and a language which was spontaneously singing. It was the moment when painting was beginning to claim for the figures of real men and women the walls and vaulted spaces whence had hitherto glowered, with vacant faces and huge ghostlike eyes, mosaic figures, from their shimmering golden ground; the moment when the Pisan artists had sculptured solemnly draped madonnas and kings not quite unworthy of the carved sarcophagi which stood around them; the moment when, merging together old Byzantine traditions and Northern examples, the architects of Florence, Siena, and Orvieto conceived a style which made cathedrals into marvellous and huge reliquaries of marble, jasper, alabaster, and mosaics. The mediæval flowering time had come late, very late, in Italy; but the atmosphere was only the warmer, the soil the richer, and Italy put forth a succession of exquisite and superb immortal flowers of art when the artistic sap of other countries had begun to be exhausted. But the Italians, the Tuscans, audacious in the other arts, were diffident of themselves with regard to poetry. Architecture, painting, sculpture, had been the undisputed field for plebeian craftsmen, belonging exclusively to the free burghs and disdained by the feudal castles; but poetry was essentially the aristocratic, the feudal art, cultivated by knights and cultivated for kings and barons. It was probably an unspoken sense of this fact which caused the early Tuscan poets to misgive their own powers and to turn wistfully and shyly towards the poets of Provence and of Sicily. There, beyond the seas, under the last lords of Toulouse and the brilliant mongrel Hohenstauffen princes, were courts, knights, and ladies; there was the tradition of this courtly art of poetry; and there only could the sons of Florentine or Sienese merchants, clodhoppers in gallantry and song, hope to learn the correct style of thing. Hence the history of the Italian lyric before Dante is the history of a series of transformations which connect a style of poetry absolutely feudal and feudally immoral, with the hitherto unheard-of platonic love subtleties of the "Vita Nuova." And it is curious, in looking over the collections of early Italian lyrists, to note the alteration in tone as Sicily and the feudal courts are left further and further behind. Ciullo d' Alcamo, flourishing about 1190, is the only Italian-writing poet absolutely contemporaneous with the earlier and better trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers; and he is also the only one who resembles them very closely. His famous _tenso_, beginning "Rosa fresca aulentissima" (a tolerably faithful translation heads the beautiful collection of the late Mr. D.G. Rossetti), is indeed more explicitly gross and immoral than the majority of Provençal and German love-songs: loose as are many of the _albas, serenas, wachtlieder_, and even many of the less special forms of German and Provençal poetry, I am acquainted with none of them which comes up to this singular dialogue, in which a man, refusing to marry a woman, little by little wins her over to his wishes and makes her brazenly invite him to her dishonour. Between Ciullo d' Alcamo and his successors there is some gap of time, and a corresponding want of gradation. Yet the Sicilian poets of the courts of Hohenstauffen and Anjou, recognizable by their name or the name of their town, Inghilfredi, Manfredi, Ranieri and Ruggierone da Palermo, Tommaso and Matteo da Messina, Guglielmotto d' Otranto, Rinaldo d'Aquino, Peir delle Vigne, either maintain altogether unchanged the tone of the troubadours, or only gradually, as in the remarkable case of the Notary of Lentino, approximate to the platonic poets of Tuscany. The songs of the archetype of Sicilian singers, the Emperor Frederick II., are completely Provençal in feeling as in form, though infinitely inferior in execution. With him it is always the pleasure which he hopes from his lady, or the pleasure which he has had--"Quando ambidue stavamo in allegranza alla dolce fera;" "Pregovi donna mia--Per vostra cortesia--E pregovi che sia--Quello che lo core disia." Again: "Sospiro e sto in rancura--Ch' io son si disioso--E pauroso--Mi fate penare--Ma tanto m' assicura--Lo suo viso amoroso--E lo gioioso--Riso e lo sguardare--E lo parlare--Di questa criatura--Che per paura--Mi fate penare--E di morare--Tant' è fina e pura--Tanto è saggia e cortese--Non credo che pensasse--Nè distornasse--Di ciò he m' impromise." It is, this earliest Italian poetry, like the more refined poetry of troubadours and minnesingers, eminently an importuning of highborn but loosely living women. From Sicily and Apulia poetry goes first, as might be expected (and as probably sculpture went) to the seaport Pisa, thence to the neighbouring Lucca, considerably before reaching Florence. And as it becomes more Italian and urban, it becomes also, under the strict vigilance of burgher husbands, considerably more platonic. In Bologna, the city of jurists, it acquires (the remark is not mine merely, but belongs also to Carducci) the very strong flavour of legal quibbling which distinguishes the otherwise charming Guido Guinicelli; and once in Florence, among the most subtle of all subtle Tuscans, it becomes at once what it remained even for Dante, saturated with metaphysics: the woman is no longer paramount, she is subordinated to Love himself; to that personified abstraction Amor, the serious and melancholy son of pagan philosophy and Christian mysticism. The Tuscans had imported from Provence and Sicily the new element of mediæval love, of life devotion, soul absorption in loving; if they would sing, they must sing of this; any other kind of love, at a time when Italy still read and relished her would-be Provençals, Lanfranc Cicala and Sordel of Mantua, would have been unfashionable and unendurable. But in these Italian commonwealths, as we have seen, poets are forced, nilly-willy, to be platonic; an importuning poem found in her work-basket may send a Tuscan lady into a convent, or, like Pia, into the Maremma; an _alba_ or a _serena_ interrupted by a wool-weaver of Calimara or a silk spinner of Lucca, may mean that the imprudent poet be found weltering in blood under some archway the next morning. The chivalric sentimentality of feudalism must be restrained; and little by little, under the pressure of such very different social habits, it grows into a veritable platonic passion. Poets must sing, and in order that they sing, they must adore; so men actually begin to seek out, and adore and make themselves happy and wretched about women from whom they can hope only social distinctions; and this purely æsthetic passion goes on by the side nay, rather on the top, of their humdrum, conjugal life or loosest libertinage. Petrarch's bastards were born during the reign of Madonna Laura; and that they should have been, was no more a slight or infidelity to her than to the other Madonna, the one in heaven. Laura had a right to only ideal sentiments ideal relations; the poet was at liberty to carry more material preferences elsewhere. But could such love as this exist, could it be genuine? To my mind, indubitably. For there is, in all our perceptions and desires of physical and moral beauty, an element of passion which is akin to love; and there is, in all love that is not mere lust, a perception of, a craving for, beauty, real or imaginary which is identical with our merely æsthetic perceptions and cravings; hence the possibility, once the wish for such a passion present, of a kind of love which is mainly æsthetic, which views the beloved as gratifying merely to the wish for physical or spiritual loveliness, and concentrates upon one exquisite reality all dreams of ideal perfection. Moreover there comes, to all nobler natures, a love dawning: a brightening and delicate flushing of the soul before the actual appearance of the beloved one above the horizon, which is as beautiful and fascinating in its very clearness, pallor, and coldness, as the unearthly purity of the pale amber and green and ashy rose which streaks the heavens before sunrise. The love of the early Tuscan poets (for we must count Guinicelli, in virtue of his language, as a Tuscan) had been restrained, by social necessities first, then by habit and deliberate æsthetic choice, within the limits of this dawning state; and in this state, it had fed itself off mere spiritual food, and acquired the strange intensity of mere intellectual passions. We give excessive weight, in our days, to spontaneity in all things, apt to think that only the accidental, the unsought, can be vital; but it is true in many things, and truest in all matters of the imagination and the heart, that the desire to experience any sentiment will powerfully conduce to its production, and even give it a strength due to the long incubation of the wish. Thus the ideal love of the Tuscan poets was probably none the weaker, but rather the stronger, for the desire which they felt to sing such passion; nay, rather to hear it singing in themselves. The love of man and wife, of bride and bridegroom, was still of the domain of prose; adulterous love forbidden; and the tradition of, the fervent wish for, the romantic passion of the troubadours consumed them as a strong artistic craving. Platonic love was possible, doubly possible in souls tense with poetic wants; it became a reality through the strength of the wish for it. Nor was this all. In all imaginative passions, intellectual motives are so much fuel; and in this case the necessity of logically explaining the bodiless passion for a platonic lady, of understanding why they felt in a manner so hitherto unknown to gross mankind, tended greatly to increase the love of these Tuscans, and to bring it in its chastity to the pitch of fervour of more fleshly passions, by mingling with the æsthetic emotions already in their souls the mystical theorizings of transcendental metaphysics, and the half-human, half-supernatural ecstasy of mediæval religion. For we must remember that Italy was a country not merely of manufacturers and bankers, but of philosophers also and of saints. Among the Italians of the thirteenth century the revival of antique literature was already in full swing; while in France, Germany, and Provence there had been, in lyric poetry at least, no trace of classic lore. Whereas the trouvères and troubadours had possessed but the light intellectual luggage of a military aristocracy; and the minnesingers had, for the most part, been absolutely ignorant of reading and writing (Wolfram says so of himself, and Ulrich von Liechtenstein relates how he carried about his lady's letter for days unread until the return of his secretary); the poets of Italy, from Brunetto Latini to Petrarch, were eminently scholars; men to whom, however much they might be politicians and ringleaders, like Cavalcanti, Donati, and Dante, whatever existed of antique learning was thoroughly well known. Such men were familiar with whatever yet survived of the transcendental theories of Plato and Plotinus; and they seized at once upon the mythic metaphysics of an antenatal condition, of typical ideas, of the divine essence of beauty, on all the mystic discussions on love and on the soul, as a philosophical explanation of their seemingly inexplicable passion for an unapproachable woman. The lady upon whom the poetic fervour, the mediæval love, inherited from Provence and France, was now expended, and whom social reasons placed quite beyond the reach of anything save the poet's soul and words, was evidently beloved for the sake of that much of the divine essence contained in her nature; she was loved for purely spiritual reasons, loved as a visible and living embodiment of virtue and beauty, as a human piece of the godhead. So far, therefore, from such an attachment being absurd, as absurd it would have seemed to troubadours and minnesingers, who never served a lady save for what they called a reward; it became, in the eyes of these platonizing Italians, the triumph of the well-bred soul; and as such, soon after, a necessary complement to dignities, talents, and wealth, the very highest occupation of a liberal mind. Thus did their smattering of platonic and neo-platonic philosophy supply the Tuscan poets with a logical reality for this otherwise unreal passion. But there was something more. In this democratic and philosophizing Italy, there was not the gulf which separated the chivalric poets, men of the sword and not of books, from the great world of religious mysticism; for, though the minnesingers especially were extremely devout and sang many a strange love-song to the Virgin; they knew, they could know, nothing of the contemplative religion of Eckhardt and his disciples--humble and transcendental spirits, whose words were treasured by the sedentary, dreamy townsfolk of the Rhine, but would have conveyed no meaning even to the poet of the Grail epic, with its battles and feasts, its booted and spurred slapdash morality, Wolfram von Eschenbach. In the great manufacturing cities of Italy, such religious mysticism spread as it could never spread in feudal courts; it became familiar, both in the mere passionate sermons and songs of the wandering friars, and in the subtle dialectics of the divines; above all, it became familiar to the poets. Now the essence of this contemplative theology of the Middle Ages, which triumphantly held its own against the cut-and-dry argumentation of scholastic rationalism, was love. Love which assuredly meant different things to different minds; a passionate benevolence towards man and beast to godlike simpletons like Francis of Assisi; a mere creative and impassive activity of the divinity to deep-seeing (so deep as to see only their own strange passionate eyes and lips reflected in the dark well of knowledge) and almost pantheistic thinkers like Master Eckhardt; but love nevertheless, love. "Amor, amore, ardo d' amore," St. Francis had sung in a wild rhapsody, a sort of mystic dance, a kind of furious _malagueña_ of divine love; and that he who would wish to know God, let him love--"Qui vult habere notitiam Dei, amet," had been written by Hugo of St. Victor, one of the subtlest of all the mystics. "Amor oculus est," said Master Eckhardt; love, love--was not love then the highest of all human faculties, and must not the act of loving, of perceiving God's essence in some creature which had virtue, the soul's beauty, and beauty, the body's virtue, be the noblest business of a noble life? Thus argued the poets; and their argument, half-passionate, half-scholastic, mixing Phædrus and Bonaventura, the Schools of Alexandria and the Courts of Love of Provence, resulted in adding all the fervid reality of philosophical and religious aspiration to their clear and cold phantom of disembodied love of woman. Little by little therefore, together with the carnal desires of Provençals and Sicilians, the Tuscan poets put behind them those little coquetries of style and manner, complications of metre and rhythm learned and fantastic as a woman's plaited and braided hair; those metaphors and similes, like bright flowers or shining golden ribbons dropped from the lady's bosom and head and eagerly snatched by the lover, which we still find, curiously transformed and scented with the rosemary and thyme of country lanes, in the peasant poetry of modern Tuscany. Little by little does the love poetry of the Italians reject such ornaments; and cloth itself in that pale garment, pale and stately in heavy folds like a nun's or friar's weeds, but pure and radiant and solemn as the garment of some painted angel, which we have all learned to know from the "Vita Nuova." To describe this poetry of the immediate precursors and contemporaries of Dante is to the last degree difficult: it can be described only by symbols, and symbols can but mislead us. Dante Rossetti himself, after translating with exquisite beauty the finest poems of this school, showed how he had read into them his own spirit, when he drew the beautiful design for the frontispiece of his collection. These two lovers--the youth kneeling in his cloth of silver robe, lifting his long throbbing neck towards the beloved; the lady stooping down towards him, raising him up and kissing him; the mingled cloud of waving hair, the four tight-clasped hands, the four tightly glued lips, the profile hidden by the profile, the passion and the pathos, the eager, wistful faces, nay, the very splendour of brocade robes and jewels, the very sweetness of blooming rose spaliers; all this is suitable to illustrate this group of sonnets or that of the "House of Life;" but it is false, false in efflorescence and luxuriance of passion, splendour and colour of accessory, to the poetry of these early Tuscans. Imaginative their poetry certainly is, and passionate; indeed the very concentration of imaginative passion; but imagination and passion unlike those of all other poets; perhaps because more rigorously reduced to their elements: imagination purely of the heart, passion purely of the intellect, neither of the senses: love in its most essential condition, but, just because an essence, purged of earthly alloys, rarefied, sublimated into a cultus or a philosophy. These poems might nearly all have been written by one man, were it possible for one man to vary from absolute platitude to something like genius, so homogeneous is their tone: everywhere do we meet the same simplicity of diction struggling with the same complication and subtlety of thought, the same abstract speculation strangely mingled with most individual and personal pathos. The mode of thinking and feeling, the conception of all the large characteristics of love, and of all its small incidents are, in this _cycle_ of poets, constantly the same; and they are the same in the "Vita Nuova;" Dante having, it would seem, invented and felt nothing unknown to his immediate predecessors and contemporaries, but merely concentrated their thoughts and feelings by the greater intenseness of his genius. This platonic love of Dante's days is, as I have said, a passion sublimated into a philosophy and a cultus. The philosophy of love engages much of these poets' attention; all have treated of it, but Guido Cavalcanti, Dante's elder brother in poetry, is love's chief theologian. He explains, as Eckhardt or Bonaventura might explain the mysteries of God's being and will, the nature and operation of love. "Love, which enamours us of excellence, arises out of pure virtue of the soul, and equals us to God," he tells us; and subtly developes his theme. This being the case, nothing can be more mistaken than to suppose, as do those of little sense, that Love is blind, and goes blindly about ("Da sentir poco, e da credenza vana--Si move il dir di cotal grossa gente--Ch' amor fa cieco andar per lo suo regno"). Love is omniscient, since love is born of the knowledge and recognition of excellence. Such love as this is the only true source of happiness, since it alone raises man to the level of the divinity. Cavalcanti has in him not merely the subtlety but the scornfulness of a great divine. His wrath against all those who worship or defend a different god of Love knows no bounds. "I know not what to say of him who adores the goddess born of Saturn and sea-foam. His love is fire: it seems sweet, but its result is bitter and evil. He may indeed call himself happy; but in such delights he mingles himself with much baseness." Such is this god of Love, who, when he descended into Dante's heart, caused the spirit of life to tremble terribly in his secret chamber, and trembling to cry, "Lo, here is a god stronger than myself, who coming will rule over me. Ecce Deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi!" The god, this chaste and formidable archangel Amor, is the true subject of these poets' adoration; the woman into whom he descends by a mystic miracle of beauty and of virtue becomes henceforward invested with somewhat of his awful radiance. She is a gentle, gracious lady; a lovable and loving woman, in describing whose grey-green eyes and colour as of snow tinted with pomegranate, the older Tuscans would fain linger, comparing her to the new-budded rose, to the morning star, to the golden summer air, to the purity of snowflakes falling silently in a serene sky; but the sense of the divinity residing within her becomes too strong. From her eyes dart spirits who strike awe into the heart; from her lips come words which make men sigh; on her passage the poet casts down his eyes; notions, all these, with which we are familiar from the "Vita Nuova;" but which belong to Cavalcanti, Lapo Gianni, nay, even to Guinicelli, quite as much as to Dante. The poet bids his verse go forth to her, but softly; and stand before her with bended head, as before the Mother of God. She is a miracle herself, a thing sent from heaven, a spirit, as Dante says in that most beautiful of all his sonnets, the summing up of all that the poets of his circle had said of their lady--"Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare." "She passes along the street so beautiful and gracious," says Guinicelli, "that she humbles pride in all whom she greets, and makes him of our faith if he does not yet believe. And no base man can come into her presence. And I will tell you another virtue of her: no man can think ought of evil as long as he looks upon her." "The noble mind which I feel, on account of this youthful lady who has appeared, makes me despise baseness and vileness," says Lapo Gianni. The women who surround her are glorified in her glory, glorified in their womanhood and companionship with her. "The ladies around you," says Cavalcanti, "are dear to me for the sake of your love; and I pray them as they are courteous, that they should do you all honour." She is, indeed, scarcely a woman, and something more than a saint: an avatar, an incarnation of that Amor who is born of virtue and beauty, and raises men's minds to heaven; and when Cavalcanti speaks of his lady's portrait behind the blazing tapers of Orsanmichele, it seems but natural that she should be on an altar, in the Madonna's place. The idea of a mysterious incarnation of love in the lady, or of a mystic relationship between her and love, returns to these poets. Lapo Gianni tells us first that she is Amor's sister, then speaks of her as Amor's bride; nay, in this love theology of the thirteenth century, arises the same kind of confusion as in the mystic disputes of the nature of the Godhead. A Sienese poet, Ugo da Massa, goes so far as to say, "Amor and I are all one thing; and we have one will and one heart; and if I were not, Amor were not; mind you, do not think I am saying these things from subtlety ('e non pensate ch' io 'l dica per arte'); for certainly it is true that I am love, and he who should slay me would slay love." Together with the knowledge of public life and of scholastic theories, together with the love of occult and cabalistic science, and the craft of Provençal poetry, Dante received from his Florence of the thirteenth century the knowledge of this new, this exotic and esoteric intellectual love. And, as it is the mission of genius to gather into an undying whole, to model into a perfect form, the thoughts and feelings and perceptions of the less highly endowed men who surround it, so Dante moulded out of the love passion and love philosophy of his day the "Vita Nuova." Whether the story narrated in this book is fact; whether a real woman whom he called Beatrice ever existed; some of those praiseworthy persons, who prowl in the charnel-house of the past, and put its poor fleshless bones into the acids and sublimates of their laboratory, have gravely doubted. But such doubts cannot affect us. For if the story of the "Vita Nuova" be a romance, and if Beatrice be a mere romance heroine, the real meaning and value of the book does not change in our eyes; since, to concoct such a tale, Dante must have had a number of real experiences which are fully the tale's equivalent; and to conceive and create such a figure as Beatrice, and such a passion as she inspires her poet, he must have felt as a poignant reality the desire for such a lady, the capacity for such a love. A tale merely of the soul, and of the soul's movements and actions, this "Vita Nuova;" so why should it matter if that which could never exist save in the spirit, should have been but the spirit's creation? It is, in its very intensity, a vision of love; what if it be a vision merely conceived and never realized? Hence the futility of all those who wish to destroy our faith and pleasure by saying "all this never took place." Fools, can you tell what did or did not take place in a poet's mind? Be this as it may, the "Vita Nuova," thank heaven, exists; and, thank heaven, exists as a reality to our feelings. The longed-for ideal, the perfection whose love, said Cavalcanti, raises us up to God, has seemed to gather itself into a human shape; and a real being has been surrounded by the halo of perfection emanated from the poet's own soul. The vague visions of glory have suddenly taken body in this woman, seen rarely, at a distance; the woman whom, as a child, the poet, himself a child, had already looked at with the strange, ideal fascination which we sometimes experience in our childhood. People are apt to smile at this opening of the "Vita Nuova;" to put aside this narrative of childish love together with the pathetic little pedantries of learned poetry and Kabbala, of the long gloses to each poem, and the elaborate calculations of the recurrence and combination of the number nine (and that curious little bit of encyclopædic display about the Syrian month _Tismin_) as so much pretty local colouring or obsolete silliness. But there is nothing at which to laugh in such childish fascinations; the wonderful, the perfect, is more open to us as children than it is afterwards: a word, a picture, a snatch of music will have for us an ineffable, mysterious meaning; and how much more so some human being, often some other, more brilliant child from whose immediate contact we are severed by some circumstance, perhaps by our own consciousness of inferiority, which makes that other appear strangely distant, above us, moving in a world of glory which we scarcely hope to approach; a child sometimes, or sometimes some grown person, beautiful, brilliant, who sings or talks or looks at us, the child, with ways which we do not understand, like some fairy or goddess. No indeed, there is nothing to laugh at in this, in this first blossoming of that love for higher and more beautiful things, which in most of us is trodden down, left to wither, by our maturer selves; nothing to make us laugh; nay, rather to make us sigh that later on we see too well, see others too much on their real level, scrutinize too much; too much, alas, for what at best is but an imperfect creature. And in this state of fascination does the child Dante see the child Beatrice, as a strange, glorious little vision from a childish sphere quite above him; treasuring up that vision, till with his growth it expands and grows more beautiful and noble, but none the less fascinating and full of awfulness. When, therefore, the grave young poet, full of the yearning for Paradise (but Paradise vaguer, sweeter, less metaphysic and theological than the Paradise of his manhood); as yet but a gracious, learned youth, his terrible moral muscle still undeveloped by struggle, the noble and delicate dreamer of Giotto's fresco, with the long, thin, almost womanish face, marked only by dreamy eyes and lips, wandering through this young Florence of the Middle Ages--when, I say, he meets after long years, the noble and gentle woman, serious and cheerful and candid; and is told that she is that same child who was the queen and goddess of his childish fancies; then the vague glory with which his soul is filled expands and enwraps the beloved figure, so familiar and yet so new. And the blood retreats from his veins, and he trembles; and a vague god within him, half allegory, half reality, cries out to him that a new life for him has begun. Beatrice has become the ideal; Beatrice, the real woman, has ceased to exist; the Beatrice of his imagination only remains, a piece of his own soul embodied in a gracious and beautiful reality, which he follows, seeks, but never tries to approach. Of the real woman he asks nothing; no word throughout the "Vita Nuova" of entreaty or complaint, no shadow of desire, not a syllable of those reproaches of cruelty which Petrarch is for ever showering upon Laura. He desires nothing of Beatrice, and Beatrice cannot act wrongly; she is perfection, and perfection makes him who contemplates humble at once and proud, glorifying his spirit. Once, indeed, he would wish that she might listen to him; he has reason to think that he has fallen in her esteem, has seemed base and uncourteous in her eyes, and he would explain. But he does not wish to address her; it never occurs to him that she can ever feel in any way towards him; it is enough that he feels towards her. Let her go by and smile and graciously salute her friends: the sight of her grave and pure regalness, nay, rather divinity, of womanhood, suffices for his joy; nay, later the consciousness comes upon him that it is sufficient to know of her existence and of his love even without seeing her. And, as must be the case in such ideal passion, where the action is wholly in the mind of the lover, he is at first ashamed, afraid; he feels a terror lest his love, if known to her, should excite her scorn; a horror lest it be misunderstood and befouled by the jests of those around him, even of those same gentle women to whom he afterwards addresses his praise of Beatrice. He is afraid of exposing to the air of reality this ideal flower of passion. But the moment comes when he can hide it no longer; and, behold, the passion flower of his soul opens out more gloriously in the sunlight of the world. He is proud of his passion, of his worship; he feels the dignity and glory of being the priest of such a love. The women all round, the beautiful, courteous women, of whom, only just now, he was so dreadfully afraid, become his friends and confidants; they are quite astonished (half in love, perhaps, with the young poet) at this strange way of loving; they sympathize, admire, are in love with his love for Beatrice. And to them he speaks of her rather than to men, for the womanhood which they share with his lady consecrates them in his eyes; and they, without jealousy towards this ideal woman, though perhaps not without longing for this ideal love, listen as they might listen to some new and unaccountably sweet music, touched and honoured, and feeling towards Dante as towards some beautiful, half-mad thing. He talks of her, sings of her, and is happy; the strangest thing in this intensely real narrative of real love is this complete satisfaction of the passion in its own existence, this complete absence of all desire or hope. But this happiness is interrupted by the sudden, terrible thought that one day all this must cease; the horrible, logical necessity coming straight home to him, that one day she must die--"Di necessità conviene che la gentilissima Beatrice alcuna volta si muoia." There is nothing truer, more intensely pathetic, in all literature, than this frightful pang of evil, not real, but first imagined; this frightful nightmare vision of the end coming when reality is still happy. Have we not all of us at one time felt the horrible shudder of that sudden perception that happiness must end; that the beloved, the living, must die; that this thing the present, which we clasp tight with our arms, which throbs against our breast, will in but few moments be gone, vanished, leaving us to grasp mere phantom recollections? Compared with this the blow of the actual death of Beatrice is gentle. And then, the truthfulness of his narration how, with yearning, empty heart, hungering after those poor lost realities of happiness, after that occasional glimpse of his lady, that rare catching of her voice, that blessed consciousness of her existence, he little by little lets himself be consoled, cradled to sleep like a child which has sobbed itself out, in the sympathy, the vague love, of another--the Donna della Finestra--with whom he speaks of Beatrice; and the sudden, terrified, starting up and shaking off of any such base consolation, the wrath at any such mental infidelity to the dead one, the indignant impatience with his own weakness, with his baseness in not understanding that it is enough that Beatrice has lived and that he has loved her, in not feeling that the glory and joy of the ineffaceable past is sufficient for all present and future. A revolution in himself which gradually merges in that grave final resolve, that sudden seeing how Beatrice can be glorified by him, that solemn, quiet, brief determination not to say any more of her as yet; not till he can show her transfigured in Paradise. "After this sonnet there appeared unto me a marvellous vision, in which I beheld things that made me propose unto myself to speak no more of this blessed one, until the time when I might more worthily treat of her. And that this may come to pass, I strive with all my endeavour, even as she truly knows it. Thus, if it should please Him, through whom all things do live, that my life continue for several more years, I hope to say of her such things as have never been said of any lady. And then may it please Him, who is the lord of all courtesy, that my soul shall go forth to see the glory of its lady, that is to say, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously looks up into the face of Him, _qui est per omnia sæcula benedictus_" Thus ends the "Vita Nuova;" a book, to find any equivalent for whose reality and completeness of passion, though it is passion for a woman whom the poet scarcely knows and of whom he desires nothing, we must go back to the merest fleshly love of Antiquity, of Sappho or Catullus; for modern times are too hesitating and weak. So at least it seems; but in fact, if we only think over the matter, we shall find that in no earthly love can we find this reality and completeness: it is possible only in love like Dante's. For there can be no unreality in it: it is a reality of the imagination, and leaves, with all its mysticism and idealism, no room for falsehood. Any other kind of love may be set aside, silenced, by the activity of the mind; this love of Dante's constitutes that very activity. And, after reading that last page which I have above transcribed, as those closing Latin words echo through our mind like the benediction from an altar, we feel as if we were rising from our knees in some secret chapel, bright with tapers and dim with incense; among a crowd kneeling like ourselves; yet solitary, conscious of only the glory we have seen and tasted, of that love _qui est per omnia scecula benedictus._ III. But is it right that we should feel thus? Is it right that love, containing within itself the potentialities of so many things so sadly needed in this cold real world, as patience, tenderness, devotion, and loving-kindness--is it right that love should thus be carried away out of ordinary life and enclosed, a sacred thing for contemplation, in the shrine or chapel of an imaginary Beatrice? And, on the other hand, is it right that into the holy places of our soul, the places where we should come face to face with the unattainable ideal of our own conduct that we may strive after something nobler than mere present pleasure and profit--is it right that into such holy places, destined but for an abstract perfection, there should be placed a mere half-unknown, vaguely seen woman? In short, is not this "Vita Nuova" a mere false ideal, one of those works of art which, because they are beautiful, get worshipped as holy? This question is a grave one, and worthy to make us pause. The world is full of instances of the fatal waste of feelings misapplied: of human affections, human sympathy and compassion, so terribly necessary to man, wasted in various religious systems, upon Christ and God: of religious aspirations, contemplation, worship, and absorption, necessary to the improvement of the soul, wasted in various artistic or poetic crazes upon mere pleasant works, or pleasant fancies, of man; wastefulness of emotions, wastefulness of time, which constitute two-thirds of mankind's history and explain the vast amount of evil in past and present. The present question therefore becomes, is not this "Vita Nuova" merely another instance of this lamentable carrying off of precious feelings in channels where they result no longer in fertilization, but in corruption? The Middle Ages, especially, in its religion, its philosophy, nay, in that very love of which I am writing, are one succession of such acts of wastefulness. This question has come to me many a time, and has left me in much doubt and trouble. But on reflection I am prepared to answer that such doubts as these may safely be cast behind us, and that we may trust that instinct which, whenever we lay down the "Vita Nuova," tells us that to have felt and loved this book is one of those spiritual gains in our life which, come what may, can never be lost entirely. The "Vita Nuova" represents the most exceptional of exceptional moral and intellectual conditions. Dante's love for Beatrice is, in great measure, to be regarded as an extraordinary and exquisite work of art, produced not by the volition of man, but by the accidental combination of circumstances. It is no more suited to ordinary life than would a golden and ivory goddess of Phidias be suited to be the wife of a mortal man. But it may not therefore be useless; nay, it may be of the highest utility. It may serve that high utilitarian mission of all art, to correct the real by the ideal, to mould the thing as it is in the semblance of the thing as it should be. Herein, let it be remembered, consists the value, the necessity of the abstract and the ideal. In the long history of evolution we have now reached the stage where selection is no longer in the mere hands of unconscious nature, but of conscious or half-conscious man; who makes himself, or is made by mankind, according to not merely physical necessities, but to the intellectual necessity of realizing the ideal, of pursuing the object, of imitating the model, before him. No man will ever find the living counterpart of that chryselephantine goddess of the Greeks; ivory and gold, nay, marble, fashioned by an artist, are one thing; flesh is another, and flesh fashioned by mere blind accident. But the man who should have beheld that Phidian goddess, who should have felt her full perfection, would not have been as easily satisfied as any other with a mere commonplace living woman; he would have sought--and seeking, would have had more likelihood of finding--the woman of flesh and blood who nearest approached to that ivory and gold perfection. The case is similar with the "Vita Nuova." No earthly affection, no natural love of man for woman, of an entire human being, body and soul, for another entire human being, can ever be the counterpart of this passion for Beatrice, the passion of a mere mind for a mere mental ideal. But if the old lust-fattened evil of the world is to diminish rather than to increase, why then every love of man for woman and of woman for man should tend, to the utmost possibility, to resemble that love of the "Vita Nuova." For mankind has gradually separated from brute kind merely by the development of those possibilities of intellectual and moral passion which the animal has not got; an animal man will never cease to be, but a man he can daily more and more become, until from the obscene goat-legged and goat-faced creature which we commonly see, he has turned into something like certain antique fauns: a beautiful creature, not noticeably a beast, a beast in only the smallest portion of his nature. In order that this may come to pass--and its coming to pass means, let us remember, the enormous increase of happiness and diminution of misery upon earth--it is necessary that day by day and year by year there should enter into man's feelings, emotions, and habits, into his whole life, a greater proportion of that which is his own, and is not shared by the animal; that his actions, preferences, the great bulk of his conscious existence, should be busied with things of the soul, truth, good, and beauty, and not with things of the body. Hence the love of such a gradually improving and humanizing man for a gradually improving and humanizing woman, should become, as much as is possible, a connection of the higher and more human, rather than of the lower and more bestial, portions of their nature; it should tend, in its reciprocal stimulation, to make the man more a man, the woman more a woman, to make both less of the mere male and female animals that they were. In brief, love should increase, instead, like that which oftenest profanes love's name, of diminishing, the power of aspiration, of self-direction, of self-restraint, which may exist within us. Now to tend to this is to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova;" to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova" is to tend towards this. Say what you will of the irresistible force of original constitution, it remains certain, and all history is there as witness, that mankind--that is to say, the only mankind in whom lies the initiative of good, mankind which can judge and select--possesses the faculty of feeling and acting in accordance with its standard of feeling and action; the faculty in great measure of becoming that which it thinks desirable to become. Now to have perceived the even imaginary existence of such a passion as that of Dante for Beatrice, must be, for all who can perceive it, the first step towards attempting to bring into reality a something of that passion: the real passion conceived while the remembrance of that ideal passion be still in the mind will bear to it a certain resemblance, even as, according to the ancients, the children born of mothers whose rooms contained some image of Apollo or Adonis would have in them a reflex, however faint, of that beauty in whose presence they came into existence. In short, it seems to me, that as the "Vita Nuova" embodies the utmost ideal of absolutely spiritual love, and as to spiritualize love must long remain one of the chief moral necessities of the world, there exists in this book a moral force, a moral value, a power in its unearthly passion and purity, which, as much as anything more deliberately unselfish, more self-consciously ethical, we must acknowledge and honour as holy. As the love of him who has read and felt the "Vita Nuova" cannot but strive towards a purer nature, so also the love of which poets sang became also nobler as the influence of the strange Tuscan school of platonic lyrists spread throughout literature, bringing to men the knowledge of a kind of love born of that idealizing and worshipping passion of the Middle Ages; but of mediæval love chastened by the manners of stern democracy and passed through the sieve of Christian mysticism and pagan philosophy. Of this influence of the "Vita Nuova"--for the "Vita Nuova" had concentrated in itself all the intensest characteristics of Dante's immediate predecessors and contemporaries, causing them to become useless and forgotten--of this influence of the "Vita Nuova," there is perhaps no more striking example than that of the poet who, constituted by nature to be the mere continuator of the romantically gallant tradition of the troubadours, became, and hence his importance and glory, the mediator between Dante and the centuries which followed him; the man who gave to mankind, incapable as yet of appreciating or enduring the spiritual essence of the "Vita Nuova," that self-same essence of intellectual love in an immortal dilution. I speak, of course, of Petrarch. His passion is neither ideal nor strong. The man is in love, or has been in love, existing on a borderland of loving and not loving, with the beautiful woman. His elegant, refined, half-knightly, half-scholarly, and altogether courtly mind is delighted with her; with her curly yellow hair, her good red and white beauty (we are never even told that Dante's Beatrice is beautiful, yet how much lovelier is she not than this Laura, descended from all the golden-haired bright-eyed ladies of the troubadours!), with her manner, her amiability, her purity and dignity in this ecclesiastical Babylon called Avignon. He maintains a semi-artificial love; frequenting her house, writing sonnet after sonnet, rhetorical exercises, studies from the antique and the Provençal, for the most part; he, who was born to be a mere troubadour like Ventadour or Folquet, becomes, through the influence of Dante, the type of the poet Abate, of the poetic _cavaliere servente_; a good, weak man with aspirations, who, failing to get the better of Laura's virtue, doubtless consoles himself elsewhere, but returns to an habitual contemplation of it. He is, being constitutionally a troubadour, an Italian priest turned partly Provençal, vexed at her not becoming his mistress; then (having made up his mind, which was but little set upon her), quite pleased at her refusal: it turns her into a kind of Beatrice, and him, poor man, heaven help him! into a kind of Dante--a Dante for the use of the world at large. He goes on visiting Laura, and writing to her a sonnet regularly so many times a week, and the best, carefully selected, we feel distinctly persuaded, at regular intervals. It is a determined cultus, a sort of half-real affectation, something equivalent to lighting a lamp before a very well-painted and very conspicuous shrine. All his humanities, all his Provençal lore go into these poems--written for whom? For her? Decidedly; for she has no reason not to read the effusions of this amiable, weak priestlet; she feels nothing for him. For her; but doubtless also to be handed round in society; a new sonnet or canzone by that charming and learned man, the Abate Petrarch. There is considerable emptiness in all this: he praises Laura's chastity, then grows impatient, then praises her again; adores her, calls her cruel, his goddess, his joy, his torment; he does not really want her, but in the vacuity of his feeling, thinks he does; calls her alternately the flat, abusive, and eulogistic names which mean nothing. He plays loud and soft with this absence of desire; he fiddle faddles in descriptions of her, not passionate or burning, but delicately undressed: he sees her (but with chaste eyes) in her bath; he envies her veil, &c.; he neither violently intellectually embraces, nor humbly bows down in imagination before her; he trifles gracefully, modestly, half-familiarly, with her finger tips, with the locks of her hair, and so forth. Fancy Dante abusing Beatrice; fancy Dante talking of Beatrice in her bath; the mere idea of his indignation and shame makes one shameful and indignant at the thought. But this perfect Laura is no Beatrice, or only a half-and-half sham one. She is no ideal figure, merely a figure idealized; this is no imaginative passion, merely an unreal one. Compare, for instance, the suggestion of Laura's possible death with the suggestion of the possible death of Beatrice. Petrarch does not love sufficiently to guess what such a loss would be. Then Laura does die. Here Petrarch rises. The severing of the dear old habits, the absence of the sweet reality, the terrible sense that all is over, Death, the great poetizer and giver of love philters, all this makes him love Laura as he never loved her before. The poor weak creature, who cannot, like a troubadour, go seek a new mistress when the old one fails him, feels dreadfully alone, the world dreadfully dreary around him; he sits down and cries, and his crying is genuine, making the tears come also into our eyes. And Laura, as she becomes a more distant ideal, becomes nobler, though noble with only a faint earthly graciousness not comparable to the glory of the living Beatrice. And, as he goes on, growing older and weaker and more desolate, the thought of a glorified Laura (as all are glorified, even in the eyes of the weakest, by death) begins to haunt him as Dante was haunted by the thought of Beatrice alive. Yet, even at this very time, come doubts of the lawfulness of having thus adored (or thought he had adored) a mortal woman; he does not know whether all this may not have been vanity and folly; he tries to turn his thoughts away from Laura and up to God. Perhaps he may be called on to account for having given too much of his life to a mere earthly love. Then, again, Laura reappears beautified in his memory, and is again tremblingly half-conjured away. He is weak, and sad, and helpless, and alone; and his heart is empty; he knows not what to think nor how to feel; he sobs, and we cry with him. Nowhere could there be found a stranger contrast than this nostalgic craving after the dead Laura, vacillating and troubled by fear of sin and doubt of unworthiness of object, with that solemn ending of the "Vita Nuova," where the name of Beatrice is pronounced for the last time before it be glorified in Paradise, where Dante devotes his life to becoming worthy of saying "such words as have never been said of any lady." The ideal woman is one and unchangeable in glory, and unchangeable is the passion of her lover; but of this sweet dead Laura, whose purity and beauty and cruelty he had sung, without a tremor of self-unworthiness all her life, of her the poor weak Petrarch begins to doubt, of her and her worthiness of all this love; and when? when she is dead and himself is dying. Such a man is Petrarch; and yet, by the irresistible purifying and elevating power of the "Vita Nuova,'" this man came to write not other _albas_ and _serenas,_ not other love-songs to be added to the love-songs of Provence, but those sonnets and canzoni which for four centuries taught the world, too coarse as yet to receive Dante's passion at first hand, a nobler and more spiritual love. After Petrarch a gradual change takes place in the poetic conception of love: except in learned revivalisms or in loose buffooneries, the mere fleshly love of Antiquity disappears out of literature; and equally so, though by a slower process of gradual transformation, vanishes also the adoring, but undisguisedly adulterous love of the troubadours and minnesingers. Into the love Instincts of mankind have been mingled, however much diluted, some drops of the more spiritual passion of Dante. The _puella_ of Antiquity, the noble dame of feudal days, is succeeded in Latin countries, in Italy, and France, and Spain, and Portugal, by the _gloriosa donna_ imitated from. Petrarch, and imitated by Petrarch from Dante; a long-line of shadowy figures, veiled in the veil of Madonna Laura, ladies beloved of Lorenzo and Michael Angelo, of Ariosto, and Tasso, and Camoens, and Cervantes, passes through the world; nay, even the sprightly-mistress of Ronsard, half-bred pagan and troubadour has airs of dignity and mystery which make us almost think that in this dainty coquettish French body, of Marie or Helene or Cassandrette, there really may be an immortal soul. But with the Renaissance--that movement half of mediæval democratic progress, and half of antique revivalism, and to which in reality belongs not merely Petrarch, but Dante, and every one of the Tuscan poets, Guinicelli, Lapo Gianni, Cavalcanti, who broke with the feudal poetry of Provence and Sicily--with the Renaissance, or rather with its long-drawn-out end, comes the close, for the moment, of the really creative activity of the Latin peoples in the domain of poetry. All the things for two centuries which Italy and France and Spain and Portugal (which we must remember for the sake of Camoens) continue to produce, are but developments of parts left untouched; or refinements of extreme detail, as in the case, particularly, of the French poets of the sixteenth century; but poetry receives from these races nothing new or vital, no fresh ideal or fruitful marriage of ideals. And here begins, uniting in itself all the scattered and long-dormant powers of Northern poetry, the great and unexpected action of England. It had slept through the singing period of the Middle Ages, and was awakened, not by Germany or Provence, but by Italy: Boccaccio and Petrarch spoke, and, as through dreams, England in Chaucer's voice, made answer. Again, when the Renaissance had drawn to a close, far on in the sixteenth century, English poetry was reawakened; and again by Italy. This time it was completely wakened, and arose and slept no more. And one of the great and fruitful things achieved by English poetry in this its final awakening was to give to the world the new, the modern, perhaps the definitive, the final ideal of love. England drank a deep draught--how deep we see from Sidney's and Spenser's sonnets--of Petrarch; and in this pleasant dilution, tasted and felt the burning essence of the "Vita Nuova;" for though Dante remained as the poet, the poet of heaven and hell, this happy half-and-half Petrarch had for full two centuries completely driven into oblivion the young Dante who had loved Beatrice. For England, for this magnificent and marvellous outburst of all the manifold poetic energy stored up and quintupled during that long period of inertness, there could however be no foreign imported ideal of love; there was no possibility of a new series of spectral Lauras, shadows projected by a shadow. Already, long ago, at the first call of Petrarch, Chaucer, by the side of the merely mediæval love types--of brutish lust and doglike devotion--of the Wife of Bath and of Griseldis, had rough-sketched a kind of modern love, the love which is to become that of Romeo and Hamlet, in his story of Palemon and Arcite. Among the poetic material which existed in England at the close of the sixteenth century was the old, long-neglected, domestic love, quiet, undemonstrative, essentially unsinging, of the early Northern (as indeed also of the Greek and Hindoo) epics; a domestic love which, in a social condition more closely resembling our own than any other, even than that of the Italian democracies, which had preceded it; among a people who permitted a woman to choose her own husband, and forbade a man wooing another man's wife, had already, in ballads and folk poetry, begun a faint-twitter of song. To this love of the man and the woman who hope to marry, strong and tender, but still (as Coleridge remarked of several of the lesser Elizabethan playwrights) most outspokenly carnal, was united by the pure spirit of Spenser, by the unerring genius of Shakespeare, that vivifying drop of burning, spiritual love taken from out of the "Vita Nuova," which had floated, like some sovereign essential oil, on the top of Petrarch's rose-water. Henceforward the world possesses a new kind of love: the love of Romeo, of Hamlet, of Bassanio, of Viola, and of Juliet; the love of the love poems of Shelley, of Tennyson, of Browning and Browning's wife. A love whose blindness, exaggeration of passion, all that might have made it foolish and impracticable, leads no longer to folly and sin, but to an intenser activity of mankind's imagination of the good and beautiful, to a momentary realization in our fancy of all our vague dreams of perfection; a love which, though it may cool down imperceptibly and pale in its intenseness, like the sunrise fires into a serene sky, has left some glory round the head of the wife, some glory in the heart of the husband, has been, however fleeting, a vision of beauty which has made beauty more real. And all this owing to the creation, the storing up, the purification by the Platonic poets of Tuscany, of that strange and seemingly so artificial and unreal thing, mediæval love; the very forms and themes of whose poetry, the _serena_ and the _alba_, which had been indignantly put aside by the early Italian lyrists, being unconsciously revived, and purified and consecrated in the two loveliest love poems of Elizabethan poetry: the _serena_, the evening song of impatient expectation in Spenser's Epithalamium; the _alba_, the dawn song of hurried parting, in the balcony scene of "Romeo and Juliet." Let us recapitulate. The feudal Middle Ages gave to mankind a more refined and spiritual love, a love all chivalry, fidelity, and adoration, but a love steeped in the poison of adultery; and to save the pure and noble portions of this mediæval love became the mission of the Tuscan poets of that strange school of Platonic love which in its very loveliness may sometimes seem so unnatural and sterile. For, by reducing this mediæval love to a mere intellectual passion, seeking in woman merely a self-made embodiment of cravings after perfection, they cleansed away that deep stain of adultery; they quadrupled the intensity of the ideal element; they distilled the very essential spirit of poetic passion, of which but a few drops, even as diluted by Petrarch, precipitated, when mingled with the earthly passion of future poets, to the bottom, no longer to be seen or tasted, all baser ingredients. And, while the poems of minnesingers and troubadours have ceased to appeal to us, and remain merely for their charm of verse and of graceful conceit; the poetry written by the Italians of the thirteenth century for women, whose love was but an imaginative fervour, remains concentrated in the "Vita Nuova;" and will remain for all time the sovereign purifier to which the world must have recourse whenever that precipitate of baser instincts, which thickened like slime the love poetry of Antiquity, shall rise again and sully the purity of the love poetry of to-day. EPILOGUE. More than a year has elapsed since the moment when, fancying that this series of studies must be well-nigh complete, I attempted to explain in an introductory chapter what the nature of this book of mine is, or would fain be. I had hoped that each of these studies would complete its companions; and that, without need for explicit explanation, my whole idea would have become more plain to others than it was at that time even to myself. But instead, it has become obvious that the more carefully I had sought to reduce each question to unity, the more that question-subdivided and connected itself with other questions; and that, with the solution of each separate problem, had arisen a new set of problems which infinitely complicated the main lessons to be deduced from a study of that many-sided civilization to which, remembering the brilliant and mysterious offspring of Faustus and Helena, I have given the name of Euphorion. Hence, as it seems, the necessity for a few further words of explanation. In those introductory pages written some fifteen months ago, I tried to bring home to the reader a sense which has haunted me throughout the writing of this volume; namely, that instead of having deliberately made up my mind to study the Renaissance, as one makes up one's mind to visit Greece or Egypt or the Holy Land; I have, on the contrary, quite accidentally and unconsciously, found myself wandering about in spirit among the monuments of this particular historic region, even as I might wander about in the streets of Siena where I wrote last year, of Florence whence I write at present; wandering about among these things, and little by little feeling a particular interest in one, then in another, according as each happened to catch my fancy or to recall some already known thing. Now these, which for want of a better word I have just called monuments, and just now, less clearly, but also less foolishly, merely _things_--these things were in reality not merely individual and really existing buildings, books, pictures, or statues, individual and really registered men, women, and events; they were the mental conceptions which I had extracted out of these realities; the intellectual types made up (as the mediæval symbols of justice are made up of the visible paraphernalia, robe, scales and sword, for judging and weighing and punishing) of the impressions left on the mind by all those buildings, or books, or pictures, or statues, or men, women, and events. They were not the iniquities of this particular despot nor the scandalous sayings of that particular humanist, but the general moral chaos of the Italian fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; not the poem of Pulci, of Boiardo, of Ariosto in especial, but a vast imaginary poem made up of them all; not the mediæval saints of Angelico and the pagan demi-gods of Michael Angelo, but the two tremendous abstractions: the spirit of Mediævalism in art, and the spirit of Antiquity; the interest in the distressed soul, and the interest in the flourishing body. And, as my thoughts have gone back to Antiquity and onwards to our own times, their starting-point has nevertheless been the Tuscan art of the fifteenth century, their nucleus some notes on busts by Benedetto da Maiano and portraits by Raphael. My _dramatis persona_ have been modes of feeling and forms of art. I have tried to explain the life and character, not of any man or woman, but of the moral scepticism of Italy, of the tragic spirit of our Elizabethan dramatists; I have tried to write the biography of the romance poetry of the Middle Ages, of the realism of the great portrait painters and sculptors of the Renaissance. But these, my _dramatis persona,_ are, let me repeat it, abstractions: they exist only in my mind and in the minds of those who think like myself. Hence, like all abstractions, they represent the essence of a question, but not its completeness, its many-sidedness as we may see it in reality. Hence it is that I have frequently passed over exceptions to the rule which I was stating, because the explanation of these exceptions would have involved the formulating of a number of apparently irrelevant propositions; so that any one who please may accuse me of inexactness; and, to give an instance, cover the margins of my essay on Mediæval Love with a whole list of virtuous love stories of the Middle Ages; or else ferret out of Raynouard and Von der Hagen a dozen pages of mediæval poems in praise of rustic life. These objections will be perfectly correct, and (so far as my knowledge permitted me) I might have puzzled the reader with them myself; but it remains none the less certain that, in the main, mediæval love was not virtuous, and mediæval peasantry not admired by poets; and none the less certain, I think, also, that in describing the characteristics and origin of an abstract thing, such as mediæval love, or mediæval feeling towards the country and country folk, it was my business to state the rule and let alone the exceptions. There is another matter which gives me far greater concern. In creating and dealing with an abstraction, one is frequently forced, if I may use the expression, to cut a subject in two, to bring one of its sides into full light and leave the other in darkness; nay, to speak harshly of one side of an art or of a man without being able to speak admiringly of another side. This one-sidedness, this apparent injustice of judgment, has in some cases been remedied by the fact that I have treated in one study those things which I was forced to omit in another study; as, in two separate essays, I have pointed out first the extreme inferiority of Renaissance sculpture to the sculpture of Antiquity with regard to absolute beauty of form; and then the immeasurable superiority of Renaissance over antique sculpture in the matter of that beauty and interest dependent upon mere arrangement and handling, wherein lies the beauty-creating power of realistic schools. But most often I have shown one side, not merely of an artist or an art, but of my own feeling, without showing the other; and in one case this inevitable one-sidedness has weighed upon me almost like personal guilt, and has almost made me postpone the publication of this book to the Greek Kalends, in hopes of being able to explain and to atone. I am alluding to Fra Angelico. I spoke of him in a study of the progress of mere beautiful form, the naked human form moreover, in the art of the Renaissance; I looked at his work with my mind full of the unapproachable superiority of antique form; I judged and condemned the artist with reference to that superb movement towards nature and form and bodily beauty which was the universal movement of the fifteenth century; I lost patience with this saint because he would not turn pagan; I pushed aside, because he did not seek for a classic Olympus, his exquisite dreams of a mediæval Paradise. I had taken part, as its chronicler, with the art which seeks mere plastic perfection, the art to which Angelico said, "Retro me Sathana." It was my intention to close even this volume with a study of the poetical conception of early Renaissance painting, of that strange kind of painting in which a thing but imperfect in itself, a mere symbol of lovely ideas, brings home to our mind, with a rush of associations, a sense of beauty and wonder greater perhaps than any which we receive from the sober reality of perfect form. Again, there are the German masters--the great engravers, Kranach, Altdorfer, Aldegrever, especially; of whom, for their absolute pleasure in ugly women, for their filthy delight in horrors, I have said an immense amount of ill; and of whom, for their wonderful intuition of dramatic situation, their instinct of the poetry of common things, and their magnificently imaginative rendering of landscape, I hope some day to say an equal amount of good. I have spoken of the lesson which may be derived from studies even as humble as these studies of mine; since, in my opinion, we cannot treat history as a mere art--though history alone can gives us now-a-days tragedy which has ceased to exist on our stage, and wonder which has ceased to exist in our poetry--we cannot seek in it mere selfish enjoyment of imagination and emotion, without doing our soul the great injury of cheating it of some of those great indignations, some of those great lessons which make it stronger and more supple in the practical affairs of life. Each of these studies of mine brings its own lesson, artistic or ethical, important or unimportant; its lesson of seeking certainty in our moral opinions, beauty in all and whatever our forms of art, spirituality in our love. But besides these I seem to perceive another deduction, an historical fact with a practical application; to see it as the result not merely perhaps of the studies of which this book is the fruit, but of those further studies, of the subtler sides of Mediæval and Renaissance life and art which at present occupy my mind and may some day add another series of essays to this: a lesson still vague to myself, but which, satisfactorily or unsatisfactorily, I shall nevertheless attempt to explain; if indeed it requires to be brought home to the reader. Of the few forms of feeling and imagination which I have treated--things so different from one another as the feeling for nature and the chivalric poem, as modern art, with its idealism and realism, and modern love--of these forms, emotional and artistic, which Antiquity did not know, or knew but little, the reader may have observed that I have almost invariably traced the origin deep into that fruitful cosmopolitan chaos, due to the mingling of all that was still unused of the remains of Antiquity with all that was untouched of the intellectual and moral riches of the barbarous nations, to which we give the name of Middle Ages; and that I have, as invariably, followed the development of these precious forms, and their definitive efflorescence and fruit-bearing, into that particular country where certain mediæval conditions had ceased to exist, namely Italy. In other words, it has seemed to me that the things which I have studied were originally produced during the Middle Ages, and consequently in the mediæval countries, France, Germany, Provence; but did not attain maturity except in that portion of the Middle Ages which is mediæval no longer, but already more than half modern, the Renaissance, which began in Italy not with the establishment of despotisms and the coming of Greek humanists, but with the independence of the free towns and with the revival of Roman tradition. Why so? Because, it appears to me, after watching the lines of my thought converging to this point, because, with a few exceptions, the Middle Ages were rich in great beginnings (indeed a good half of all that makes up our present civilization seems to issue from them): but they were poor in complete achievements; full of the seeds of modern institutions, arts, thoughts, and feelings, they yet show us but rarely the complete growth of any one of them: a fruitful Nile flood, but which must cease to drown and to wash away, which must subside before the germs that it has brought can shoot forth and mature. The sense of this comes home to me most powerfully whenever I think of mediæval poetry and mediæval painting. The songs of the troubadours and minnesingers, what are they to our feelings? They are pleasant, even occasionally beautiful, but they are empty, lamentably empty, charming arrangements of words; poetry which fills our mind or touches our heart comes only with the Tuscan lyrists of the thirteenth century. The same applies to mediæval narrative-verse: it is, with one or two exceptions or half exceptions, such as "The Chanson de Roland" and Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," decidedly wearisome; a thing to study, but scarcely a thing to delight in. I do not mean to say that the old legends of Wales and Scandinavia, subsequently embodied by the French and German poets of the Middle Ages, are without imaginative or emotional interest; nothing can be further from my thoughts. The Nibelung story possesses, both in the Norse and in the Middle High German version, a tragic fascination; and a quaint fairy-tale interest, every now and then rising to the charm of a Decameronian _novella_, is possessed by many of the Keltic tales, whether briefly told in the Mabinogion or lengthily detailed by Chrestien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach. But all this is the interest of the mere story, and you would enjoy it almost as much if that story were related not by a poet but by a peasant; it is the fascination of the mere theme, with the added fascination of our own unconscious filling up and colouring of details. And the poem itself, whence we extract this theme, remains, for the most part, uninteresting. The figures are vague, almost shapeless and colourless; they have no well-understood mental and moral anatomy, so that when they speak and act the writer seems to have no clear conception of the motives or tempers which make them do so; even as in a child's pictures, the horses gallop, the men run, the houses stand, but without any indication of the muscles which move the horse, of the muscles which hold up the man, of the solid ground upon which is built, nay rather, into which is planted, the house. Hatred of Hagen, devotion of Rüdger, passionate piety of Parzival--all these are things of which we do not particularly see the how or why; we do not follow the reasons, in event or character, which make these men sacrifice themselves or others, weep, storm, and so forth; nay, even when these reasons are clear from the circumstances, we are not shown the action of the mechanism, we do not see how Brunhilt is wroth, how Chriemhilt is revengeful, how Herzeloid is devoted to Parzival. There is, in the vast majority of this mediæval poetry, no clear conception of the construction and functions of people's character, and hence no conception either of those actions and reactions of various moral organs which, after all, are at the bottom of the events related. Herein lies the difference between the forms of the Middle Ages and those of Antiquity; for how perfectly felt, understood, is not every feeling and every action of the Homeric heroes, how perfectly indicated! We can see the manner and reason of the conflict of Achilles and Agamemnon, of the behaviour of the returned Odysseus, as clearly as we see the manner and reason of the movements of the fighting Centaurs and Lapithæ, or the Amazons; nay, even the minute mood of comparatively unimportant figures, as Helen, Brisei's, and Nausicaa, is indicated in its moral anatomy and attitude as distinctly as is the manner in which the maidens of the Parthenon frieze slowly restrain their steps, the boys curb their steeds, or the old men balance their oil jars. Nothing of this in mediæval literature, except perhaps in "Flamenca" and "Tristan," where the motive of action, mere imaginative desire, is all-permeating and explains everything. These people clearly had no interest, no perception, connected with character: a valorous woman, a chivalrous knight, an insolent steward, a jealous husband, a faithful retainer; things recognized only in outline, made to speak and act only according to a fixed tradition, without knowledge of the internal mechanism of motive; these sufficed. Hence it is that mediæval poetry is always like mediæval painting (for painting continued to be mediæval with Giotto's pupils long after poetry had ceased to be mediæval with Dante and his school), where the Virgin sits and holds the child without body wherewith to sit or arms wherewith to hold; where angels flutter forward and kneel in conventional greeting, with obviously no bended knees beneath their robes, nay, with knees, waist, armpits, all anywhere; where men ride upon horses without flat to their back; where processions of the blessed come forth, guided by fiddling seraphs, vague, faint faces, sweet or grand, heads which might wave like pieces of cut-out paper upon their necks, arms and legs here and there, not clearly belonging to any one; creatures marching, soaring, flying, singing, fiddling, without a bone or a muscle wherewith to do it all. And meanwhile, in this mediæval poetry, as in this mediæval painting, there are yards and yards of elaborate preciousness: all the embossed velvets, all the white-and-gold-shot brocades, all the silks and satins, and jewel-embroidered stuffs of the universe cast stiffly about these phantom men and women, these phantom horses and horsemen. It is not until we turn to Italy, and to the Northern man, Chaucer, entirely under Italian influence, that we obtain an approach to the antique clearness of perception and comprehension; that we obtain not only in Dante something akin to the muscularities of Signorelli and Michael Angelo; but in Boccaccio and Chaucer, in Cavalca and Petrarch, the equivalent of the well-understood movement, the well-indicated situation of the simple, realistic or poetic, sketches of Filippino and Botticelli. This, you will say, is a mere impression; it is no explanation, still less such an explanation as may afford a lesson. Not so. This strange inconclusiveness in all mediæval things, till the moment comes when they cease to be mediæval; this richness in germs and poverty in mature fruit, cannot be without its reason. And this reason, to my mind, lies in one word, the most terrible word of any, since it means suffering and hopelessness; a word which has haunted my mind ever since I have looked into mediæval things: the word Wastefulness. Wastefulness; the frightful characteristic of times at once so rich and so poor, the explanation of the long starvation and sickness that mankind, that all mankind's concerns--art, poetry, science, life--endured while the very things which would have fed and revived and nurtured, existed close at hand, and in profusion. Wastefulness, in this great period of confusion, of the most precious things that we possess: time, thought, and feeling refused to the realities of the world, and lavished on the figments of the imagination. Why this vagueness, this imperfection in all mediæval representations of life? Because even as men's eyes were withdrawn, by the temporal institutions of those days, from the sight of the fields and meadows which were left to the blind and dumb thing called serf; so also the thoughts of mankind, its sympathy and intentions, were withdrawn from the mere earthly souls, the mere earthly wrongs and woes of men by the great self-organized institution of mediæval religion. Pity of the body of Christ held in bondage by the Infidel; love of God; study of the unknowable things of Heaven: such are the noblest employments of the mediæval soul; how much of pity, of love, may remain for man; how much of study for the knowable? To Wastefulness like this--to misapplication of mind ending almost in palsy--must we ascribe, I think, the strange sterility of such mediæval art as deals not merely with pattern, but with the reality of man's body and soul. And we might be thankful, if, during our wanderings among mediæval things, we had seen the starving of only art and artistic instincts; but the soul of man has lain starving also; starving for the knowledge which was sought only of Divine things, starving for the love which was given only to God. The explanation, therefore, and its lesson, may thus be summed up in the one word Wastefulness. And the fruitfulness of the Renaissance, all that it has given to us of art, of thought, of feeling (for the "Vita Nuova" is its fruit), is due, as it seems to me, to the fact that the Renaissance is simply the condition of civilization when, thanks to the civil liberty and the spiritual liberty inherited from Rome and inherited from Greece, man's energies of thought and feeling were withdrawn from the unknowable to the knowable, from Heaven to Earth; and were devoted to the developing of those marvellous new things which Antiquity had not known, and which had lain neglected and wasted during the Middle Ages. FLORENCE, _January_,1884. APPENDIX. I have seen the pictures and statues and towns which I have described, and I have read the books of which I attempt to give an impression; but here my original research, if such it may be called, comes to an end. I have trusted only to myself for my impressions; but I have taken from others everything that may be called historical fact, as distinguished from the history of this or that form of thought or of art which I have tried to elaborate. My references are therefore only to standard historical works, and to such editions of poets and prose writers as have come into my hands. How much I am endebted to the genius of Michelet; nay, rather, how much I am, however unimportant, the thing made by him, every one will see and judge. With regard to positive information I must express my great obligations to the works of Jacob Burckhardt, of Prof. Villari, and of Mr. J.A. Symonds in everything that concerns the political history and social condition of the Renaissance. Mr. Symonds' name I have placed last, although this is by no means the order of importance in which the three writers appear in my mind, because vanity compels me to state that I have deprived myself of the pleasure and profit of reading his volumes on Italian literature, from a fear that finding myself doubtless forestalled by him in various appreciations, I might deprive my essays of what I feel to be their principal merit, namely, the spontaneity and wholeness of personal impression. With regard to philological lore, I may refer, among a number of other works, to M. Gaston Paris' work on the Cycle of Charlemagne, M. de la Villemarqué's companion volume on Keltic romances, and Professor Rajna's "Fonti dell' Ariosto." My knowledge of troubadours, trouvères, and minnesingers is obtained mainly from the great collections of Raynouard, Wackernagel, Mätzner, Bartsch, and Von der Hagen, and from Bartsch's and Simrock's editions and versions of Gottfried von Strassburg, Hartmann von Aue, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. "Flamenca" I have read in Professor Paul Meyer's beautiful edition, text and translation; "Aucassin et Nicolette," in an edition published, if I remember rightly, by Janet; and also in a very happy translation contained in Delvau's huge collection of "Romans de Chevalerie," which contains, unfortunately sometimes garbled, as many of the prose stories of the Carolingian and Amadis cycle as I, at all events, could endure to read. For the early Italian poets, excepting Carducci's "Cino da Pistoia," my references are the same as those in Rossetti's "Dante and his Cycle," especially the "Rime Antiche" and the "Poeti del Primo Secolo." Professor d'Ancona's pleasant volume has greatly helped me in the history of the transformation of the courtly poetry of the early Middle Ages into the folk poetry of Tuscany. I owe a good deal also, with regard to this same essay "The Outdoor Poetry," to Roskoff's famous "Geschichte des Teufels," and to Signor Novati's recently published "Carmina Medii _Ævi_." The Italian _novellieri,_ Bandello, Cinthio, and their set, I have used in the Florentine editions of 1820 or 1825; Masuccio edited by De Sanctis. For the essay on the Italian Renaissance on the Elizabethan Stage, I have had recourse, chiefly, to the fifteenth century chronicles in the "Archivio Storico Italiano," and to Dyce's Webster, Hartley Coleridge's Massinger and Ford, Churton Collins' Cyril Tourneur, and J.O. Halliwell's Marston. The essays on art have naturally profited by the now inevitable Crowe and Cavalcaselle; but in this part of my work, while I have relied very little on books, I have received more than the equivalent of the information to be obtained from any writers in the suggestions and explanations of my friend Mr. T. Nelson MacLean, who has made it possible for a mere creature of pens and ink to follow the differences of _technique_ of the sculptors and medallists of the fifteenth century; a word of thanks also, for various such suggestions as can come only from a painter, to my old friend Mr. John S. Sargent, of Paris. I must conclude these acknowledgments by thanking the Editors of the _Contemporary, British Quarterly_, and _National Reviews_, and of the _Cornhill Magazine_, for permission to republish such of the essays or fragments of essays as have already appeared in those periodicals. THE END. 
8782	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 4 Cantos 7 - 8 CANTO VII "AH me! O Satan! Satan!" loud exclaim'd Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm: And the kind sage, whom no event surpris'd, To comfort me thus spake: "Let not thy fear Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none To hinder down this rock thy safe descent." Then to that sworn lip turning, "Peace!" he cried, "Curs'd wolf! thy fury inward on thyself Prey, and consume thee! Through the dark profound Not without cause he passes. So 't is will'd On high, there where the great Archangel pour'd Heav'n's vengeance on the first adulterer proud." As sails full spread and bellying with the wind Drop suddenly collaps'd, if the mast split; So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend. Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge, Gain'd on the dismal shore, that all the woe Hems in of all the universe. Ah me! Almighty Justice! in what store thou heap'st New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld! Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this? E'en as a billow, on Charybdis rising, Against encounter'd billow dashing breaks; Such is the dance this wretched race must lead, Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found, From one side and the other, with loud voice, Both roll'd on weights by main forge of their breasts, Then smote together, and each one forthwith Roll'd them back voluble, turning again, Exclaiming these, "Why holdest thou so fast?" Those answering, "And why castest thou away?" So still repeating their despiteful song, They to the opposite point on either hand Travers'd the horrid circle: then arriv'd, Both turn'd them round, and through the middle space Conflicting met again. At sight whereof I, stung with grief, thus spake: "O say, my guide! What race is this? Were these, whose heads are shorn, On our left hand, all sep'rate to the church?" He straight replied: "In their first life these all In mind were so distorted, that they made, According to due measure, of their wealth, No use. This clearly from their words collect, Which they howl forth, at each extremity Arriving of the circle, where their crime Contrary' in kind disparts them. To the church Were separate those, that with no hairy cowls Are crown'd, both Popes and Cardinals, o'er whom Av'rice dominion absolute maintains." I then: "Mid such as these some needs must be, Whom I shall recognize, that with the blot Of these foul sins were stain'd." He answering thus: "Vain thought conceiv'st thou. That ignoble life, Which made them vile before, now makes them dark, And to all knowledge indiscernible. Forever they shall meet in this rude shock: These from the tomb with clenched grasp shall rise, Those with close-shaven locks. That ill they gave, And ill they kept, hath of the beauteous world Depriv'd, and set them at this strife, which needs No labour'd phrase of mine to set if off. Now may'st thou see, my son! how brief, how vain, The goods committed into fortune's hands, For which the human race keep such a coil! Not all the gold, that is beneath the moon, Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls Might purchase rest for one." I thus rejoin'd: "My guide! of thee this also would I learn; This fortune, that thou speak'st of, what it is, Whose talons grasp the blessings of the world?" He thus: "O beings blind! what ignorance Besets you? Now my judgment hear and mark. He, whose transcendent wisdom passes all, The heavens creating, gave them ruling powers To guide them, so that each part shines to each, Their light in equal distribution pour'd. By similar appointment he ordain'd Over the world's bright images to rule. Superintendence of a guiding hand And general minister, which at due time May change the empty vantages of life From race to race, from one to other's blood, Beyond prevention of man's wisest care: Wherefore one nation rises into sway, Another languishes, e'en as her will Decrees, from us conceal'd, as in the grass The serpent train. Against her nought avails Your utmost wisdom. She with foresight plans, Judges, and carries on her reign, as theirs The other powers divine. Her changes know Nore intermission: by necessity She is made swift, so frequent come who claim Succession in her favours. This is she, So execrated e'en by those, whose debt To her is rather praise; they wrongfully With blame requite her, and with evil word; But she is blessed, and for that recks not: Amidst the other primal beings glad Rolls on her sphere, and in her bliss exults. Now on our way pass we, to heavier woe Descending: for each star is falling now, That mounted at our entrance, and forbids Too long our tarrying." We the circle cross'd To the next steep, arriving at a well, That boiling pours itself down to a foss Sluic'd from its source. Far murkier was the wave Than sablest grain: and we in company Of the' inky waters, journeying by their side, Enter'd, though by a different track, beneath. Into a lake, the Stygian nam'd, expands The dismal stream, when it hath reach'd the foot Of the grey wither'd cliffs. Intent I stood To gaze, and in the marish sunk descried A miry tribe, all naked, and with looks Betok'ning rage. They with their hands alone Struck not, but with the head, the breast, the feet, Cutting each other piecemeal with their fangs. The good instructor spake; "Now seest thou, son! The souls of those, whom anger overcame. This too for certain know, that underneath The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs Into these bubbles make the surface heave, As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn." Fix'd in the slime they say: "Sad once were we In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, Carrying a foul and lazy mist within: Now in these murky settlings are we sad." Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats. But word distinct can utter none." Our route Thus compass'd we, a segment widely stretch'd Between the dry embankment, and the core Of the loath'd pool, turning meanwhile our eyes Downward on those who gulp'd its muddy lees; Nor stopp'd, till to a tower's low base we came. CANTO VIII MY theme pursuing, I relate that ere We reach'd the lofty turret's base, our eyes Its height ascended, where two cressets hung We mark'd, and from afar another light Return the signal, so remote, that scarce The eye could catch its beam. I turning round To the deep source of knowledge, thus inquir'd: "Say what this means? and what that other light In answer set? what agency doth this?" "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, If the marsh-gender'd fog conceal it not." Never was arrow from the cord dismiss'd, That ran its way so nimbly through the air, As a small bark, that through the waves I spied Toward us coming, under the sole sway Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud: "Art thou arriv'd, fell spirit?"--"Phlegyas, Phlegyas, This time thou criest in vain," my lord replied; "No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er The slimy pool we pass." As one who hears Of some great wrong he hath sustain'd, whereat Inly he pines; so Phlegyas inly pin'd In his fierce ire. My guide descending stepp'd Into the skiff, and bade me enter next Close at his side; nor till my entrance seem'd The vessel freighted. Soon as both embark'd, Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow, More deeply than with others it is wont. While we our course o'er the dead channel held. One drench'd in mire before me came, and said; "Who art thou, that thou comest ere thine hour?" I answer'd: "Though I come, I tarry not; But who art thou, that art become so foul?" "One, as thou seest, who mourn:" he straight replied. To which I thus: "In mourning and in woe, Curs'd spirit! tarry thou.g I know thee well, E'en thus in filth disguis'd." Then stretch'd he forth Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage Aware, thrusting him back: "Away! down there; "To the' other dogs!" then, with his arms my neck Encircling, kiss'd my cheek, and spake: "O soul Justly disdainful! blest was she in whom Thou was conceiv'd! He in the world was one For arrogance noted; to his memory No virtue lends its lustre; even so Here is his shadow furious. There above How many now hold themselves mighty kings Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraise!" I then: "Master! him fain would I behold Whelm'd in these dregs, before we quit the lake." He thus: "Or ever to thy view the shore Be offer'd, satisfied shall be that wish, Which well deserves completion." Scarce his words Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes Set on him with such violence, that yet For that render I thanks to God and praise "To Filippo Argenti:" cried they all: And on himself the moody Florentine Turn'd his avenging fangs. Him here we left, Nor speak I of him more. But on mine ear Sudden a sound of lamentation smote, Whereat mine eye unbarr'd I sent abroad. And thus the good instructor: "Now, my son! Draws near the city, that of Dis is nam'd, With its grave denizens, a mighty throng." I thus: "The minarets already, Sir! There certes in the valley I descry, Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire Had issu'd." He replied: "Eternal fire, That inward burns, shows them with ruddy flame Illum'd; as in this nether hell thou seest." We came within the fosses deep, that moat This region comfortless. The walls appear'd As they were fram'd of iron. We had made Wide circuit, ere a place we reach'd, where loud The mariner cried vehement: "Go forth! The' entrance is here!" Upon the gates I spied More than a thousand, who of old from heaven Were hurl'd. With ireful gestures, "Who is this," They cried, "that without death first felt, goes through The regions of the dead?" My sapient guide Made sign that he for secret parley wish'd; Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus They spake: "Come thou alone; and let him go Who hath so hardily enter'd this realm. Alone return he by his witless way; If well he know it, let him prove. For thee, Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark Hast been his escort." Now bethink thee, reader! What cheer was mine at sound of those curs'd words. I did believe I never should return. "O my lov'd guide! who more than seven times Security hast render'd me, and drawn From peril deep, whereto I stood expos'd, Desert me not," I cried, "in this extreme. And if our onward going be denied, Together trace we back our steps with speed." My liege, who thither had conducted me, Replied: "Fear not: for of our passage none Hath power to disappoint us, by such high Authority permitted. But do thou Expect me here; meanwhile thy wearied spirit Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assur'd I will not leave thee in this lower world." This said, departs the sire benevolent, And quits me. Hesitating I remain At war 'twixt will and will not in my thoughts. I could not hear what terms he offer'd them, But they conferr'd not long, for all at once To trial fled within. Clos'd were the gates By those our adversaries on the breast Of my liege lord: excluded he return'd To me with tardy steps. Upon the ground His eyes were bent, and from his brow eras'd All confidence, while thus with sighs he spake: "Who hath denied me these abodes of woe?" Then thus to me: "That I am anger'd, think No ground of terror: in this trial I Shall vanquish, use what arts they may within For hindrance. This their insolence, not new, Erewhile at gate less secret they display'd, Which still is without bolt; upon its arch Thou saw'st the deadly scroll: and even now On this side of its entrance, down the steep, Passing the circles, unescorted, comes One whose strong might can open us this land." 
8783	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 5 Cantos 9 - 12 CANTO IX THE hue, which coward dread on my pale cheeks Imprinted, when I saw my guide turn back, Chas'd that from his which newly they had worn, And inwardly restrain'd it. He, as one Who listens, stood attentive: for his eye Not far could lead him through the sable air, And the thick-gath'ring cloud. "It yet behooves We win this fight"--thus he began--"if not-- Such aid to us is offer'd.--Oh, how long Me seems it, ere the promis'd help arrive!" I noted, how the sequel of his words Clok'd their beginning; for the last he spake Agreed not with the first. But not the less My fear was at his saying; sith I drew To import worse perchance, than that he held, His mutilated speech. "Doth ever any Into this rueful concave's extreme depth Descend, out of the first degree, whose pain Is deprivation merely of sweet hope?" Thus I inquiring. "Rarely," he replied, "It chances, that among us any makes This journey, which I wend. Erewhile 'tis true Once came I here beneath, conjur'd by fell Erictho, sorceress, who compell'd the shades Back to their bodies. No long space my flesh Was naked of me, when within these walls She made me enter, to draw forth a spirit From out of Judas' circle. Lowest place Is that of all, obscurest, and remov'd Farthest from heav'n's all-circling orb. The road Full well I know: thou therefore rest secure. That lake, the noisome stench exhaling, round The city' of grief encompasses, which now We may not enter without rage." Yet more He added: but I hold it not in mind, For that mine eye toward the lofty tower Had drawn me wholly, to its burning top. Where in an instant I beheld uprisen At once three hellish furies stain'd with blood: In limb and motion feminine they seem'd; Around them greenest hydras twisting roll'd Their volumes; adders and cerastes crept Instead of hair, and their fierce temples bound. He knowing well the miserable hags Who tend the queen of endless woe, thus spake: "Mark thou each dire Erinnys. To the left This is Megaera; on the right hand she, Who wails, Alecto; and Tisiphone I' th' midst." This said, in silence he remain'd Their breast they each one clawing tore; themselves Smote with their palms, and such shrill clamour rais'd, That to the bard I clung, suspicion-bound. "Hasten Medusa: so to adamant Him shall we change;" all looking down exclaim'd. "E'en when by Theseus' might assail'd, we took No ill revenge." "Turn thyself round, and keep Thy count'nance hid; for if the Gorgon dire Be shown, and thou shouldst view it, thy return Upwards would be for ever lost." This said, Himself my gentle master turn'd me round, Nor trusted he my hands, but with his own He also hid me. Ye of intellect Sound and entire, mark well the lore conceal'd Under close texture of the mystic strain! And now there came o'er the perturbed waves Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made Either shore tremble, as if of a wind Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung, That 'gainst some forest driving all its might, Plucks off the branches, beats them down and hurls Afar; then onward passing proudly sweeps Its whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly. Mine eyes he loos'd, and spake: "And now direct Thy visual nerve along that ancient foam, There, thickest where the smoke ascends." As frogs Before their foe the serpent, through the wave Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits Destroy'd, so saw I fleeing before one Who pass'd with unwet feet the Stygian sound. He, from his face removing the gross air, Oft his left hand forth stretch'd, and seem'd alone By that annoyance wearied. I perceiv'd That he was sent from heav'n, and to my guide Turn'd me, who signal made that I should stand Quiet, and bend to him. Ah me! how full Of noble anger seem'd he! To the gate He came, and with his wand touch'd it, whereat Open without impediment it flew. "Outcasts of heav'n! O abject race and scorn'd!" Began he on the horrid grunsel standing, "Whence doth this wild excess of insolence Lodge in you? wherefore kick you 'gainst that will Ne'er frustrate of its end, and which so oft Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs? What profits at the fays to but the horn? Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence Bears still, peel'd of their hair, his throat and maw." This said, he turn'd back o'er the filthy way, And syllable to us spake none, but wore The semblance of a man by other care Beset, and keenly press'd, than thought of him Who in his presence stands. Then we our steps Toward that territory mov'd, secure After the hallow'd words. We unoppos'd There enter'd; and my mind eager to learn What state a fortress like to that might hold, I soon as enter'd throw mine eye around, And see on every part wide-stretching space Replete with bitter pain and torment ill. As where Rhone stagnates on the plains of Arles, Or as at Pola, near Quarnaro's gulf, That closes Italy and laves her bounds, The place is all thick spread with sepulchres; So was it here, save what in horror here Excell'd: for 'midst the graves were scattered flames, Wherewith intensely all throughout they burn'd, That iron for no craft there hotter needs. Their lids all hung suspended, and beneath From them forth issu'd lamentable moans, Such as the sad and tortur'd well might raise. I thus: "Master! say who are these, interr'd Within these vaults, of whom distinct we hear The dolorous sighs?" He answer thus return'd: "The arch-heretics are here, accompanied By every sect their followers; and much more, Than thou believest, tombs are freighted: like With like is buried; and the monuments Are different in degrees of heat." This said, He to the right hand turning, on we pass'd Betwixt the afflicted and the ramparts high. CANTO X NOW by a secret pathway we proceed, Between the walls, that hem the region round, And the tormented souls: my master first, I close behind his steps. "Virtue supreme!" I thus began; "who through these ample orbs In circuit lead'st me, even as thou will'st, Speak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those, Who lie within these sepulchres, be seen? Already all the lids are rais'd, and none O'er them keeps watch." He thus in answer spake "They shall be closed all, what-time they here From Josaphat return'd shall come, and bring Their bodies, which above they now have left. The cemetery on this part obtain With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body make the spirit die. Here therefore satisfaction shall be soon Both to the question ask'd, and to the wish, Which thou conceal'st in silence." I replied: "I keep not, guide belov'd! from thee my heart Secreted, but to shun vain length of words, A lesson erewhile taught me by thyself." "O Tuscan! thou who through the city of fire Alive art passing, so discreet of speech! Here please thee stay awhile. Thy utterance Declares the place of thy nativity To be that noble land, with which perchance I too severely dealt." Sudden that sound Forth issu'd from a vault, whereat in fear I somewhat closer to my leader's side Approaching, he thus spake: "What dost thou? Turn. Lo, Farinata, there! who hath himself Uplifted: from his girdle upwards all Expos'd behold him." On his face was mine Already fix'd; his breast and forehead there Erecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held E'en hell. Between the sepulchres to him My guide thrust me with fearless hands and prompt, This warning added: "See thy words be clear!" He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot, Ey'd me a space, then in disdainful mood Address'd me: "Say, what ancestors were thine?" I, willing to obey him, straight reveal'd The whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow Somewhat uplifting, cried: "Fiercely were they Adverse to me, my party, and the blood From whence I sprang: twice therefore I abroad Scatter'd them." "Though driv'n out, yet they each time From all parts," answer'd I, "return'd; an art Which yours have shown, they are not skill'd to learn." Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw, Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin, Leaning, methought, upon its knees uprais'd. It look'd around, as eager to explore If there were other with me; but perceiving That fond imagination quench'd, with tears Thus spake: "If thou through this blind prison go'st. Led by thy lofty genius and profound, Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?" I straight replied: "Not of myself I come, By him, who there expects me, through this clime Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son Had in contempt." Already had his words And mode of punishment read me his name, Whence I so fully answer'd. He at once Exclaim'd, up starting, "How! said'st thou he HAD? No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye The blessed daylight?" Then of some delay I made ere my reply aware, down fell Supine, not after forth appear'd he more. Meanwhile the other, great of soul, near whom I yet was station'd, chang'd not count'nance stern, Nor mov'd the neck, nor bent his ribbed side. "And if," continuing the first discourse, "They in this art," he cried, "small skill have shown, That doth torment me more e'en than this bed. But not yet fifty times shall be relum'd Her aspect, who reigns here Queen of this realm, Ere thou shalt know the full weight of that art. So to the pleasant world mayst thou return, As thou shalt tell me, why in all their laws, Against my kin this people is so fell?" "The slaughter and great havoc," I replied, "That colour'd Arbia's flood with crimson stain-- To these impute, that in our hallow'd dome Such orisons ascend." Sighing he shook The head, then thus resum'd: "In that affray I stood not singly, nor without just cause Assuredly should with the rest have stirr'd; But singly there I stood, when by consent Of all, Florence had to the ground been raz'd, The one who openly forbad the deed." "So may thy lineage find at last repose," I thus adjur'd him, "as thou solve this knot, Which now involves my mind. If right I hear, Ye seem to view beforehand, that which time Leads with him, of the present uninform'd." "We view, as one who hath an evil sight," He answer'd, "plainly, objects far remote: So much of his large spendour yet imparts The' Almighty Ruler; but when they approach Or actually exist, our intellect Then wholly fails, nor of your human state Except what others bring us know we aught. Hence therefore mayst thou understand, that all Our knowledge in that instant shall expire, When on futurity the portals close." Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse Smitten, I added thus: "Now shalt thou say To him there fallen, that his offspring still Is to the living join'd; and bid him know, That if from answer silent I abstain'd, 'Twas that my thought was occupied intent Upon that error, which thy help hath solv'd." But now my master summoning me back I heard, and with more eager haste besought The spirit to inform me, who with him Partook his lot. He answer thus return'd: "More than a thousand with me here are laid Within is Frederick, second of that name, And the Lord Cardinal, and of the rest I speak not." He, this said, from sight withdrew. But I my steps towards the ancient bard Reverting, ruminated on the words Betokening me such ill. Onward he mov'd, And thus in going question'd: "Whence the' amaze That holds thy senses wrapt?" I satisfied The' inquiry, and the sage enjoin'd me straight: "Let thy safe memory store what thou hast heard To thee importing harm; and note thou this," With his rais'd finger bidding me take heed, "When thou shalt stand before her gracious beam, Whose bright eye all surveys, she of thy life The future tenour will to thee unfold." Forthwith he to the left hand turn'd his feet: We left the wall, and tow'rds the middle space Went by a path, that to a valley strikes; Which e'en thus high exhal'd its noisome steam. CANTO XI UPON the utmost verge of a high bank, By craggy rocks environ'd round, we came, Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow'd: And here to shun the horrible excess Of fetid exhalation, upward cast From the profound abyss, behind the lid Of a great monument we stood retir'd, Whereon this scroll I mark'd: "I have in charge Pope Anastasius, whom Photinus drew From the right path.--Ere our descent behooves We make delay, that somewhat first the sense, To the dire breath accustom'd, afterward Regard it not." My master thus; to whom Answering I spake: "Some compensation find That the time past not wholly lost." He then: "Lo! how my thoughts e'en to thy wishes tend! My son! within these rocks," he thus began, "Are three close circles in gradation plac'd, As these which now thou leav'st. Each one is full Of spirits accurs'd; but that the sight alone Hereafter may suffice thee, listen how And for what cause in durance they abide. "Of all malicious act abhorr'd in heaven, The end is injury; and all such end Either by force or fraud works other's woe But fraud, because of man peculiar evil, To God is more displeasing; and beneath The fraudulent are therefore doom'd to' endure Severer pang. The violent occupy All the first circle; and because to force Three persons are obnoxious, in three rounds Hach within other sep'rate is it fram'd. To God, his neighbour, and himself, by man Force may be offer'd; to himself I say And his possessions, as thou soon shalt hear At full. Death, violent death, and painful wounds Upon his neighbour he inflicts; and wastes By devastation, pillage, and the flames, His substance. Slayers, and each one that smites In malice, plund'rers, and all robbers, hence The torment undergo of the first round In different herds. Man can do violence To himself and his own blessings: and for this He in the second round must aye deplore With unavailing penitence his crime, Whoe'er deprives himself of life and light, In reckless lavishment his talent wastes, And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy. To God may force be offer'd, in the heart Denying and blaspheming his high power, And nature with her kindly law contemning. And thence the inmost round marks with its seal Sodom and Cahors, and all such as speak Contemptuously' of the Godhead in their hearts. "Fraud, that in every conscience leaves a sting, May be by man employ'd on one, whose trust He wins, or on another who withholds Strict confidence. Seems as the latter way Broke but the bond of love which Nature makes. Whence in the second circle have their nest Dissimulation, witchcraft, flatteries, Theft, falsehood, simony, all who seduce To lust, or set their honesty at pawn, With such vile scum as these. The other way Forgets both Nature's general love, and that Which thereto added afterwards gives birth To special faith. Whence in the lesser circle, Point of the universe, dread seat of Dis, The traitor is eternally consum'd." I thus: "Instructor, clearly thy discourse Proceeds, distinguishing the hideous chasm And its inhabitants with skill exact. But tell me this: they of the dull, fat pool, Whom the rain beats, or whom the tempest drives, Or who with tongues so fierce conflicting meet, Wherefore within the city fire-illum'd Are not these punish'd, if God's wrath be on them? And if it be not, wherefore in such guise Are they condemned?" He answer thus return'd: "Wherefore in dotage wanders thus thy mind, Not so accustom'd? or what other thoughts Possess it? Dwell not in thy memory The words, wherein thy ethic page describes Three dispositions adverse to Heav'n's will, Incont'nence, malice, and mad brutishness, And how incontinence the least offends God, and least guilt incurs? If well thou note This judgment, and remember who they are, Without these walls to vain repentance doom'd, Thou shalt discern why they apart are plac'd From these fell spirits, and less wreakful pours Justice divine on them its vengeance down." "O Sun! who healest all imperfect sight, Thou so content'st me, when thou solv'st my doubt, That ignorance not less than knowledge charms. Yet somewhat turn thee back," I in these words Continu'd, "where thou saidst, that usury Offends celestial Goodness; and this knot Perplex'd unravel." He thus made reply: "Philosophy, to an attentive ear, Clearly points out, not in one part alone, How imitative nature takes her course From the celestial mind and from its art: And where her laws the Stagyrite unfolds, Not many leaves scann'd o'er, observing well Thou shalt discover, that your art on her Obsequious follows, as the learner treads In his instructor's step, so that your art Deserves the name of second in descent From God. These two, if thou recall to mind Creation's holy book, from the beginning Were the right source of life and excellence To human kind. But in another path The usurer walks; and Nature in herself And in her follower thus he sets at nought, Placing elsewhere his hope. But follow now My steps on forward journey bent; for now The Pisces play with undulating glance Along the' horizon, and the Wain lies all O'er the north-west; and onward there a space Is our steep passage down the rocky height." CANTO XII THE place where to descend the precipice We came, was rough as Alp, and on its verge Such object lay, as every eye would shun. As is that ruin, which Adice's stream On this side Trento struck, should'ring the wave, Or loos'd by earthquake or for lack of prop; For from the mountain's summit, whence it mov'd To the low level, so the headlong rock Is shiver'd, that some passage it might give To him who from above would pass; e'en such Into the chasm was that descent: and there At point of the disparted ridge lay stretch'd The infamy of Crete, detested brood Of the feign'd heifer: and at sight of us It gnaw'd itself, as one with rage distract. To him my guide exclaim'd: "Perchance thou deem'st The King of Athens here, who, in the world Above, thy death contriv'd. Monster! avaunt! He comes not tutor'd by thy sister's art, But to behold your torments is he come." Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow Hath struck him, but unable to proceed Plunges on either side; so saw I plunge The Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim'd: "Run to the passage! while he storms, 't is well That thou descend." Thus down our road we took Through those dilapidated crags, that oft Mov'd underneath my feet, to weight like theirs Unus'd. I pond'ring went, and thus he spake: "Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin'd steep, Guarded by the brute violence, which I Have vanquish'd now. Know then, that when I erst Hither descended to the nether hell, This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt (If well I mark) not long ere He arrived, Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoil Of the highest circle, then through all its bounds Such trembling seiz'd the deep concave and foul, I thought the universe was thrill'd with love, Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oft Been into chaos turn'd: and in that point, Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down. But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood Approaches, in the which all those are steep'd, Who have by violence injur'd." O blind lust! O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us on In the brief life, and in the eternal then Thus miserably o'erwhelm us. I beheld An ample foss, that in a bow was bent, As circling all the plain; for so my guide Had told. Between it and the rampart's base On trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm'd, As to the chase they on the earth were wont. At seeing us descend they each one stood; And issuing from the troop, three sped with bows And missile weapons chosen first; of whom One cried from far: "Say to what pain ye come Condemn'd, who down this steep have journied? Speak From whence ye stand, or else the bow I draw." To whom my guide: "Our answer shall be made To Chiron, there, when nearer him we come. Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash." Then me he touch'd, and spake: "Nessus is this, Who for the fair Deianira died, And wrought himself revenge for his own fate. He in the midst, that on his breast looks down, Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs'd; That other Pholus, prone to wrath." Around The foss these go by thousands, aiming shafts At whatsoever spirit dares emerge From out the blood, more than his guilt allows. We to those beasts, that rapid strode along, Drew near, when Chiron took an arrow forth, And with the notch push'd back his shaggy beard To the cheek-bone, then his great mouth to view Exposing, to his fellows thus exclaim'd: "Are ye aware, that he who comes behind Moves what he touches? The feet of the dead Are not so wont." My trusty guide, who now Stood near his breast, where the two natures join, Thus made reply: "He is indeed alive, And solitary so must needs by me Be shown the gloomy vale, thereto induc'd By strict necessity, not by delight. She left her joyful harpings in the sky, Who this new office to my care consign'd. He is no robber, no dark spirit I. But by that virtue, which empowers my step To treat so wild a path, grant us, I pray, One of thy band, whom we may trust secure, Who to the ford may lead us, and convey Across, him mounted on his back; for he Is not a spirit that may walk the air." Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thus To Nessus spake: "Return, and be their guide. And if ye chance to cross another troop, Command them keep aloof." Onward we mov'd, The faithful escort by our side, along The border of the crimson-seething flood, Whence from those steep'd within loud shrieks arose. Some there I mark'd, as high as to their brow Immers'd, of whom the mighty Centaur thus: "These are the souls of tyrants, who were given To blood and rapine. Here they wail aloud Their merciless wrongs. Here Alexander dwells, And Dionysius fell, who many a year Of woe wrought for fair Sicily. That brow Whereon the hair so jetty clust'ring hangs, Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locks Obizzo' of Este, in the world destroy'd By his foul step-son." To the bard rever'd I turned me round, and thus he spake; "Let him Be to thee now first leader, me but next To him in rank." Then farther on a space The Centaur paus'd, near some, who at the throat Were extant from the wave; and showing us A spirit by itself apart retir'd, Exclaim'd: "He in God's bosom smote the heart, Which yet is honour'd on the bank of Thames." A race I next espied, who held the head, And even all the bust above the stream. 'Midst these I many a face remember'd well. Thus shallow more and more the blood became, So that at last it but imbru'd the feet; And there our passage lay athwart the foss. "As ever on this side the boiling wave Thou seest diminishing," the Centaur said, "So on the other, be thou well assur'd, It lower still and lower sinks its bed, Till in that part it reuniting join, Where 't is the lot of tyranny to mourn. There Heav'n's stern justice lays chastising hand On Attila, who was the scourge of earth, On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts Tears ever by the seething flood unlock'd From the Rinieri, of Corneto this, Pazzo the other nam'd, who fill'd the ways With violence and war." This said, he turn'd, And quitting us, alone repass'd the ford. 
8786	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 8 Cantos 23 - 28 CANTO XXIII IN silence and in solitude we went, One first, the other following his steps, As minor friars journeying on their road. The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to muse Upon old Aesop's fable, where he told What fate unto the mouse and frog befell. For language hath not sounds more like in sense, Than are these chances, if the origin And end of each be heedfully compar'd. And as one thought bursts from another forth, So afterward from that another sprang, Which added doubly to my former fear. For thus I reason'd: "These through us have been So foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete, As needs must sting them sore. If anger then Be to their evil will conjoin'd, more fell They shall pursue us, than the savage hound Snatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass, I should not sooner draw unto myself Thy outward image, than I now imprint That from within. This moment came thy thoughts Presented before mine, with similar act And count'nance similar, so that from both I one design have fram'd. If the right coast Incline so much, that we may thence descend Into the other chasm, we shall escape Secure from this imagined pursuit." He had not spoke his purpose to the end, When I from far beheld them with spread wings Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide Caught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleep Is by the noise arous'd, and near her sees The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe And flies ne'er pausing, careful more of him Than of herself, that but a single vest Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock, Which closes on one part the other chasm. Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, When over us the steep they reach'd; but fear In him was none; for that high Providence, Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss, Power of departing thence took from them all. There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! We yet once more with them together turn'd To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly came The fainting people, that our company Was chang'd at every movement of the step. Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice, Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet, Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air. Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd To overtake me; but the load they bare And narrow path retarded their approach. Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askance Perus'd me, but spake not: then turning each To other thus conferring said: "This one Seems, by the action of his throat, alive. And, be they dead, what privilege allows They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?" Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." "By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied, "In the great city I was bred and grew, And wear the body I have ever worn. but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief, As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks? What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?" "Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue," One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross, That with their weight they make the balances To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were, Bologna's natives, Catalano I, He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter, To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo's vicinage can best declare." "O friars!" I began, "your miseries--" But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard. And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware, Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs. In straits like this along the foss are plac'd The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews." I noted then, How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell'd they come To lead us from this depth." He thus replied: "Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o'ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below." With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. CANTO XXIV IN the year's early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister's image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour's issue, that he seems Still to foresee the' effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd His eye upon another. "Grapple that," Said he, "but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee." For one capp'd with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd. But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried, "For I am stout and fearless." Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: "To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not," Said he, "but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return." We from the bridge's head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn'd. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix'd the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'd To ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth. When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust again Uproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The' Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'd To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder'd with the monstrous agony He hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody." The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake: "It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart." CANTO XXV WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God! I level them at thee!" From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss, Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter'd more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm'd, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide: "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt." While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd; "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. "Where," said he, "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs The hideous monster intertwin'd his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, "Nor only one." The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang'd, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd That image miscreate, and so pass'd on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th' entrails of the other two Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first, One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd, As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd. He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other's substance. They in mutual guise So answer'd, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th' other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: "Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!" So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou, The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund'rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng'd, at its departure saw Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect Rais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu'd them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd; E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: "Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word," I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'd Already of the truth, already wish'd To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem'd Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?" He replied: "Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open'd wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles 'reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have power Of utt'rance from within these sparks," said I, "O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend." He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began: "O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate'er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd." Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'd From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T' explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd The bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the' other hand already Ceuta past. "O brothers!" I began, "who to the west Through perils without number now have reach'd, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn'd, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the' other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oft Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter'd, when from far Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos'd." CANTO XVII NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem'd Pierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn'd the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey'd Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: "O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, "Depart thou, I solicit thee no more, Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood." Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O'ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France. "The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd point On either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last: "If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. "A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so T' have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on, The' high priest again seduc'd me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn'd; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord, Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask'd: and I was silent: for his words Seem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd: 'From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." "When I was number'd with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.'" Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me not A disputant in logic so exact." To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin'd eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: "This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e'er Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur'd booty made A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs One were to show transpierc'd, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th' englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, Haply so lingering to delay the pain Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet," My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin Conducts to torment; but, that he may make Full trial of your state, I who am dead Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true." More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed, Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not Here soon to follow me, that with good store Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows Yield him a victim to Novara's power, No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade, Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind Piero of Medicina, if again Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo; "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo, That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright The future, they out of life's tenement Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves Near to Cattolica, through perfidy Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen An injury so foul, by pirates done Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end, That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus: "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of; He speaks not for himself: the outcast this Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind, Affirming that delay to men prepar'd Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd, 'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race." I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off, As one grief stung to madness. But I there Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw Things, such as I may fear without more proof To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, A headless trunk, that even as the rest Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said, "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself, And two there were in one, and one in two. How that may be he knows who ordereth so. When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." 
8784	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 6 Cantos 13 - 17 CANTO XIII ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank, We enter'd on a forest, where no track Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these, Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields, Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream. Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same Who from the Strophades the Trojan band Drove with dire boding of their future woe. Broad are their pennons, of the human form Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. The kind instructor in these words began: "Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now I' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou come Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold, As would my speech discredit." On all sides I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see From whom they might have issu'd. In amaze Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd, That I had thought so many voices came From some amid those thickets close conceal'd, And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop off A single twig from one of those ill plants, The thought thou hast conceiv'd shall vanish quite." Thereat a little stretching forth my hand, From a great wilding gather'd I a branch, And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?" Then as the dark blood trickled down its side, These words it added: "Wherefore tear'st me thus? Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast? Men once were we, that now are rooted here. Thy hand might well have spar'd us, had we been The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green, That burning at one end from the' other sends A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind That forces out its way, so burst at once, Forth from the broken splinter words and blood. I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as one Assail'd by terror, and the sage replied: "If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'd What he hath seen but in my verse describ'd, He never against thee had stretch'd his hand. But I, because the thing surpass'd belief, Prompted him to this deed, which even now Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast; That, for this wrong to do thee some amends, In the upper world (for thither to return Is granted him) thy fame he may revive." "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge A little longer, in the snare detain'd, Count it not grievous. I it was, who held Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards, Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, That besides me, into his inmost breast Scarce any other could admittance find. The faith I bore to my high charge was such, It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins. The harlot, who ne'er turn'd her gloating eyes From Caesar's household, common vice and pest Of courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all; And to Augustus they so spread the flame, That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes. My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, Just as I was, unjust toward myself. By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, That never faith I broke to my liege lord, Who merited such honour; and of you, If any to the world indeed return, Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words Were ended, then to me the bard began: "Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask, If more thou wish to learn." Whence I replied: "Question thou him again of whatsoe'er Will, as thou think'st, content me; for no power Have I to ask, such pity' is at my heart." He thus resum'd; "So may he do for thee Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet Be pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare, How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied; And whether any ever from such frame Be loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell." Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon Chang'd into sounds articulate like these; "Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs The fierce soul from the body, by itself Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls, No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, It rises to a sapling, growing thence A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come For our own spoils, yet not so that with them We may again be clad; for what a man Takes from himself it is not just he have. Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung, Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade." Attentive yet to listen to the trunk We stood, expecting farther speech, when us A noise surpris'd, as when a man perceives The wild boar and the hunt approach his place Of station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughs Loud rustling round him hears. And lo! there came Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, That they before them broke each fan o' th' wood. "Haste now," the foremost cried, "now haste thee death!" The' other, as seem'd, impatient of delay Exclaiming, "Lano! not so bent for speed Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field." And then, for that perchance no longer breath Suffic'd him, of himself and of a bush One group he made. Behind them was the wood Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet, As greyhounds that have newly slipp'd the leash. On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, And having rent him piecemeal bore away The tortur'd limbs. My guide then seiz'd my hand, And led me to the thicket, which in vain Mourn'd through its bleeding wounds: "O Giacomo Of Sant' Andrea! what avails it thee," It cried, "that of me thou hast made thy screen? For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?" When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?" He answer'd: "Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in time To spy the shameful havoc, that from me My leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up, And at the foot of their sad parent-tree Carefully lay them. In that city' I dwelt, Who for the Baptist her first patron chang'd, Whence he for this shall cease not with his art To work her woe: and if there still remain'd not On Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him, Those citizens, who rear'd once more her walls Upon the ashes left by Attila, Had labour'd without profit of their toil. I slung the fatal noose from my own roof." CANTO XIV SOON as the charity of native land Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leaves Collected, and to him restor'd, who now Was hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thence We came, which from the third the second round Divides, and where of justice is display'd Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next A plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bed Each plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves round Its garland on all sides, as round the wood Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge, Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wide Of arid sand and thick, resembling most The soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod. Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'd By all, who read what here my eyes beheld! Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, All weeping piteously, to different laws Subjected: for on the' earth some lay supine, Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd Incessantly around; the latter tribe, More numerous, those fewer who beneath The torment lay, but louder in their grief. O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd. As in the torrid Indian clime, the son Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band Descending, solid flames, that to the ground Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop To trample on the soil; for easier thus The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone; So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove The viands, doubly to augment the pain. Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began: "Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st, Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth To stop our entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?" Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd My guide of him, exclaim'd: "Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; "Help, help, good Mulciber!" as erst he cried In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'd Than I before had heard him: "Capaneus! Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy pride Lives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage, Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full." Next turning round to me with milder lip He spake: "This of the seven kings was one, Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held, As still he seems to hold, God in disdain, And sets his high omnipotence at nought. But, as I told him, his despiteful mood Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it. Follow me now; and look thou set not yet Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood Keep ever close." Silently on we pass'd To where there gushes from the forest's bound A little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet lifts My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs From Bulicame, to be portion'd out Among the sinful women; so ran this Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank Stone-built, and either margin at its side, Whereon I straight perceiv'd our passage lay. "Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate We enter'd first, whose threshold is to none Denied, nought else so worthy of regard, As is this river, has thine eye discern'd, O'er which the flaming volley all is quench'd." So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv'n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd. "In midst of ocean," forthwith he began, "A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam'd, Under whose monarch in old times the world Liv'd pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, Call'd Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, Deserted now like a forbidden thing. It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse, Chose for the secret cradle of her son; And better to conceal him, drown'd in shouts His infant cries. Within the mount, upright An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold His head is shap'd, pure silver are the breast And arms; thence to the middle is of brass. And downward all beneath well-temper'd steel, Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which Than on the other more erect he stands, Each part except the gold, is rent throughout; And from the fissure tears distil, which join'd Penetrate to that cave. They in their course Thus far precipitated down the rock Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon; Then by this straiten'd channel passing hence Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all, Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself Shall see it) I here give thee no account." Then I to him: "If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?" He straight replied: "The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass'd, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb. Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks." Then I again inquir'd: "Where flow the streams Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one Thou tell'st not, and the other of that shower, Thou say'st, is form'd." He answer thus return'd: "Doubtless thy questions all well pleas'd I hear. Yet the red seething wave might have resolv'd One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see, But not within this hollow, in the place, Whither to lave themselves the spirits go, Whose blame hath been by penitence remov'd." He added: "Time is now we quit the wood. Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames; For over them all vapour is extinct." CANTO XV One of the solid margins bears us now Envelop'd in the mist, that from the stream Arising, hovers o'er, and saves from fire Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear Their mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs Along the Brenta, to defend their towns And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt On Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds, So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to these Made equal, by the master, whosoe'er He was, that rais'd them here. We from the wood Were not so far remov'd, that turning round I might not have discern'd it, when we met A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier. They each one ey'd us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon, And toward us sharpen'd their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle's eye. Thus narrowly explor'd by all the tribe, I was agniz'd of one, who by the skirt Caught me, and cried, "What wonder have we here!" And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm, Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks, That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not But I remember'd him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer'd: "Sir! Brunetto! "And art thou here?" He thus to me: "My son! Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." I thus to him replied: "Much as I can, I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing, That I here seat me with thee, I consent; His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain'd." "O son!" said he, "whoever of this throng One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, No fan to ventilate him, when the fire Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin My troop, who go mourning their endless doom." I dar'd not from the path descend to tread On equal ground with him, but held my head Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise. "What chance or destiny," thus he began, "Ere the last day conducts thee here below? And who is this, that shows to thee the way?" "There up aloft," I answer'd, "in the life Serene, I wander'd in a valley lost, Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd. But yester-morn I left it: then once more Into that vale returning, him I met; And by this path homeward he leads me back." "If thou," he answer'd, "follow but thy star, Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: Unless in fairer days my judgment err'd. And if my fate so early had not chanc'd, Seeing the heav'ns thus bounteous to thee, I Had gladly giv'n thee comfort in thy work. But that ungrateful and malignant race, Who in old times came down from Fesole, Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint, Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity. Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour'd crabs It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. Old fame reports them in the world for blind, Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well: Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve, That thou by either party shalt be crav'd With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far From the goat's tooth. The herd of Fesole May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, If any such yet spring on their rank bed, In which the holy seed revives, transmitted From those true Romans, who still there remain'd, When it was made the nest of so much ill." "Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied, "Thou from the confines of man's nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity; And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive. This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd. Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course." Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake: "He listens to good purpose who takes note." I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe. "To know of some is well;" thus he replied, "But of the rest silence may best beseem. Time would not serve us for report so long. In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks, Men of great learning and no less renown, By one same sin polluted in the world. With them is Priscian, and Accorso's son Francesco herds among that wretched throng: And, if the wish of so impure a blotch Possess'd thee, him thou also might'st have seen, Who by the servants' servant was transferr'd From Arno's seat to Bacchiglione, where His ill-strain'd nerves he left. I more would add, But must from farther speech and onward way Alike desist, for yonder I behold A mist new-risen on the sandy plain. A company, with whom I may not sort, Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee, Wherein I yet survive; my sole request." This said he turn'd, and seem'd as one of those, Who o'er Verona's champain try their speed For the green mantle, and of them he seem'd, Not he who loses but who gains the prize. CANTO XVI NOW came I where the water's din was heard, As down it fell into the other round, Resounding like the hum of swarming bees: When forth together issu'd from a troop, That pass'd beneath the fierce tormenting storm, Three spirits, running swift. They towards us came, And each one cried aloud, "Oh do thou stay! Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem To be some inmate of our evil land." Ah me! what wounds I mark'd upon their limbs, Recent and old, inflicted by the flames! E'en the remembrance of them grieves me yet. Attentive to their cry my teacher paus'd, And turn'd to me his visage, and then spake; "Wait now! our courtesy these merit well: And were 't not for the nature of the place, Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, That haste had better suited thee than them." They, when we stopp'd, resum'd their ancient wail, And soon as they had reach'd us, all the three Whirl'd round together in one restless wheel. As naked champions, smear'd with slippery oil, Are wont intent to watch their place of hold And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet; Thus each one, as he wheel'd, his countenance At me directed, so that opposite The neck mov'd ever to the twinkling feet. "If misery of this drear wilderness," Thus one began, "added to our sad cheer And destitute, do call forth scorn on us And our entreaties, let our great renown Incline thee to inform us who thou art, That dost imprint with living feet unharm'd The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou see'st My steps pursuing, naked though he be And reft of all, was of more high estate Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste Gualdrada, him they Guidoguerra call'd, Who in his lifetime many a noble act Achiev'd, both by his wisdom and his sword. The other, next to me that beats the sand, Is Aldobrandi, name deserving well, In the' upper world, of honour; and myself Who in this torment do partake with them, Am Rusticucci, whom, past doubt, my wife Of savage temper, more than aught beside Hath to this evil brought." If from the fire I had been shelter'd, down amidst them straight I then had cast me, nor my guide, I deem, Would have restrain'd my going; but that fear Of the dire burning vanquish'd the desire, Which made me eager of their wish'd embrace. I then began: "Not scorn, but grief much more, Such as long time alone can cure, your doom Fix'd deep within me, soon as this my lord Spake words, whose tenour taught me to expect That such a race, as ye are, was at hand. I am a countryman of yours, who still Affectionate have utter'd, and have heard Your deeds and names renown'd. Leaving the gall For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide Hath promis'd to me. But behooves, that far As to the centre first I downward tend." "So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs," He answer straight return'd; "and so thy fame Shine bright, when thou art gone; as thou shalt tell, If courtesy and valour, as they wont, Dwell in our city, or have vanish'd clean? For one amidst us late condemn'd to wail, Borsiere, yonder walking with his peers, Grieves us no little by the news he brings." "An upstart multitude and sudden gains, Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee Engender'd, so that now in tears thou mourn'st!" Thus cried I with my face uprais'd, and they All three, who for an answer took my words, Look'd at each other, as men look when truth Comes to their ear. "If thou at other times," They all at once rejoin'd, "so easily Satisfy those, who question, happy thou, Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought! Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime, Returning to behold the radiant stars, When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past, See that of us thou speak among mankind." This said, they broke the circle, and so swift Fled, that as pinions seem'd their nimble feet. Not in so short a time might one have said "Amen," as they had vanish'd. Straight my guide Pursu'd his track. I follow'd; and small space Had we pass'd onward, when the water's sound Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce Heard one another's speech for the loud din. E'en as the river, that holds on its course Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo, On the left side of Apennine, toward The east, which Acquacheta higher up They call, ere it descend into the vale, At Forli by that name no longer known, Rebellows o'er Saint Benedict, roll'd on From the' Alpine summit down a precipice, Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads; Thus downward from a craggy steep we found, That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud, So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn'd. I had a cord that brac'd my girdle round, Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take The painted leopard. This when I had all Unloosen'd from me (so my master bade) I gather'd up, and stretch'd it forth to him. Then to the right he turn'd, and from the brink Standing few paces distant, cast it down Into the deep abyss. "And somewhat strange," Thus to myself I spake, "signal so strange Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye Thus follows." Ah! what caution must men use With those who look not at the deed alone, But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill! "Quickly shall come," he said, "what I expect, Thine eye discover quickly, that whereof Thy thought is dreaming." Ever to that truth, Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears, A man, if possible, should bar his lip; Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach. But silence here were vain; and by these notes Which now I sing, reader! I swear to thee, So may they favour find to latest times! That through the gross and murky air I spied A shape come swimming up, that might have quell'd The stoutest heart with wonder, in such guise As one returns, who hath been down to loose An anchor grappled fast against some rock, Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies, Who upward springing close draws in his feet. CANTO XVII "LO! the fell monster with the deadly sting! Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls And firm embattled spears, and with his filth Taints all the world!" Thus me my guide address'd, And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore, Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge. Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear'd, His head and upper part expos'd on land, But laid not on the shore his bestial train. His face the semblance of a just man's wore, So kind and gracious was its outward cheer; The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws Reach'd to the armpits, and the back and breast, And either side, were painted o'er with nodes And orbits. Colours variegated more Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state With interchangeable embroidery wove, Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom. As ofttimes a light skiff, moor'd to the shore, Stands part in water, part upon the land; Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor, The beaver settles watching for his prey; So on the rim, that fenc'd the sand with rock, Sat perch'd the fiend of evil. In the void Glancing, his tail upturn'd its venomous fork, With sting like scorpion's arm'd. Then thus my guide: "Now need our way must turn few steps apart, Far as to that ill beast, who couches there." Thereat toward the right our downward course We shap'd, and, better to escape the flame And burning marle, ten paces on the verge Proceeded. Soon as we to him arrive, A little further on mine eye beholds A tribe of spirits, seated on the sand Near the wide chasm. Forthwith my master spake: "That to the full thy knowledge may extend Of all this round contains, go now, and mark The mien these wear: but hold not long discourse. Till thou returnest, I with him meantime Will parley, that to us he may vouchsafe The aid of his strong shoulders." Thus alone Yet forward on the' extremity I pac'd Of that seventh circle, where the mournful tribe Were seated. At the eyes forth gush'd their pangs. Against the vapours and the torrid soil Alternately their shifting hands they plied. Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round. Noting the visages of some, who lay Beneath the pelting of that dolorous fire, One of them all I knew not; but perceiv'd, That pendent from his neck each bore a pouch With colours and with emblems various mark'd, On which it seem'd as if their eye did feed. And when amongst them looking round I came, A yellow purse I saw with azure wrought, That wore a lion's countenance and port. Then still my sight pursuing its career, Another I beheld, than blood more red. A goose display of whiter wing than curd. And one, who bore a fat and azure swine Pictur'd on his white scrip, addressed me thus: "What dost thou in this deep? Go now and know, Since yet thou livest, that my neighbour here Vitaliano on my left shall sit. A Paduan with these Florentines am I. Ofttimes they thunder in mine ears, exclaiming 'O haste that noble knight! he who the pouch With the three beaks will bring!'" This said, he writh'd The mouth, and loll'd the tongue out, like an ox That licks his nostrils. I, lest longer stay He ill might brook, who bade me stay not long, Backward my steps from those sad spirits turn'd. My guide already seated on the haunch Of the fierce animal I found; and thus He me encourag'd. "Be thou stout; be bold. Down such a steep flight must we now descend! Mount thou before: for that no power the tail May have to harm thee, I will be i' th' midst." As one, who hath an ague fit so near, His nails already are turn'd blue, and he Quivers all o'er, if he but eye the shade; Such was my cheer at hearing of his words. But shame soon interpos'd her threat, who makes The servant bold in presence of his lord. I settled me upon those shoulders huge, And would have said, but that the words to aid My purpose came not, "Look thou clasp me firm!" But he whose succour then not first I prov'd, Soon as I mounted, in his arms aloft, Embracing, held me up, and thus he spake: "Geryon! now move thee! be thy wheeling gyres Of ample circuit, easy thy descent. Think on th' unusual burden thou sustain'st." As a small vessel, back'ning out from land, Her station quits; so thence the monster loos'd, And when he felt himself at large, turn'd round There where the breast had been, his forked tail. Thus, like an eel, outstretch'd at length he steer'd, Gath'ring the air up with retractile claws. Not greater was the dread when Phaeton The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven, Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapt in flames; Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceiv'd, By liquefaction of the scalded wax, The trusted pennons loosen'd from his loins, His sire exclaiming loud, "Ill way thou keep'st!" Than was my dread, when round me on each part The air I view'd, and other object none Save the fell beast. He slowly sailing, wheels His downward motion, unobserv'd of me, But that the wind, arising to my face, Breathes on me from below. Now on our right I heard the cataract beneath us leap With hideous crash; whence bending down to' explore, New terror I conceiv'd at the steep plunge: For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear: So that all trembling close I crouch'd my limbs, And then distinguish'd, unperceiv'd before, By the dread torments that on every side Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound. As falcon, that hath long been on the wing, But lure nor bird hath seen, while in despair The falconer cries, "Ah me! thou stoop'st to earth!" Wearied descends, and swiftly down the sky In many an orbit wheels, then lighting sits At distance from his lord in angry mood; So Geryon lighting places us on foot Low down at base of the deep-furrow'd rock, And, of his burden there discharg'd, forthwith Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string. ===7 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 7 Cantos 18 - 22 CANTO XVIII THERE is a place within the depths of hell Call'd Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain'd With hue ferruginous, e'en as the steep That round it circling winds. Right in the midst Of that abominable region, yawns A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains, Throughout its round, between the gulf and base Of the high craggy banks, successive forms Ten trenches, in its hollow bottom sunk. As where to guard the walls, full many a foss Begirds some stately castle, sure defence Affording to the space within, so here Were model'd these; and as like fortresses E'en from their threshold to the brink without, Are flank'd with bridges; from the rock's low base Thus flinty paths advanc'd, that 'cross the moles And dikes, struck onward far as to the gulf, That in one bound collected cuts them off. Such was the place, wherein we found ourselves From Geryon's back dislodg'd. The bard to left Held on his way, and I behind him mov'd. On our right hand new misery I saw, New pains, new executioners of wrath, That swarming peopled the first chasm. Below Were naked sinners. Hitherward they came, Meeting our faces from the middle point, With us beyond but with a larger stride. E'en thus the Romans, when the year returns Of Jubilee, with better speed to rid The thronging multitudes, their means devise For such as pass the bridge; that on one side All front toward the castle, and approach Saint Peter's fane, on th' other towards the mount. Each divers way along the grisly rock, Horn'd demons I beheld, with lashes huge, That on their back unmercifully smote. Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe! None for the second waited nor the third. Meantime as on I pass'd, one met my sight Whom soon as view'd; "Of him," cried I, "not yet Mine eye hath had his fill." With fixed gaze I therefore scann'd him. Straight the teacher kind Paus'd with me, and consented I should walk Backward a space, and the tormented spirit, Who thought to hide him, bent his visage down. But it avail'd him nought; for I exclaim'd: "Thou who dost cast thy eye upon the ground, Unless thy features do belie thee much, Venedico art thou. But what brings thee Into this bitter seas'ning?" He replied: "Unwillingly I answer to thy words. But thy clear speech, that to my mind recalls The world I once inhabited, constrains me. Know then 'twas I who led fair Ghisola To do the Marquis' will, however fame The shameful tale have bruited. Nor alone Bologna hither sendeth me to mourn Rather with us the place is so o'erthrong'd That not so many tongues this day are taught, Betwixt the Reno and Savena's stream, To answer SIPA in their country's phrase. And if of that securer proof thou need, Remember but our craving thirst for gold." Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong Struck, and exclaim'd, "Away! corrupter! here Women are none for sale." Forthwith I join'd My escort, and few paces thence we came To where a rock forth issued from the bank. That easily ascended, to the right Upon its splinter turning, we depart From those eternal barriers. When arriv'd, Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass The scourged souls: "Pause here," the teacher said, "And let these others miserable, now Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld, For that together they with us have walk'd." From the old bridge we ey'd the pack, who came From th' other side towards us, like the rest, Excoriate from the lash. My gentle guide, By me unquestion'd, thus his speech resum'd: "Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends, And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear. How yet the regal aspect he retains! Jason is he, whose skill and prowess won The ram from Colchos. To the Lemnian isle His passage thither led him, when those bold And pitiless women had slain all their males. There he with tokens and fair witching words Hypsipyle beguil'd, a virgin young, Who first had all the rest herself beguil'd. Impregnated he left her there forlorn. Such is the guilt condemns him to this pain. Here too Medea's inj'ries are avenged. All bear him company, who like deceit To his have practis'd. And thus much to know Of the first vale suffice thee, and of those Whom its keen torments urge." Now had we come Where, crossing the next pier, the straighten'd path Bestrides its shoulders to another arch. Hence in the second chasm we heard the ghosts, Who jibber in low melancholy sounds, With wide-stretch'd nostrils snort, and on themselves Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf From the foul steam condens'd, encrusting hung, That held sharp combat with the sight and smell. So hollow is the depth, that from no part, Save on the summit of the rocky span, Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came; And thence I saw, within the foss below, A crowd immers'd in ordure, that appear'd Draff of the human body. There beneath Searching with eye inquisitive, I mark'd One with his head so grim'd, 't were hard to deem, If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried: "Why greedily thus bendest more on me, Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken?" "Because if true my mem'ry," I replied, "I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks, And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung. Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." Then beating on his brain these words he spake: "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." My leader thus: "A little further stretch Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan, Who there doth rend her with defiled nails, Now crouching down, now risen on her feet. "Thais is this, the harlot, whose false lip Answer'd her doting paramour that ask'd, 'Thankest me much!'--'Say rather wondrously,' And seeing this here satiate be our view." CANTO XIX WOE to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you, His wretched followers! who the things of God, Which should be wedded unto goodness, them, Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute For gold and silver in adultery! Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours Is the third chasm. Upon the following vault We now had mounted, where the rock impends Directly o'er the centre of the foss. Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art, Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, And in the evil world, how just a meed Allotting by thy virtue unto all! I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides And in its bottom full of apertures, All equal in their width, and circular each, Nor ample less nor larger they appear'd Than in Saint John's fair dome of me belov'd Those fram'd to hold the pure baptismal streams, One of the which I brake, some few years past, To save a whelming infant; and be this A seal to undeceive whoever doubts The motive of my deed. From out the mouth Of every one, emerg'd a sinner's feet And of the legs high upward as the calf The rest beneath was hid. On either foot The soles were burning, whence the flexile joints Glanc'd with such violent motion, as had snapt Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame, Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along The surface, scarcely touching where it moves; So here, from heel to point, glided the flames. "Master! say who is he, than all the rest Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom A ruddier flame doth prey?" I thus inquir'd. "If thou be willing," he replied, "that I Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls, He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs." I then: "As pleases thee to me is best. Thou art my lord; and know'st that ne'er I quit Thy will: what silence hides that knowest thou." Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn'd, And on our left descended to the depth, A narrow strait and perforated close. Nor from his side my leader set me down, Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb Quiv'ring express'd his pang. "Whoe'er thou art, Sad spirit! thus revers'd, and as a stake Driv'n in the soil!" I in these words began, "If thou be able, utter forth thy voice." There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive A wretch for murder doom'd, who e'en when fix'd, Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. He shouted: "Ha! already standest there? Already standest there, O Boniface! By many a year the writing play'd me false. So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, For which thou fearedst not in guile to take The lovely lady, and then mangle her?" I felt as those who, piercing not the drift Of answer made them, stand as if expos'd In mockery, nor know what to reply, When Virgil thus admonish'd: "Tell him quick, I am not he, not he, whom thou believ'st." And I, as was enjoin'd me, straight replied. That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet, And sighing next in woeful accent spake: "What then of me requirest? If to know So much imports thee, who I am, that thou Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn That in the mighty mantle I was rob'd, And of a she-bear was indeed the son, So eager to advance my whelps, that there My having in my purse above I stow'd, And here myself. Under my head are dragg'd The rest, my predecessors in the guilt Of simony. Stretch'd at their length they lie Along an opening in the rock. 'Midst them I also low shall fall, soon as he comes, For whom I took thee, when so hastily I question'd. But already longer time Hath pass'd, since my souls kindled, and I thus Upturn'd have stood, than is his doom to stand Planted with fiery feet. For after him, One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive, From forth the west, a shepherd without law, Fated to cover both his form and mine. He a new Jason shall be call'd, of whom In Maccabees we read; and favour such As to that priest his king indulgent show'd, Shall be of France's monarch shown to him." I know not if I here too far presum'd, But in this strain I answer'd: "Tell me now, What treasures from St. Peter at the first Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys Into his charge? Surely he ask'd no more But, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the rest Or gold or silver of Matthias took, When lots were cast upon the forfeit place Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then; Thy punishment of right is merited: And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin, Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir'd. If reverence of the keys restrain'd me not, Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet Severer speech might use. Your avarice O'ercasts the world with mourning, under foot Treading the good, and raising bad men up. Of shepherds, like to you, th' Evangelist Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves, With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld, She who with seven heads tower'd at her birth, And from ten horns her proof of glory drew, Long as her spouse in virtue took delight. Of gold and silver ye have made your god, Diff'ring wherein from the idolater, But he that worships one, a hundred ye? Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth, Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower, Which the first wealthy Father gain'd from thee!" Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang Spinning on either sole. I do believe My teacher well was pleas'd, with so compos'd A lip, he listen'd ever to the sound Of the true words I utter'd. In both arms He caught, and to his bosom lifting me Upward retrac'd the way of his descent. Nor weary of his weight he press'd me close, Till to the summit of the rock we came, Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier. His cherish'd burden there gently he plac'd Upon the rugged rock and steep, a path Not easy for the clamb'ring goat to mount. Thence to my view another vale appear'd CANTO XX AND now the verse proceeds to torments new, Fit argument of this the twentieth strain Of the first song, whose awful theme records The spirits whelm'd in woe. Earnest I look'd Into the depth, that open'd to my view, Moisten'd with tears of anguish, and beheld A tribe, that came along the hollow vale, In silence weeping: such their step as walk Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth. As on them more direct mine eye descends, Each wondrously seem'd to be revers'd At the neck-bone, so that the countenance Was from the reins averted: and because None might before him look, they were compell'd To' advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos'd, But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so. Now, reader! think within thyself, so God Fruit of thy reading give thee! how I long Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld Near me our form distorted in such guise, That on the hinder parts fall'n from the face The tears down-streaming roll'd. Against a rock I leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim'd: "What, and art thou too witless as the rest? Here pity most doth show herself alive, When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his, Who with Heaven's judgment in his passion strives? Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man, Before whose eyes earth gap'd in Thebes, when all Cried out, 'Amphiaraus, whither rushest? 'Why leavest thou the war?' He not the less Fell ruining far as to Minos down, Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makes The breast his shoulders, and who once too far Before him wish'd to see, now backward looks, And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note, Who semblance chang'd, when woman he became Of male, through every limb transform'd, and then Once more behov'd him with his rod to strike The two entwining serpents, ere the plumes, That mark'd the better sex, might shoot again. "Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes. On Luni's mountains 'midst the marbles white, Where delves Carrara's hind, who wons beneath, A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars And main-sea wide in boundless view he held. "The next, whose loosen'd tresses overspread Her bosom, which thou seest not (for each hair On that side grows) was Manto, she who search'd Through many regions, and at length her seat Fix'd in my native land, whence a short space My words detain thy audience. When her sire From life departed, and in servitude The city dedicate to Bacchus mourn'd, Long time she went a wand'rer through the world. Aloft in Italy's delightful land A lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp, That o'er the Tyrol locks Germania in, Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills, Methinks, and more, water between the vale Camonica and Garda and the height Of Apennine remote. There is a spot At midway of that lake, where he who bears Of Trento's flock the past'ral staff, with him Of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each Passing that way his benediction give. A garrison of goodly site and strong Peschiera stands, to awe with front oppos'd The Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shore More slope each way descends. There, whatsoev'er Benacus' bosom holds not, tumbling o'er Down falls, and winds a river flood beneath Through the green pastures. Soon as in his course The steam makes head, Benacus then no more They call the name, but Mincius, till at last Reaching Governo into Po he falls. Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh It covers, pestilent in summer oft. Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw 'Midst of the fen a territory waste And naked of inhabitants. To shun All human converse, here she with her slaves Plying her arts remain'd, and liv'd, and left Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes, Who round were scatter'd, gath'ring to that place Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos'd On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones They rear'd themselves a city, for her sake, Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot, Nor ask'd another omen for the name, Wherein more numerous the people dwelt, Ere Casalodi's madness by deceit Was wrong'd of Pinamonte. If thou hear Henceforth another origin assign'd Of that my country, I forewarn thee now, That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth." I answer'd: "Teacher, I conclude thy words So certain, that all else shall be to me As embers lacking life. But now of these, Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see Any that merit more especial note. For thereon is my mind alone intent." He straight replied: "That spirit, from whose cheek The beard sweeps o'er his shoulders brown, what time Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce The cradles were supplied, the seer was he In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign When first to cut the cable. Him they nam'd Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain, In which majestic measure well thou know'st, Who know'st it all. That other, round the loins So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot, Practis'd in ev'ry slight of magic wile. "Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark, Who now were willing, he had tended still The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. "See next the wretches, who the needle left, The shuttle and the spindle, and became Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought With images and herbs. But onward now: For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well: For she good service did thee in the gloom Of the deep wood." This said, both onward mov'd. CANTO XXI THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk, The which my drama cares not to rehearse, Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood To view another gap, within the round Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs. Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place. In the Venetians' arsenal as boils Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear Their unsound vessels; for th' inclement time Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while His bark one builds anew, another stops The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage; One hammers at the prow, one at the poop; This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls, The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent So not by force of fire but art divine Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round Lim'd all the shore beneath. I that beheld, But therein nought distinguish'd, save the surge, Rais'd by the boiling, in one mighty swell Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there I fix'd my ken below, "Mark! mark!" my guide Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place, Wherein I stood. I turn'd myself as one, Impatient to behold that which beheld He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans, That he his flight delays not for the view. Behind me I discern'd a devil black, That running, up advanc'd along the rock. Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake! In act how bitter did he seem, with wings Buoyant outstretch'd and feet of nimblest tread! His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp Was with a sinner charg'd; by either haunch He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast. "Ye of our bridge!" he cried, "keen-talon'd fiends! Lo! one of Santa Zita's elders! Him Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more. That land hath store of such. All men are there, Except Bonturo, barterers: of 'no' For lucre there an 'aye' is quickly made." Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd, Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos'd Sped with like eager haste. That other sank And forthwith writing to the surface rose. But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge, Cried "Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave. Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not, Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch." This said, They grappled him with more than hundred hooks, And shouted: "Cover'd thou must sport thee here; So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch." E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms, To thrust the flesh into the caldron down With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. Me then my guide bespake: "Lest they descry, That thou art here, behind a craggy rock Bend low and screen thee; and whate'er of force Be offer'd me, or insult, fear thou not: For I am well advis'd, who have been erst In the like fray." Beyond the bridge's head Therewith he pass'd, and reaching the sixth pier, Behov'd him then a forehead terror-proof. With storm and fury, as when dogs rush forth Upon the poor man's back, who suddenly From whence he standeth makes his suit; so rush'd Those from beneath the arch, and against him Their weapons all they pointed. He aloud: "Be none of you outrageous: ere your time Dare seize me, come forth from amongst you one, "Who having heard my words, decide he then If he shall tear these limbs." They shouted loud, "Go, Malacoda!" Whereat one advanc'd, The others standing firm, and as he came, "What may this turn avail him?" he exclaim'd. "Believ'st thou, Malacoda! I had come Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," My teacher answered, "without will divine And destiny propitious? Pass we then For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I should lead Another through this savage wilderness." Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop The instrument of torture at his feet, And to the rest exclaim'd: "We have no power To strike him." Then to me my guide: "O thou! Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit Low crouching, safely now to me return." I rose, and towards him moved with speed: the fiends Meantime all forward drew: me terror seiz'd Lest they should break the compact they had made. Thus issuing from Caprona, once I saw Th' infantry dreading, lest his covenant The foe should break; so close he hemm'd them round. I to my leader's side adher'd, mine eyes With fixt and motionless observance bent On their unkindly visage. They their hooks Protruding, one the other thus bespake: "Wilt thou I touch him on the hip?" To whom Was answer'd: "Even so; nor miss thy aim." But he, who was in conf'rence with my guide, Turn'd rapid round, and thus the demon spake: "Stay, stay thee, Scarmiglione!" Then to us He added: "Further footing to your step This rock affords not, shiver'd to the base Of the sixth arch. But would you still proceed, Up by this cavern go: not distant far, Another rock will yield you passage safe. Yesterday, later by five hours than now, Twelve hundred threescore years and six had fill'd The circuit of their course, since here the way Was broken. Thitherward I straight dispatch Certain of these my scouts, who shall espy If any on the surface bask. With them Go ye: for ye shall find them nothing fell. Come Alichino forth," with that he cried, "And Calcabrina, and Cagnazzo thou! The troop of ten let Barbariccia lead. With Libicocco Draghinazzo haste, Fang'd Ciriatto, Grafflacane fierce, And Farfarello, and mad Rubicant. Search ye around the bubbling tar. For these, In safety lead them, where the other crag Uninterrupted traverses the dens." I then: "O master! what a sight is there! Ah! without escort, journey we alone, Which, if thou know the way, I covet not. Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl Threatens us present tortures?" He replied: "I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will, Gnarl on: 't is but in token of their spite Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep'd." To leftward o'er the pier they turn'd; but each Had first between his teeth prest close the tongue, Toward their leader for a signal looking, Which he with sound obscene triumphant gave. CANTO XXII IT hath been heretofore my chance to see Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, To onset sallying, or in muster rang'd, Or in retreat sometimes outstretch'd for flight; Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen, And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, And with inventions multiform, our own, Or introduc'd from foreign land; but ne'er To such a strange recorder I beheld, In evolution moving, horse nor foot, Nor ship, that tack'd by sign from land or star. With the ten demons on our way we went; Ah fearful company! but in the church With saints, with gluttons at the tavern's mess. Still earnest on the pitch I gaz'd, to mark All things whate'er the chasm contain'd, and those Who burn'd within. As dolphins, that, in sign To mariners, heave high their arched backs, That thence forewarn'd they may advise to save Their threaten'd vessels; so, at intervals, To ease the pain his back some sinner show'd, Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance. E'en as the frogs, that of a wat'ry moat Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out, Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed, Thus on each part the sinners stood, but soon As Barbariccia was at hand, so they Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus, As it befalls that oft one frog remains, While the next springs away: and Graffiacan, Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seiz'd His clotted locks, and dragg'd him sprawling up, That he appear'd to me an otter. Each Already by their names I knew, so well When they were chosen, I observ'd, and mark'd How one the other call'd. "O Rubicant! See that his hide thou with thy talons flay," Shouted together all the cursed crew. Then I: "Inform thee, master! if thou may, What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand His foes have laid." My leader to his side Approach'd, and whence he came inquir'd, to whom Was answer'd thus: "Born in Navarre's domain My mother plac'd me in a lord's retinue, For she had borne me to a losel vile, A spendthrift of his substance and himself. The good king Thibault after that I serv'd, To peculating here my thoughts were turn'd, Whereof I give account in this dire heat." Straight Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk Issued on either side, as from a boar, Ript him with one of these. 'Twixt evil claws The mouse had fall'n: but Barbariccia cried, Seizing him with both arms: "Stand thou apart, While I do fix him on my prong transpierc'd." Then added, turning to my guide his face, "Inquire of him, if more thou wish to learn, Ere he again be rent." My leader thus: "Then tell us of the partners in thy guilt; Knowest thou any sprung of Latian land Under the tar?"--"I parted," he replied, "But now from one, who sojourn'd not far thence; So were I under shelter now with him! Nor hook nor talon then should scare me more."--. "Too long we suffer," Libicocco cried, Then, darting forth a prong, seiz'd on his arm, And mangled bore away the sinewy part. Him Draghinazzo by his thighs beneath Would next have caught, whence angrily their chief, Turning on all sides round, with threat'ning brow Restrain'd them. When their strife a little ceas'd, Of him, who yet was gazing on his wound, My teacher thus without delay inquir'd: "Who was the spirit, from whom by evil hap Parting, as thou has told, thou cam'st to shore?"-- "It was the friar Gomita," he rejoin'd, "He of Gallura, vessel of all guile, Who had his master's enemies in hand, And us'd them so that they commend him well. Money he took, and them at large dismiss'd. So he reports: and in each other charge Committed to his keeping, play'd the part Of barterer to the height: with him doth herd The chief of Logodoro, Michel Zanche. Sardinia is a theme, whereof their tongue Is never weary. Out! alas! behold That other, how he grins! More would I say, But tremble lest he mean to maul me sore." Their captain then to Farfarello turning, Who roll'd his moony eyes in act to strike, Rebuk'd him thus: "Off! cursed bird! Avaunt!"-- "If ye desire to see or hear," he thus Quaking with dread resum'd, "or Tuscan spirits Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear. Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury, So that no vengeance they may fear from them, And I, remaining in this self-same place, Will for myself but one, make sev'n appear, When my shrill whistle shall be heard; for so Our custom is to call each other up." Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn'd, Then wagg'd the head and spake: "Hear his device, Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down." Whereto he thus, who fail'd not in rich store Of nice-wove toils; "Mischief forsooth extreme, Meant only to procure myself more woe!" No longer Alichino then refrain'd, But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake: "If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let The bank be as a shield, that we may see If singly thou prevail against us all." Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear! They each one turn'd his eyes to the' other shore, He first, who was the hardest to persuade. The spirit of Navarre chose well his time, Planted his feet on land, and at one leap Escaping disappointed their resolve. Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit He therefore sped, exclaiming; "Thou art caught." But little it avail'd: terror outstripp'd His following flight: the other plung'd beneath, And he with upward pinion rais'd his breast: E'en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives The falcon near, dives instant down, while he Enrag'd and spent retires. That mockery In Calcabrina fury stirr'd, who flew After him, with desire of strife inflam'd; And, for the barterer had 'scap'd, so turn'd His talons on his comrade. O'er the dyke In grapple close they join'd; but the' other prov'd A goshawk able to rend well his foe; And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat Was umpire soon between them, but in vain To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest, That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatch'd From the' other coast, with all their weapons arm'd. They, to their post on each side speedily Descending, stretch'd their hooks toward the fiends, Who flounder'd, inly burning from their scars: And we departing left them to that broil. ===8 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 8 Cantos 23 - 28 CANTO XXIII IN silence and in solitude we went, One first, the other following his steps, As minor friars journeying on their road. The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to muse Upon old Aesop's fable, where he told What fate unto the mouse and frog befell. For language hath not sounds more like in sense, Than are these chances, if the origin And end of each be heedfully compar'd. And as one thought bursts from another forth, So afterward from that another sprang, Which added doubly to my former fear. For thus I reason'd: "These through us have been So foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete, As needs must sting them sore. If anger then Be to their evil will conjoin'd, more fell They shall pursue us, than the savage hound Snatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass, I should not sooner draw unto myself Thy outward image, than I now imprint That from within. This moment came thy thoughts Presented before mine, with similar act And count'nance similar, so that from both I one design have fram'd. If the right coast Incline so much, that we may thence descend Into the other chasm, we shall escape Secure from this imagined pursuit." He had not spoke his purpose to the end, When I from far beheld them with spread wings Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide Caught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleep Is by the noise arous'd, and near her sees The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe And flies ne'er pausing, careful more of him Than of herself, that but a single vest Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock, Which closes on one part the other chasm. Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, When over us the steep they reach'd; but fear In him was none; for that high Providence, Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss, Power of departing thence took from them all. There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! We yet once more with them together turn'd To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly came The fainting people, that our company Was chang'd at every movement of the step. Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice, Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet, Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air. Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd To overtake me; but the load they bare And narrow path retarded their approach. Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askance Perus'd me, but spake not: then turning each To other thus conferring said: "This one Seems, by the action of his throat, alive. And, be they dead, what privilege allows They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?" Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." "By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied, "In the great city I was bred and grew, And wear the body I have ever worn. but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief, As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks? What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?" "Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue," One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross, That with their weight they make the balances To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were, Bologna's natives, Catalano I, He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter, To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo's vicinage can best declare." "O friars!" I began, "your miseries--" But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard. And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware, Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs. In straits like this along the foss are plac'd The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews." I noted then, How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell'd they come To lead us from this depth." He thus replied: "Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o'ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below." With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. CANTO XXIV IN the year's early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister's image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour's issue, that he seems Still to foresee the' effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd His eye upon another. "Grapple that," Said he, "but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee." For one capp'd with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd. But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried, "For I am stout and fearless." Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: "To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not," Said he, "but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return." We from the bridge's head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn'd. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix'd the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'd To ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth. When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust again Uproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The' Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'd To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder'd with the monstrous agony He hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody." The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake: "It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart." CANTO XXV WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God! I level them at thee!" From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss, Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter'd more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm'd, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide: "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt." While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd; "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. "Where," said he, "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs The hideous monster intertwin'd his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, "Nor only one." The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang'd, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd That image miscreate, and so pass'd on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th' entrails of the other two Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first, One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd, As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd. He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other's substance. They in mutual guise So answer'd, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th' other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: "Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!" So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou, The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund'rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng'd, at its departure saw Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect Rais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu'd them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd; E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: "Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word," I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'd Already of the truth, already wish'd To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem'd Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?" He replied: "Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open'd wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles 'reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have power Of utt'rance from within these sparks," said I, "O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend." He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began: "O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate'er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd." Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'd From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T' explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd The bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the' other hand already Ceuta past. "O brothers!" I began, "who to the west Through perils without number now have reach'd, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn'd, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the' other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oft Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter'd, when from far Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos'd." CANTO XVII NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem'd Pierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn'd the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey'd Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: "O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, "Depart thou, I solicit thee no more, Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood." Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O'ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France. "The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd point On either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last: "If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. "A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so T' have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on, The' high priest again seduc'd me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn'd; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord, Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask'd: and I was silent: for his words Seem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd: 'From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." "When I was number'd with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.'" Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me not A disputant in logic so exact." To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin'd eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: "This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e'er Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur'd booty made A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs One were to show transpierc'd, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th' englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, Haply so lingering to delay the pain Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet," My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin Conducts to torment; but, that he may make Full trial of your state, I who am dead Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true." More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed, Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not Here soon to follow me, that with good store Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows Yield him a victim to Novara's power, No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade, Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind Piero of Medicina, if again Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo; "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo, That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright The future, they out of life's tenement Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves Near to Cattolica, through perfidy Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen An injury so foul, by pirates done Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end, That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus: "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of; He speaks not for himself: the outcast this Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind, Affirming that delay to men prepar'd Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd, 'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race." I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off, As one grief stung to madness. But I there Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw Things, such as I may fear without more proof To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, A headless trunk, that even as the rest Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said, "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself, And two there were in one, and one in two. How that may be he knows who ordereth so. When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." ===9 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 9 Cantos 29 - 31 CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on? Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below Among the maim'd and miserable shades? Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them That two and twenty miles the valley winds Its circuit, and already is the moon Beneath our feet: the time permitted now Is short, and more not seen remains to see." "If thou," I straight replied, "hadst weigh'd the cause For which I look'd, thou hadst perchance excus'd The tarrying still." My leader part pursu'd His way, the while I follow'd, answering him, And adding thus: "Within that cave I deem, Whereon so fixedly I held my ken, There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood, Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear." Then spake my master: "Let thy soul no more Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge's foot I mark'd how he did point with menacing look At thee, and heard him by the others nam'd Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul'd The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not That way, ere he was gone."--"O guide belov'd! His violent death yet unaveng'd," said I, "By any, who are partners in his shame, Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think, He pass'd me speechless by; and doing so Hath made me more compassionate his fate." So we discours'd to where the rock first show'd The other valley, had more light been there, E'en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came O'er the last cloister in the dismal rounds Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood Were to our view expos'd, then many a dart Of sore lament assail'd me, headed all With points of thrilling pity, that I clos'd Both ears against the volley with mine hands. As were the torment, if each lazar-house Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 'Twixt July and September, with the isle Sardinia and Maremma's pestilent fen, Had heap'd their maladies all in one foss Together; such was here the torment: dire The stench, as issuing steams from fester'd limbs. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. More rueful was it not methinks to see The nation in Aegina droop, what time Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, All fell, so full of malice was the air (And afterward, as bards of yore have told, The ancient people were restor'd anew From seed of emmets) than was here to see The spirits, that languish'd through the murky vale Up-pil'd on many a stack. Confus'd they lay, One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one Roll'd of another; sideling crawl'd a third Along the dismal pathway. Step by step We journey'd on, in silence looking round And list'ning those diseas'd, who strove in vain To lift their forms. Then two I mark'd, that sat Propp'd 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, A tetter bark'd them round. Nor saw I e'er Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord Impatient waited, or himself perchance Tir'd with long watching, as of these each one Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales Scrap'd from the bream or fish of broader mail. "O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off Thy coat of proof," thus spake my guide to one, "And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them, Tell me if any born of Latian land Be among these within: so may thy nails Serve thee for everlasting to this toil." "Both are of Latium," weeping he replied, "Whom tortur'd thus thou seest: but who art thou That hast inquir'd of us?" To whom my guide: "One that descend with this man, who yet lives, From rock to rock, and show him hell's abyss." Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." "Arezzo was my dwelling," answer'd one, "And me Albero of Sienna brought To die by fire; but that, for which I died, Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him, That I had learn'd to wing my flight in air. And he admiring much, as he was void Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him The secret of mine art: and only hence, Because I made him not a Daedalus, Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me. But Minos to this chasm last of the ten, For that I practis'd alchemy on earth, Has doom'd me. Him no subterfuge eludes." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." The other leprous spirit heard my words, And thus return'd: "Be Stricca from this charge Exempted, he who knew so temp'rately To lay out fortune's gifts; and Niccolo Who first the spice's costly luxury Discover'd in that garden, where such seed Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano Lavish'd his vineyards and wide-spreading woods, And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show'd A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know Who seconds thee against the Siennese Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen'd sight, That well my face may answer to thy ken; So shalt thou see I am Capocchio's ghost, Who forg'd transmuted metals by the power Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right, Thus needs must well remember how I aped Creative nature by my subtle art." CANTO XXX WHAT time resentment burn'd in Juno's breast For Semele against the Theban blood, As more than once in dire mischance was rued, Such fatal frenzy seiz'd on Athamas, That he his spouse beholding with a babe Laden on either arm, "Spread out," he cried, "The meshes, that I take the lioness And the young lions at the pass:" then forth Stretch'd he his merciless talons, grasping one, One helpless innocent, Learchus nam'd, Whom swinging down he dash'd upon a rock, And with her other burden self-destroy'd The hapless mother plung'd: and when the pride Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height, By fortune overwhelm'd, and the old king With his realm perish'd, then did Hecuba, A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw Polyxena first slaughter'd, and her son, Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach Next met the mourner's view, then reft of sense Did she run barking even as a dog; Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul. Bet ne'er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads Infixing in the limbs of man or beast, As now two pale and naked ghost I saw That gnarling wildly scamper'd, like the swine Excluded from his stye. One reach'd Capocchio, And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs, Dragg'd him, that o'er the solid pavement rubb'd His belly stretch'd out prone. The other shape, He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake; "That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood Of random mischief vent he still his spite." To whom I answ'ring: "Oh! as thou dost hope, The other may not flesh its jaws on thee, Be patient to inform us, who it is, Ere it speed hence."--"That is the ancient soul Of wretched Myrrha," he replied, "who burn'd With most unholy flame for her own sire, "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." When vanish'd the two furious shades, on whom Mine eye was held, I turn'd it back to view The other cursed spirits. One I saw In fashion like a lute, had but the groin Been sever'd, where it meets the forked part. Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch Suits not the visage, open'd wide his lips Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, One towards the chin, the other upward curl'd. "O ye, who in this world of misery, Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," Thus he began, "attentively regard Adamo's woe. When living, full supply Ne'er lack'd me of what most I coveted; One drop of water now, alas! I crave. The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes Of Casentino, making fresh and soft The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, Stand ever in my view; and not in vain; For more the pictur'd semblance dries me up, Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh Desert these shrivel'd cheeks. So from the place, Where I transgress'd, stern justice urging me, Takes means to quicken more my lab'ring sighs. There is Romena, where I falsified The metal with the Baptist's form imprest, For which on earth I left my body burnt. But if I here might see the sorrowing soul Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's limpid spring I would not change The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, If truly the mad spirits tell, that round Are wand'ring. But wherein besteads me that? My limbs are fetter'd. Were I but so light, That I each hundred years might move one inch, I had set forth already on this path, Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, Although eleven miles it wind, not more Than half of one across. They brought me down Among this tribe; induc'd by them I stamp'd The florens with three carats of alloy." "Who are that abject pair," I next inquir'd, "That closely bounding thee upon thy right Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep'd In the chill stream?"--"When to this gulf I dropt," He answer'd, "here I found them; since that hour They have not turn'd, nor ever shall, I ween, Till time hath run his course. One is that dame The false accuser of the Hebrew youth; Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, In such a cloud upsteam'd." When that he heard, One, gall'd perchance to be so darkly nam'd, With clench'd hand smote him on the braced paunch, That like a drum resounded: but forthwith Adamo smote him on the face, the blow Returning with his arm, that seem'd as hard. "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," Said Sinon; "I am here but for one fault, And thou for more than any imp beside." "Remember," he replied, "O perjur'd one, The horse remember, that did teem with death, And all the world be witness to thy guilt." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more. And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." CANTO XXXI THE very tongue, whose keen reproof before Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain'd, Now minister'd my cure. So have I heard, Achilles and his father's javelin caus'd Pain first, and then the boon of health restor'd. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, W cross'd th' encircled mound in silence. There Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom Mine eye advanc'd not: but I heard a horn Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made The thunder feeble. Following its course The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent On that one spot. So terrible a blast Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout O'erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench'd His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long My head was rais'd, when many lofty towers Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land Is this?" He answer'd straight: "Too long a space Of intervening darkness has thine eye To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err'd In thy imagining. Thither arriv'd Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." As when a fog disperseth gradually, Our vision traces what the mist involves Condens'd in air; so piercing through the gross And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more We near'd toward the brink, mine error fled, And fear came o'er me. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls, E'en thus the shore, encompassing th' abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav'n Yet threatens, when his mutt'ring thunder rolls. Of one already I descried the face, Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge Great part, and both arms down along his ribs. All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand Left framing of these monsters, did display Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she Repent her not of th' elephant and whale, Who ponders well confesses her therein Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force And evil will are back'd with subtlety, Resistance none avails. His visage seem'd In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops Saint Peter's Roman fane; and th' other bones Of like proportion, so that from above The bank, which girdled him below, such height Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders Had striv'n in vain to reach but to his hair. Full thirty ample palms was he expos'd Downward from whence a man his garments loops. "Raphel bai ameth sabi almi," So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns Became not; and my guide address'd him thus: "O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck, There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on. Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast Where hangs the baldrick!" Then to me he spake: "He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this, Through whose ill counsel in the world no more One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste Our words; for so each language is to him, As his to others, understood by none." Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, And at a sling's throw found another shade Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say What master hand had girt him; but he held Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before The other with a chain, that fasten'd him From the neck down, and five times round his form Apparent met the wreathed links. "This proud one Would of his strength against almighty Jove Make trial," said my guide; "whence he is thus Requited: Ephialtes him they call. "Great was his prowess, when the giants brought Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled, Now moves he never." Forthwith I return'd: "Fain would I, if 't were possible, mine eyes Of Briareus immeasurable gain'd Experience next." He answer'd: "Thou shalt see Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks And is unfetter'd, who shall place us there Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made Like to this spirit, save that in his looks More fell he seems." By violent earthquake rock'd Ne'er shook a tow'r, so reeling to its base, As Ephialtes. More than ever then I dreaded death, nor than the terror more Had needed, if I had not seen the cords That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on, Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete Without the head, forth issued from the cave. "O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, Seems as men yet believ'd, that through thine arm The sons of earth had conquer'd, now vouchsafe To place us down beneath, where numbing cold Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. He in the upper world can yet bestow Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks For life yet longer, if before the time Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake The teacher. He in haste forth stretch'd his hands, And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt That grapple straighten'd score. Soon as my guide Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, That we were both one burden. As appears The tower of Carisenda, from beneath Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud So sail across, that opposite it hangs, Such then Antaeus seem'd, as at mine ease I mark'd him stooping. I were fain at times T' have pass'd another way. Yet in th' abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he plac'd us; nor there leaning stay'd, But rose as in a bark the stately mast. ===10 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 10 Cantos 32 - 34 CANTO XXXII COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. A space I look'd around, then at my feet Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye, Whose bosoms thus together press," said I, "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent, And when their looks were lifted up to me, Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there. Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd. And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft, Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves. They from one body issued; and throughout Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade More worthy in congealment to be fix'd, Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia, No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be, Well knowest who he was: and to cut short All further question, in my form behold What once was Camiccione. I await Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on Toward the middle, at whose point unites All heavy substance, and I trembling went Through that eternal chillness, I know not If will it were or destiny, or chance, But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike With violent blow against the face of one. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that I will not tell nor show thee who I am, Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes Drawn in and downward, when another cried, "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright? What devil wrings thee?"--"Now," said I, "be dumb, Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee True tidings will I bear."--"Off," he replied, "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold. 'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd, Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd What other shade was with them, at thy side Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd The biting axe of Florence. Farther on, If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides, With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him Who op'd Faenza when the people slept." We now had left him, passing on our way, When I beheld two spirits by the ice Pent in one hollow, that the head of one Was cowl unto the other; and as bread Is raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost Did so apply his fangs to th' other's brain, Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd, Than on that skull and on its garbage he. "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that, wherewith I speak be moist so long." CANTO XXXIII HIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast, That sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head, Which he behind had mangled, then began: "Thy will obeying, I call up afresh Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words, That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear Fruit of eternal infamy to him, The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be I know not, nor how here below art come: But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth Count Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en And after murder'd, need is not I tell. What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate Within that mew, which for my sake the name Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, Already through its opening sev'ral moons Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep, That from the future tore the curtain off. This one, methought, as master of the sport, Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs Inquisitive and keen, before him rang'd Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. After short course the father and the sons Seem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold; And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up The' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word I look'd upon the visage of my sons. I wept not: so all stone I felt within. They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried: "Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet I shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day Nor the next night, until another sun Came out upon the world. When a faint beam Had to our doleful prison made its way, And in four countenances I descry'd The image of my own, on either hand Through agony I bit, and they who thought I did it through desire of feeding, rose O' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, 'And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth! Why open'dst not upon us? When we came To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet Outstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help For me, my father!' There he died, and e'en Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth: "Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope Over them all, and for three days aloud Call'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame Of all the people, who their dwelling make In that fair region, where th' Italian voice Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack To punish, from their deep foundations rise Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee May perish in the waters! What if fame Reported that thy castles were betray'd By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou To stretch his children on the rack. For them, Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd, Where others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice Not on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd. There very weeping suffers not to weep; For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds Impediment, and rolling inward turns For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears Hang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show, Under the socket brimming all the cup. Now though the cold had from my face dislodg'd Each feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd Some breath of wind I felt. "Whence cometh this," Said I, "my master? Is not here below All vapour quench'd?"--"'Thou shalt be speedily," He answer'd, "where thine eye shall tell thee whence The cause descrying of this airy shower." Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd: "O souls so cruel! that the farthest post Hath been assign'd you, from this face remove The harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief Impregnate at my heart, some little space Ere it congeal again!" I thus replied: "Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid; And if I extricate thee not, far down As to the lowest ice may I descend!" "The friar Alberigo," answered he, "Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date More luscious for my fig."--"Hah!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou too dead!"--"How in the world aloft It fareth with my body," answer'd he, "I am right ignorant. Such privilege Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd. And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, As I did, yields her body to a fiend Who after moves and governs it at will, Till all its time be rounded; headlong she Falls to this cistern. And perchance above Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st, If thou but newly art arriv'd below. The years are many that have pass'd away, Since to this fastness Branca Doria came." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." He thus: "Not yet unto that upper foss By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd, When this one left a demon in his stead In his own body, and of one his kin, Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth Thy hand, and ope mine eyes." I op'd them not. Ill manners were best courtesy to him. Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way, With every foulness stain'd, why from the earth Are ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, As for his doings even now in soul Is in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem In body still alive upon the earth. CANTO XXXIV "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain Record the marvel) where the souls were all Whelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid, Others stood upright, this upon the soles, That on his head, a third with face to feet Arch'd like a bow. When to the point we came, Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see The creature eminent in beauty once, He from before me stepp'd and made me pause. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." How frozen and how faint I then became, Ask me not, reader! for I write it not, Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. I was not dead nor living. Think thyself If quick conception work in thee at all, How I did feel. That emperor, who sways The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice Stood forth; and I in stature am more like A giant, than the giants are in his arms. Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits With such a part. If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight! How passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy Upon his head three faces: one in front Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest; The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left To look on, such as come from whence old Nile Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth Two mighty wings, enormous as became A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they, But were in texture like a bat, and these He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam. At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three Were in this guise tormented. But far more Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit, Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide, "Is Judas, he that hath his head within And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears So large of limb. But night now re-ascends, And it is time for parting. All is seen." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. Soon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh Upon the swelling of the haunches turns, My leader there with pain and struggling hard Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before, And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts, That into hell methought we turn'd again. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. "Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet. The way is long, and much uncouth the road; And now within one hour and half of noon The sun returns." It was no palace-hall Lofty and luminous wherein we stood, But natural dungeon where ill footing was And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss I sep'rate," thus when risen I began, "My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free From error's thralldom. Where is now the ice? How standeth he in posture thus revers'd? And how from eve to morn in space so brief Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world. Thou wast on th' other side, so long as I Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass That point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd Under the hemisphere opposed to that, Which the great continent doth overspread, And underneath whose canopy expir'd The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd. Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere, Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn Here rises, when there evening sets: and he, Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd, As at the first. On this part he fell down From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before, Through fear of him did veil her with the sea, And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance To shun him was the vacant space left here By what of firm land on this side appears, That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath, From Belzebub as distant, as extends The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight, But by the sound of brooklet, that descends This way along the hollow of a rock, Which, as it winds with no precipitous course, The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climbed, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. 
8785	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 7 Cantos 18 - 22 CANTO XVIII THERE is a place within the depths of hell Call'd Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain'd With hue ferruginous, e'en as the steep That round it circling winds. Right in the midst Of that abominable region, yawns A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains, Throughout its round, between the gulf and base Of the high craggy banks, successive forms Ten trenches, in its hollow bottom sunk. As where to guard the walls, full many a foss Begirds some stately castle, sure defence Affording to the space within, so here Were model'd these; and as like fortresses E'en from their threshold to the brink without, Are flank'd with bridges; from the rock's low base Thus flinty paths advanc'd, that 'cross the moles And dikes, struck onward far as to the gulf, That in one bound collected cuts them off. Such was the place, wherein we found ourselves From Geryon's back dislodg'd. The bard to left Held on his way, and I behind him mov'd. On our right hand new misery I saw, New pains, new executioners of wrath, That swarming peopled the first chasm. Below Were naked sinners. Hitherward they came, Meeting our faces from the middle point, With us beyond but with a larger stride. E'en thus the Romans, when the year returns Of Jubilee, with better speed to rid The thronging multitudes, their means devise For such as pass the bridge; that on one side All front toward the castle, and approach Saint Peter's fane, on th' other towards the mount. Each divers way along the grisly rock, Horn'd demons I beheld, with lashes huge, That on their back unmercifully smote. Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe! None for the second waited nor the third. Meantime as on I pass'd, one met my sight Whom soon as view'd; "Of him," cried I, "not yet Mine eye hath had his fill." With fixed gaze I therefore scann'd him. Straight the teacher kind Paus'd with me, and consented I should walk Backward a space, and the tormented spirit, Who thought to hide him, bent his visage down. But it avail'd him nought; for I exclaim'd: "Thou who dost cast thy eye upon the ground, Unless thy features do belie thee much, Venedico art thou. But what brings thee Into this bitter seas'ning?" He replied: "Unwillingly I answer to thy words. But thy clear speech, that to my mind recalls The world I once inhabited, constrains me. Know then 'twas I who led fair Ghisola To do the Marquis' will, however fame The shameful tale have bruited. Nor alone Bologna hither sendeth me to mourn Rather with us the place is so o'erthrong'd That not so many tongues this day are taught, Betwixt the Reno and Savena's stream, To answer SIPA in their country's phrase. And if of that securer proof thou need, Remember but our craving thirst for gold." Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong Struck, and exclaim'd, "Away! corrupter! here Women are none for sale." Forthwith I join'd My escort, and few paces thence we came To where a rock forth issued from the bank. That easily ascended, to the right Upon its splinter turning, we depart From those eternal barriers. When arriv'd, Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass The scourged souls: "Pause here," the teacher said, "And let these others miserable, now Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld, For that together they with us have walk'd." From the old bridge we ey'd the pack, who came From th' other side towards us, like the rest, Excoriate from the lash. My gentle guide, By me unquestion'd, thus his speech resum'd: "Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends, And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear. How yet the regal aspect he retains! Jason is he, whose skill and prowess won The ram from Colchos. To the Lemnian isle His passage thither led him, when those bold And pitiless women had slain all their males. There he with tokens and fair witching words Hypsipyle beguil'd, a virgin young, Who first had all the rest herself beguil'd. Impregnated he left her there forlorn. Such is the guilt condemns him to this pain. Here too Medea's inj'ries are avenged. All bear him company, who like deceit To his have practis'd. And thus much to know Of the first vale suffice thee, and of those Whom its keen torments urge." Now had we come Where, crossing the next pier, the straighten'd path Bestrides its shoulders to another arch. Hence in the second chasm we heard the ghosts, Who jibber in low melancholy sounds, With wide-stretch'd nostrils snort, and on themselves Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf From the foul steam condens'd, encrusting hung, That held sharp combat with the sight and smell. So hollow is the depth, that from no part, Save on the summit of the rocky span, Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came; And thence I saw, within the foss below, A crowd immers'd in ordure, that appear'd Draff of the human body. There beneath Searching with eye inquisitive, I mark'd One with his head so grim'd, 't were hard to deem, If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried: "Why greedily thus bendest more on me, Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken?" "Because if true my mem'ry," I replied, "I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks, And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung. Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." Then beating on his brain these words he spake: "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." My leader thus: "A little further stretch Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan, Who there doth rend her with defiled nails, Now crouching down, now risen on her feet. "Thais is this, the harlot, whose false lip Answer'd her doting paramour that ask'd, 'Thankest me much!'--'Say rather wondrously,' And seeing this here satiate be our view." CANTO XIX WOE to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you, His wretched followers! who the things of God, Which should be wedded unto goodness, them, Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute For gold and silver in adultery! Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours Is the third chasm. Upon the following vault We now had mounted, where the rock impends Directly o'er the centre of the foss. Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art, Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, And in the evil world, how just a meed Allotting by thy virtue unto all! I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides And in its bottom full of apertures, All equal in their width, and circular each, Nor ample less nor larger they appear'd Than in Saint John's fair dome of me belov'd Those fram'd to hold the pure baptismal streams, One of the which I brake, some few years past, To save a whelming infant; and be this A seal to undeceive whoever doubts The motive of my deed. From out the mouth Of every one, emerg'd a sinner's feet And of the legs high upward as the calf The rest beneath was hid. On either foot The soles were burning, whence the flexile joints Glanc'd with such violent motion, as had snapt Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame, Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along The surface, scarcely touching where it moves; So here, from heel to point, glided the flames. "Master! say who is he, than all the rest Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom A ruddier flame doth prey?" I thus inquir'd. "If thou be willing," he replied, "that I Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls, He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs." I then: "As pleases thee to me is best. Thou art my lord; and know'st that ne'er I quit Thy will: what silence hides that knowest thou." Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn'd, And on our left descended to the depth, A narrow strait and perforated close. Nor from his side my leader set me down, Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb Quiv'ring express'd his pang. "Whoe'er thou art, Sad spirit! thus revers'd, and as a stake Driv'n in the soil!" I in these words began, "If thou be able, utter forth thy voice." There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive A wretch for murder doom'd, who e'en when fix'd, Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. He shouted: "Ha! already standest there? Already standest there, O Boniface! By many a year the writing play'd me false. So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, For which thou fearedst not in guile to take The lovely lady, and then mangle her?" I felt as those who, piercing not the drift Of answer made them, stand as if expos'd In mockery, nor know what to reply, When Virgil thus admonish'd: "Tell him quick, I am not he, not he, whom thou believ'st." And I, as was enjoin'd me, straight replied. That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet, And sighing next in woeful accent spake: "What then of me requirest? If to know So much imports thee, who I am, that thou Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn That in the mighty mantle I was rob'd, And of a she-bear was indeed the son, So eager to advance my whelps, that there My having in my purse above I stow'd, And here myself. Under my head are dragg'd The rest, my predecessors in the guilt Of simony. Stretch'd at their length they lie Along an opening in the rock. 'Midst them I also low shall fall, soon as he comes, For whom I took thee, when so hastily I question'd. But already longer time Hath pass'd, since my souls kindled, and I thus Upturn'd have stood, than is his doom to stand Planted with fiery feet. For after him, One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive, From forth the west, a shepherd without law, Fated to cover both his form and mine. He a new Jason shall be call'd, of whom In Maccabees we read; and favour such As to that priest his king indulgent show'd, Shall be of France's monarch shown to him." I know not if I here too far presum'd, But in this strain I answer'd: "Tell me now, What treasures from St. Peter at the first Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys Into his charge? Surely he ask'd no more But, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the rest Or gold or silver of Matthias took, When lots were cast upon the forfeit place Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then; Thy punishment of right is merited: And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin, Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir'd. If reverence of the keys restrain'd me not, Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet Severer speech might use. Your avarice O'ercasts the world with mourning, under foot Treading the good, and raising bad men up. Of shepherds, like to you, th' Evangelist Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves, With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld, She who with seven heads tower'd at her birth, And from ten horns her proof of glory drew, Long as her spouse in virtue took delight. Of gold and silver ye have made your god, Diff'ring wherein from the idolater, But he that worships one, a hundred ye? Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth, Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower, Which the first wealthy Father gain'd from thee!" Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang Spinning on either sole. I do believe My teacher well was pleas'd, with so compos'd A lip, he listen'd ever to the sound Of the true words I utter'd. In both arms He caught, and to his bosom lifting me Upward retrac'd the way of his descent. Nor weary of his weight he press'd me close, Till to the summit of the rock we came, Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier. His cherish'd burden there gently he plac'd Upon the rugged rock and steep, a path Not easy for the clamb'ring goat to mount. Thence to my view another vale appear'd CANTO XX AND now the verse proceeds to torments new, Fit argument of this the twentieth strain Of the first song, whose awful theme records The spirits whelm'd in woe. Earnest I look'd Into the depth, that open'd to my view, Moisten'd with tears of anguish, and beheld A tribe, that came along the hollow vale, In silence weeping: such their step as walk Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth. As on them more direct mine eye descends, Each wondrously seem'd to be revers'd At the neck-bone, so that the countenance Was from the reins averted: and because None might before him look, they were compell'd To' advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos'd, But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so. Now, reader! think within thyself, so God Fruit of thy reading give thee! how I long Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld Near me our form distorted in such guise, That on the hinder parts fall'n from the face The tears down-streaming roll'd. Against a rock I leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim'd: "What, and art thou too witless as the rest? Here pity most doth show herself alive, When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his, Who with Heaven's judgment in his passion strives? Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man, Before whose eyes earth gap'd in Thebes, when all Cried out, 'Amphiaraus, whither rushest? 'Why leavest thou the war?' He not the less Fell ruining far as to Minos down, Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makes The breast his shoulders, and who once too far Before him wish'd to see, now backward looks, And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note, Who semblance chang'd, when woman he became Of male, through every limb transform'd, and then Once more behov'd him with his rod to strike The two entwining serpents, ere the plumes, That mark'd the better sex, might shoot again. "Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes. On Luni's mountains 'midst the marbles white, Where delves Carrara's hind, who wons beneath, A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars And main-sea wide in boundless view he held. "The next, whose loosen'd tresses overspread Her bosom, which thou seest not (for each hair On that side grows) was Manto, she who search'd Through many regions, and at length her seat Fix'd in my native land, whence a short space My words detain thy audience. When her sire From life departed, and in servitude The city dedicate to Bacchus mourn'd, Long time she went a wand'rer through the world. Aloft in Italy's delightful land A lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp, That o'er the Tyrol locks Germania in, Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills, Methinks, and more, water between the vale Camonica and Garda and the height Of Apennine remote. There is a spot At midway of that lake, where he who bears Of Trento's flock the past'ral staff, with him Of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each Passing that way his benediction give. A garrison of goodly site and strong Peschiera stands, to awe with front oppos'd The Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shore More slope each way descends. There, whatsoev'er Benacus' bosom holds not, tumbling o'er Down falls, and winds a river flood beneath Through the green pastures. Soon as in his course The steam makes head, Benacus then no more They call the name, but Mincius, till at last Reaching Governo into Po he falls. Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh It covers, pestilent in summer oft. Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw 'Midst of the fen a territory waste And naked of inhabitants. To shun All human converse, here she with her slaves Plying her arts remain'd, and liv'd, and left Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes, Who round were scatter'd, gath'ring to that place Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos'd On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones They rear'd themselves a city, for her sake, Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot, Nor ask'd another omen for the name, Wherein more numerous the people dwelt, Ere Casalodi's madness by deceit Was wrong'd of Pinamonte. If thou hear Henceforth another origin assign'd Of that my country, I forewarn thee now, That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth." I answer'd: "Teacher, I conclude thy words So certain, that all else shall be to me As embers lacking life. But now of these, Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see Any that merit more especial note. For thereon is my mind alone intent." He straight replied: "That spirit, from whose cheek The beard sweeps o'er his shoulders brown, what time Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce The cradles were supplied, the seer was he In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign When first to cut the cable. Him they nam'd Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain, In which majestic measure well thou know'st, Who know'st it all. That other, round the loins So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot, Practis'd in ev'ry slight of magic wile. "Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark, Who now were willing, he had tended still The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. "See next the wretches, who the needle left, The shuttle and the spindle, and became Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought With images and herbs. But onward now: For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well: For she good service did thee in the gloom Of the deep wood." This said, both onward mov'd. CANTO XXI THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk, The which my drama cares not to rehearse, Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood To view another gap, within the round Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs. Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place. In the Venetians' arsenal as boils Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear Their unsound vessels; for th' inclement time Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while His bark one builds anew, another stops The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage; One hammers at the prow, one at the poop; This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls, The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent So not by force of fire but art divine Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round Lim'd all the shore beneath. I that beheld, But therein nought distinguish'd, save the surge, Rais'd by the boiling, in one mighty swell Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there I fix'd my ken below, "Mark! mark!" my guide Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place, Wherein I stood. I turn'd myself as one, Impatient to behold that which beheld He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans, That he his flight delays not for the view. Behind me I discern'd a devil black, That running, up advanc'd along the rock. Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake! In act how bitter did he seem, with wings Buoyant outstretch'd and feet of nimblest tread! His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp Was with a sinner charg'd; by either haunch He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast. "Ye of our bridge!" he cried, "keen-talon'd fiends! Lo! one of Santa Zita's elders! Him Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more. That land hath store of such. All men are there, Except Bonturo, barterers: of 'no' For lucre there an 'aye' is quickly made." Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd, Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos'd Sped with like eager haste. That other sank And forthwith writing to the surface rose. But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge, Cried "Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave. Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not, Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch." This said, They grappled him with more than hundred hooks, And shouted: "Cover'd thou must sport thee here; So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch." E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms, To thrust the flesh into the caldron down With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. Me then my guide bespake: "Lest they descry, That thou art here, behind a craggy rock Bend low and screen thee; and whate'er of force Be offer'd me, or insult, fear thou not: For I am well advis'd, who have been erst In the like fray." Beyond the bridge's head Therewith he pass'd, and reaching the sixth pier, Behov'd him then a forehead terror-proof. With storm and fury, as when dogs rush forth Upon the poor man's back, who suddenly From whence he standeth makes his suit; so rush'd Those from beneath the arch, and against him Their weapons all they pointed. He aloud: "Be none of you outrageous: ere your time Dare seize me, come forth from amongst you one, "Who having heard my words, decide he then If he shall tear these limbs." They shouted loud, "Go, Malacoda!" Whereat one advanc'd, The others standing firm, and as he came, "What may this turn avail him?" he exclaim'd. "Believ'st thou, Malacoda! I had come Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," My teacher answered, "without will divine And destiny propitious? Pass we then For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I should lead Another through this savage wilderness." Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop The instrument of torture at his feet, And to the rest exclaim'd: "We have no power To strike him." Then to me my guide: "O thou! Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit Low crouching, safely now to me return." I rose, and towards him moved with speed: the fiends Meantime all forward drew: me terror seiz'd Lest they should break the compact they had made. Thus issuing from Caprona, once I saw Th' infantry dreading, lest his covenant The foe should break; so close he hemm'd them round. I to my leader's side adher'd, mine eyes With fixt and motionless observance bent On their unkindly visage. They their hooks Protruding, one the other thus bespake: "Wilt thou I touch him on the hip?" To whom Was answer'd: "Even so; nor miss thy aim." But he, who was in conf'rence with my guide, Turn'd rapid round, and thus the demon spake: "Stay, stay thee, Scarmiglione!" Then to us He added: "Further footing to your step This rock affords not, shiver'd to the base Of the sixth arch. But would you still proceed, Up by this cavern go: not distant far, Another rock will yield you passage safe. Yesterday, later by five hours than now, Twelve hundred threescore years and six had fill'd The circuit of their course, since here the way Was broken. Thitherward I straight dispatch Certain of these my scouts, who shall espy If any on the surface bask. With them Go ye: for ye shall find them nothing fell. Come Alichino forth," with that he cried, "And Calcabrina, and Cagnazzo thou! The troop of ten let Barbariccia lead. With Libicocco Draghinazzo haste, Fang'd Ciriatto, Grafflacane fierce, And Farfarello, and mad Rubicant. Search ye around the bubbling tar. For these, In safety lead them, where the other crag Uninterrupted traverses the dens." I then: "O master! what a sight is there! Ah! without escort, journey we alone, Which, if thou know the way, I covet not. Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl Threatens us present tortures?" He replied: "I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will, Gnarl on: 't is but in token of their spite Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep'd." To leftward o'er the pier they turn'd; but each Had first between his teeth prest close the tongue, Toward their leader for a signal looking, Which he with sound obscene triumphant gave. CANTO XXII IT hath been heretofore my chance to see Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, To onset sallying, or in muster rang'd, Or in retreat sometimes outstretch'd for flight; Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen, And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, And with inventions multiform, our own, Or introduc'd from foreign land; but ne'er To such a strange recorder I beheld, In evolution moving, horse nor foot, Nor ship, that tack'd by sign from land or star. With the ten demons on our way we went; Ah fearful company! but in the church With saints, with gluttons at the tavern's mess. Still earnest on the pitch I gaz'd, to mark All things whate'er the chasm contain'd, and those Who burn'd within. As dolphins, that, in sign To mariners, heave high their arched backs, That thence forewarn'd they may advise to save Their threaten'd vessels; so, at intervals, To ease the pain his back some sinner show'd, Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance. E'en as the frogs, that of a wat'ry moat Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out, Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed, Thus on each part the sinners stood, but soon As Barbariccia was at hand, so they Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus, As it befalls that oft one frog remains, While the next springs away: and Graffiacan, Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seiz'd His clotted locks, and dragg'd him sprawling up, That he appear'd to me an otter. Each Already by their names I knew, so well When they were chosen, I observ'd, and mark'd How one the other call'd. "O Rubicant! See that his hide thou with thy talons flay," Shouted together all the cursed crew. Then I: "Inform thee, master! if thou may, What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand His foes have laid." My leader to his side Approach'd, and whence he came inquir'd, to whom Was answer'd thus: "Born in Navarre's domain My mother plac'd me in a lord's retinue, For she had borne me to a losel vile, A spendthrift of his substance and himself. The good king Thibault after that I serv'd, To peculating here my thoughts were turn'd, Whereof I give account in this dire heat." Straight Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk Issued on either side, as from a boar, Ript him with one of these. 'Twixt evil claws The mouse had fall'n: but Barbariccia cried, Seizing him with both arms: "Stand thou apart, While I do fix him on my prong transpierc'd." Then added, turning to my guide his face, "Inquire of him, if more thou wish to learn, Ere he again be rent." My leader thus: "Then tell us of the partners in thy guilt; Knowest thou any sprung of Latian land Under the tar?"--"I parted," he replied, "But now from one, who sojourn'd not far thence; So were I under shelter now with him! Nor hook nor talon then should scare me more."--. "Too long we suffer," Libicocco cried, Then, darting forth a prong, seiz'd on his arm, And mangled bore away the sinewy part. Him Draghinazzo by his thighs beneath Would next have caught, whence angrily their chief, Turning on all sides round, with threat'ning brow Restrain'd them. When their strife a little ceas'd, Of him, who yet was gazing on his wound, My teacher thus without delay inquir'd: "Who was the spirit, from whom by evil hap Parting, as thou has told, thou cam'st to shore?"-- "It was the friar Gomita," he rejoin'd, "He of Gallura, vessel of all guile, Who had his master's enemies in hand, And us'd them so that they commend him well. Money he took, and them at large dismiss'd. So he reports: and in each other charge Committed to his keeping, play'd the part Of barterer to the height: with him doth herd The chief of Logodoro, Michel Zanche. Sardinia is a theme, whereof their tongue Is never weary. Out! alas! behold That other, how he grins! More would I say, But tremble lest he mean to maul me sore." Their captain then to Farfarello turning, Who roll'd his moony eyes in act to strike, Rebuk'd him thus: "Off! cursed bird! Avaunt!"-- "If ye desire to see or hear," he thus Quaking with dread resum'd, "or Tuscan spirits Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear. Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury, So that no vengeance they may fear from them, And I, remaining in this self-same place, Will for myself but one, make sev'n appear, When my shrill whistle shall be heard; for so Our custom is to call each other up." Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn'd, Then wagg'd the head and spake: "Hear his device, Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down." Whereto he thus, who fail'd not in rich store Of nice-wove toils; "Mischief forsooth extreme, Meant only to procure myself more woe!" No longer Alichino then refrain'd, But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake: "If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let The bank be as a shield, that we may see If singly thou prevail against us all." Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear! They each one turn'd his eyes to the' other shore, He first, who was the hardest to persuade. The spirit of Navarre chose well his time, Planted his feet on land, and at one leap Escaping disappointed their resolve. Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit He therefore sped, exclaiming; "Thou art caught." But little it avail'd: terror outstripp'd His following flight: the other plung'd beneath, And he with upward pinion rais'd his breast: E'en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives The falcon near, dives instant down, while he Enrag'd and spent retires. That mockery In Calcabrina fury stirr'd, who flew After him, with desire of strife inflam'd; And, for the barterer had 'scap'd, so turn'd His talons on his comrade. O'er the dyke In grapple close they join'd; but the' other prov'd A goshawk able to rend well his foe; And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat Was umpire soon between them, but in vain To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest, That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatch'd From the' other coast, with all their weapons arm'd. They, to their post on each side speedily Descending, stretch'd their hooks toward the fiends, Who flounder'd, inly burning from their scars: And we departing left them to that broil. ===8 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 8 Cantos 23 - 28 CANTO XXIII IN silence and in solitude we went, One first, the other following his steps, As minor friars journeying on their road. The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to muse Upon old Aesop's fable, where he told What fate unto the mouse and frog befell. For language hath not sounds more like in sense, Than are these chances, if the origin And end of each be heedfully compar'd. And as one thought bursts from another forth, So afterward from that another sprang, Which added doubly to my former fear. For thus I reason'd: "These through us have been So foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete, As needs must sting them sore. If anger then Be to their evil will conjoin'd, more fell They shall pursue us, than the savage hound Snatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass, I should not sooner draw unto myself Thy outward image, than I now imprint That from within. This moment came thy thoughts Presented before mine, with similar act And count'nance similar, so that from both I one design have fram'd. If the right coast Incline so much, that we may thence descend Into the other chasm, we shall escape Secure from this imagined pursuit." He had not spoke his purpose to the end, When I from far beheld them with spread wings Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide Caught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleep Is by the noise arous'd, and near her sees The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe And flies ne'er pausing, careful more of him Than of herself, that but a single vest Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock, Which closes on one part the other chasm. Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, When over us the steep they reach'd; but fear In him was none; for that high Providence, Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss, Power of departing thence took from them all. There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! We yet once more with them together turn'd To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly came The fainting people, that our company Was chang'd at every movement of the step. Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice, Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet, Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air. Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd To overtake me; but the load they bare And narrow path retarded their approach. Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askance Perus'd me, but spake not: then turning each To other thus conferring said: "This one Seems, by the action of his throat, alive. And, be they dead, what privilege allows They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?" Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." "By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied, "In the great city I was bred and grew, And wear the body I have ever worn. but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief, As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks? What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?" "Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue," One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross, That with their weight they make the balances To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were, Bologna's natives, Catalano I, He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter, To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo's vicinage can best declare." "O friars!" I began, "your miseries--" But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard. And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware, Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs. In straits like this along the foss are plac'd The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews." I noted then, How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell'd they come To lead us from this depth." He thus replied: "Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o'ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below." With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. CANTO XXIV IN the year's early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister's image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour's issue, that he seems Still to foresee the' effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd His eye upon another. "Grapple that," Said he, "but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee." For one capp'd with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd. But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried, "For I am stout and fearless." Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: "To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not," Said he, "but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return." We from the bridge's head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn'd. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix'd the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'd To ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth. When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust again Uproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The' Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'd To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder'd with the monstrous agony He hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody." The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake: "It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart." CANTO XXV WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God! I level them at thee!" From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss, Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter'd more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm'd, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide: "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt." While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd; "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. "Where," said he, "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs The hideous monster intertwin'd his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, "Nor only one." The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang'd, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd That image miscreate, and so pass'd on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th' entrails of the other two Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first, One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd, As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd. He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other's substance. They in mutual guise So answer'd, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th' other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: "Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!" So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou, The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund'rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng'd, at its departure saw Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect Rais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu'd them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd; E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: "Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word," I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'd Already of the truth, already wish'd To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem'd Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?" He replied: "Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open'd wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles 'reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have power Of utt'rance from within these sparks," said I, "O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend." He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began: "O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate'er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd." Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'd From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T' explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd The bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the' other hand already Ceuta past. "O brothers!" I began, "who to the west Through perils without number now have reach'd, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn'd, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the' other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oft Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter'd, when from far Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos'd." CANTO XVII NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem'd Pierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn'd the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey'd Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: "O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, "Depart thou, I solicit thee no more, Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood." Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O'ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France. "The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd point On either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last: "If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. "A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so T' have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on, The' high priest again seduc'd me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn'd; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord, Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask'd: and I was silent: for his words Seem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd: 'From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." "When I was number'd with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.'" Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me not A disputant in logic so exact." To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin'd eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: "This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e'er Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur'd booty made A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs One were to show transpierc'd, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th' englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, Haply so lingering to delay the pain Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet," My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin Conducts to torment; but, that he may make Full trial of your state, I who am dead Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true." More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed, Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not Here soon to follow me, that with good store Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows Yield him a victim to Novara's power, No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade, Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind Piero of Medicina, if again Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo; "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo, That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright The future, they out of life's tenement Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves Near to Cattolica, through perfidy Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen An injury so foul, by pirates done Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end, That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus: "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of; He speaks not for himself: the outcast this Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind, Affirming that delay to men prepar'd Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd, 'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race." I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off, As one grief stung to madness. But I there Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw Things, such as I may fear without more proof To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, A headless trunk, that even as the rest Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said, "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself, And two there were in one, and one in two. How that may be he knows who ordereth so. When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." ===9 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 9 Cantos 29 - 31 CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on? Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below Among the maim'd and miserable shades? Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them That two and twenty miles the valley winds Its circuit, and already is the moon Beneath our feet: the time permitted now Is short, and more not seen remains to see." "If thou," I straight replied, "hadst weigh'd the cause For which I look'd, thou hadst perchance excus'd The tarrying still." My leader part pursu'd His way, the while I follow'd, answering him, And adding thus: "Within that cave I deem, Whereon so fixedly I held my ken, There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood, Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear." Then spake my master: "Let thy soul no more Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge's foot I mark'd how he did point with menacing look At thee, and heard him by the others nam'd Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul'd The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not That way, ere he was gone."--"O guide belov'd! His violent death yet unaveng'd," said I, "By any, who are partners in his shame, Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think, He pass'd me speechless by; and doing so Hath made me more compassionate his fate." So we discours'd to where the rock first show'd The other valley, had more light been there, E'en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came O'er the last cloister in the dismal rounds Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood Were to our view expos'd, then many a dart Of sore lament assail'd me, headed all With points of thrilling pity, that I clos'd Both ears against the volley with mine hands. As were the torment, if each lazar-house Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 'Twixt July and September, with the isle Sardinia and Maremma's pestilent fen, Had heap'd their maladies all in one foss Together; such was here the torment: dire The stench, as issuing steams from fester'd limbs. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. More rueful was it not methinks to see The nation in Aegina droop, what time Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, All fell, so full of malice was the air (And afterward, as bards of yore have told, The ancient people were restor'd anew From seed of emmets) than was here to see The spirits, that languish'd through the murky vale Up-pil'd on many a stack. Confus'd they lay, One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one Roll'd of another; sideling crawl'd a third Along the dismal pathway. Step by step We journey'd on, in silence looking round And list'ning those diseas'd, who strove in vain To lift their forms. Then two I mark'd, that sat Propp'd 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, A tetter bark'd them round. Nor saw I e'er Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord Impatient waited, or himself perchance Tir'd with long watching, as of these each one Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales Scrap'd from the bream or fish of broader mail. "O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off Thy coat of proof," thus spake my guide to one, "And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them, Tell me if any born of Latian land Be among these within: so may thy nails Serve thee for everlasting to this toil." "Both are of Latium," weeping he replied, "Whom tortur'd thus thou seest: but who art thou That hast inquir'd of us?" To whom my guide: "One that descend with this man, who yet lives, From rock to rock, and show him hell's abyss." Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." "Arezzo was my dwelling," answer'd one, "And me Albero of Sienna brought To die by fire; but that, for which I died, Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him, That I had learn'd to wing my flight in air. And he admiring much, as he was void Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him The secret of mine art: and only hence, Because I made him not a Daedalus, Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me. But Minos to this chasm last of the ten, For that I practis'd alchemy on earth, Has doom'd me. Him no subterfuge eludes." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." The other leprous spirit heard my words, And thus return'd: "Be Stricca from this charge Exempted, he who knew so temp'rately To lay out fortune's gifts; and Niccolo Who first the spice's costly luxury Discover'd in that garden, where such seed Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano Lavish'd his vineyards and wide-spreading woods, And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show'd A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know Who seconds thee against the Siennese Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen'd sight, That well my face may answer to thy ken; So shalt thou see I am Capocchio's ghost, Who forg'd transmuted metals by the power Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right, Thus needs must well remember how I aped Creative nature by my subtle art." CANTO XXX WHAT time resentment burn'd in Juno's breast For Semele against the Theban blood, As more than once in dire mischance was rued, Such fatal frenzy seiz'd on Athamas, That he his spouse beholding with a babe Laden on either arm, "Spread out," he cried, "The meshes, that I take the lioness And the young lions at the pass:" then forth Stretch'd he his merciless talons, grasping one, One helpless innocent, Learchus nam'd, Whom swinging down he dash'd upon a rock, And with her other burden self-destroy'd The hapless mother plung'd: and when the pride Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height, By fortune overwhelm'd, and the old king With his realm perish'd, then did Hecuba, A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw Polyxena first slaughter'd, and her son, Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach Next met the mourner's view, then reft of sense Did she run barking even as a dog; Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul. Bet ne'er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads Infixing in the limbs of man or beast, As now two pale and naked ghost I saw That gnarling wildly scamper'd, like the swine Excluded from his stye. One reach'd Capocchio, And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs, Dragg'd him, that o'er the solid pavement rubb'd His belly stretch'd out prone. The other shape, He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake; "That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood Of random mischief vent he still his spite." To whom I answ'ring: "Oh! as thou dost hope, The other may not flesh its jaws on thee, Be patient to inform us, who it is, Ere it speed hence."--"That is the ancient soul Of wretched Myrrha," he replied, "who burn'd With most unholy flame for her own sire, "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." When vanish'd the two furious shades, on whom Mine eye was held, I turn'd it back to view The other cursed spirits. One I saw In fashion like a lute, had but the groin Been sever'd, where it meets the forked part. Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch Suits not the visage, open'd wide his lips Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, One towards the chin, the other upward curl'd. "O ye, who in this world of misery, Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," Thus he began, "attentively regard Adamo's woe. When living, full supply Ne'er lack'd me of what most I coveted; One drop of water now, alas! I crave. The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes Of Casentino, making fresh and soft The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, Stand ever in my view; and not in vain; For more the pictur'd semblance dries me up, Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh Desert these shrivel'd cheeks. So from the place, Where I transgress'd, stern justice urging me, Takes means to quicken more my lab'ring sighs. There is Romena, where I falsified The metal with the Baptist's form imprest, For which on earth I left my body burnt. But if I here might see the sorrowing soul Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's limpid spring I would not change The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, If truly the mad spirits tell, that round Are wand'ring. But wherein besteads me that? My limbs are fetter'd. Were I but so light, That I each hundred years might move one inch, I had set forth already on this path, Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, Although eleven miles it wind, not more Than half of one across. They brought me down Among this tribe; induc'd by them I stamp'd The florens with three carats of alloy." "Who are that abject pair," I next inquir'd, "That closely bounding thee upon thy right Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep'd In the chill stream?"--"When to this gulf I dropt," He answer'd, "here I found them; since that hour They have not turn'd, nor ever shall, I ween, Till time hath run his course. One is that dame The false accuser of the Hebrew youth; Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, In such a cloud upsteam'd." When that he heard, One, gall'd perchance to be so darkly nam'd, With clench'd hand smote him on the braced paunch, That like a drum resounded: but forthwith Adamo smote him on the face, the blow Returning with his arm, that seem'd as hard. "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," Said Sinon; "I am here but for one fault, And thou for more than any imp beside." "Remember," he replied, "O perjur'd one, The horse remember, that did teem with death, And all the world be witness to thy guilt." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more. And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." CANTO XXXI THE very tongue, whose keen reproof before Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain'd, Now minister'd my cure. So have I heard, Achilles and his father's javelin caus'd Pain first, and then the boon of health restor'd. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, W cross'd th' encircled mound in silence. There Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom Mine eye advanc'd not: but I heard a horn Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made The thunder feeble. Following its course The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent On that one spot. So terrible a blast Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout O'erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench'd His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long My head was rais'd, when many lofty towers Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land Is this?" He answer'd straight: "Too long a space Of intervening darkness has thine eye To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err'd In thy imagining. Thither arriv'd Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." As when a fog disperseth gradually, Our vision traces what the mist involves Condens'd in air; so piercing through the gross And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more We near'd toward the brink, mine error fled, And fear came o'er me. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls, E'en thus the shore, encompassing th' abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav'n Yet threatens, when his mutt'ring thunder rolls. Of one already I descried the face, Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge Great part, and both arms down along his ribs. All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand Left framing of these monsters, did display Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she Repent her not of th' elephant and whale, Who ponders well confesses her therein Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force And evil will are back'd with subtlety, Resistance none avails. His visage seem'd In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops Saint Peter's Roman fane; and th' other bones Of like proportion, so that from above The bank, which girdled him below, such height Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders Had striv'n in vain to reach but to his hair. Full thirty ample palms was he expos'd Downward from whence a man his garments loops. "Raphel bai ameth sabi almi," So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns Became not; and my guide address'd him thus: "O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck, There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on. Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast Where hangs the baldrick!" Then to me he spake: "He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this, Through whose ill counsel in the world no more One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste Our words; for so each language is to him, As his to others, understood by none." Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, And at a sling's throw found another shade Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say What master hand had girt him; but he held Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before The other with a chain, that fasten'd him From the neck down, and five times round his form Apparent met the wreathed links. "This proud one Would of his strength against almighty Jove Make trial," said my guide; "whence he is thus Requited: Ephialtes him they call. "Great was his prowess, when the giants brought Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled, Now moves he never." Forthwith I return'd: "Fain would I, if 't were possible, mine eyes Of Briareus immeasurable gain'd Experience next." He answer'd: "Thou shalt see Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks And is unfetter'd, who shall place us there Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made Like to this spirit, save that in his looks More fell he seems." By violent earthquake rock'd Ne'er shook a tow'r, so reeling to its base, As Ephialtes. More than ever then I dreaded death, nor than the terror more Had needed, if I had not seen the cords That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on, Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete Without the head, forth issued from the cave. "O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, Seems as men yet believ'd, that through thine arm The sons of earth had conquer'd, now vouchsafe To place us down beneath, where numbing cold Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. He in the upper world can yet bestow Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks For life yet longer, if before the time Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake The teacher. He in haste forth stretch'd his hands, And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt That grapple straighten'd score. Soon as my guide Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, That we were both one burden. As appears The tower of Carisenda, from beneath Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud So sail across, that opposite it hangs, Such then Antaeus seem'd, as at mine ease I mark'd him stooping. I were fain at times T' have pass'd another way. Yet in th' abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he plac'd us; nor there leaning stay'd, But rose as in a bark the stately mast. ===10 THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OR THE INFERNO BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Part 10 Cantos 32 - 34 CANTO XXXII COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. A space I look'd around, then at my feet Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye, Whose bosoms thus together press," said I, "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent, And when their looks were lifted up to me, Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there. Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd. And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft, Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves. They from one body issued; and throughout Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade More worthy in congealment to be fix'd, Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia, No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be, Well knowest who he was: and to cut short All further question, in my form behold What once was Camiccione. I await Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on Toward the middle, at whose point unites All heavy substance, and I trembling went Through that eternal chillness, I know not If will it were or destiny, or chance, But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike With violent blow against the face of one. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that I will not tell nor show thee who I am, Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes Drawn in and downward, when another cried, "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright? What devil wrings thee?"--"Now," said I, "be dumb, Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee True tidings will I bear."--"Off," he replied, "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold. 'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd, Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd What other shade was with them, at thy side Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd The biting axe of Florence. Farther on, If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides, With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him Who op'd Faenza when the people slept." We now had left him, passing on our way, When I beheld two spirits by the ice Pent in one hollow, that the head of one Was cowl unto the other; and as bread Is raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost Did so apply his fangs to th' other's brain, Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd, Than on that skull and on its garbage he. "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that, wherewith I speak be moist so long." CANTO XXXIII HIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast, That sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head, Which he behind had mangled, then began: "Thy will obeying, I call up afresh Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words, That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear Fruit of eternal infamy to him, The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be I know not, nor how here below art come: But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth Count Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en And after murder'd, need is not I tell. What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate Within that mew, which for my sake the name Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, Already through its opening sev'ral moons Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep, That from the future tore the curtain off. This one, methought, as master of the sport, Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs Inquisitive and keen, before him rang'd Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. After short course the father and the sons Seem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold; And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up The' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word I look'd upon the visage of my sons. I wept not: so all stone I felt within. They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried: "Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet I shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day Nor the next night, until another sun Came out upon the world. When a faint beam Had to our doleful prison made its way, And in four countenances I descry'd The image of my own, on either hand Through agony I bit, and they who thought I did it through desire of feeding, rose O' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, 'And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth! Why open'dst not upon us? When we came To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet Outstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help For me, my father!' There he died, and e'en Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth: "Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope Over them all, and for three days aloud Call'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame Of all the people, who their dwelling make In that fair region, where th' Italian voice Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack To punish, from their deep foundations rise Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee May perish in the waters! What if fame Reported that thy castles were betray'd By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou To stretch his children on the rack. For them, Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd, Where others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice Not on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd. There very weeping suffers not to weep; For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds Impediment, and rolling inward turns For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears Hang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show, Under the socket brimming all the cup. Now though the cold had from my face dislodg'd Each feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd Some breath of wind I felt. "Whence cometh this," Said I, "my master? Is not here below All vapour quench'd?"--"'Thou shalt be speedily," He answer'd, "where thine eye shall tell thee whence The cause descrying of this airy shower." Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd: "O souls so cruel! that the farthest post Hath been assign'd you, from this face remove The harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief Impregnate at my heart, some little space Ere it congeal again!" I thus replied: "Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid; And if I extricate thee not, far down As to the lowest ice may I descend!" "The friar Alberigo," answered he, "Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date More luscious for my fig."--"Hah!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou too dead!"--"How in the world aloft It fareth with my body," answer'd he, "I am right ignorant. Such privilege Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd. And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, As I did, yields her body to a fiend Who after moves and governs it at will, Till all its time be rounded; headlong she Falls to this cistern. And perchance above Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st, If thou but newly art arriv'd below. The years are many that have pass'd away, Since to this fastness Branca Doria came." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." He thus: "Not yet unto that upper foss By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd, When this one left a demon in his stead In his own body, and of one his kin, Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth Thy hand, and ope mine eyes." I op'd them not. Ill manners were best courtesy to him. Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way, With every foulness stain'd, why from the earth Are ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, As for his doings even now in soul Is in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem In body still alive upon the earth. CANTO XXXIV "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain Record the marvel) where the souls were all Whelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid, Others stood upright, this upon the soles, That on his head, a third with face to feet Arch'd like a bow. When to the point we came, Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see The creature eminent in beauty once, He from before me stepp'd and made me pause. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." How frozen and how faint I then became, Ask me not, reader! for I write it not, Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. I was not dead nor living. Think thyself If quick conception work in thee at all, How I did feel. That emperor, who sways The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice Stood forth; and I in stature am more like A giant, than the giants are in his arms. Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits With such a part. If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight! How passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy Upon his head three faces: one in front Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest; The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left To look on, such as come from whence old Nile Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth Two mighty wings, enormous as became A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they, But were in texture like a bat, and these He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam. At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three Were in this guise tormented. But far more Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit, Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide, "Is Judas, he that hath his head within And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears So large of limb. But night now re-ascends, And it is time for parting. All is seen." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. Soon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh Upon the swelling of the haunches turns, My leader there with pain and struggling hard Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before, And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts, That into hell methought we turn'd again. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. "Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet. The way is long, and much uncouth the road; And now within one hour and half of noon The sun returns." It was no palace-hall Lofty and luminous wherein we stood, But natural dungeon where ill footing was And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss I sep'rate," thus when risen I began, "My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free From error's thralldom. Where is now the ice? How standeth he in posture thus revers'd? And how from eve to morn in space so brief Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world. Thou wast on th' other side, so long as I Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass That point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd Under the hemisphere opposed to that, Which the great continent doth overspread, And underneath whose canopy expir'd The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd. Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere, Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn Here rises, when there evening sets: and he, Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd, As at the first. On this part he fell down From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before, Through fear of him did veil her with the sea, And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance To shun him was the vacant space left here By what of firm land on this side appears, That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath, From Belzebub as distant, as extends The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight, But by the sound of brooklet, that descends This way along the hollow of a rock, Which, as it winds with no precipitous course, The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climbed, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. 
8787	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 9 Cantos 29 - 31 CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on? Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below Among the maim'd and miserable shades? Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them That two and twenty miles the valley winds Its circuit, and already is the moon Beneath our feet: the time permitted now Is short, and more not seen remains to see." "If thou," I straight replied, "hadst weigh'd the cause For which I look'd, thou hadst perchance excus'd The tarrying still." My leader part pursu'd His way, the while I follow'd, answering him, And adding thus: "Within that cave I deem, Whereon so fixedly I held my ken, There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood, Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear." Then spake my master: "Let thy soul no more Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge's foot I mark'd how he did point with menacing look At thee, and heard him by the others nam'd Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul'd The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not That way, ere he was gone."--"O guide belov'd! His violent death yet unaveng'd," said I, "By any, who are partners in his shame, Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think, He pass'd me speechless by; and doing so Hath made me more compassionate his fate." So we discours'd to where the rock first show'd The other valley, had more light been there, E'en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came O'er the last cloister in the dismal rounds Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood Were to our view expos'd, then many a dart Of sore lament assail'd me, headed all With points of thrilling pity, that I clos'd Both ears against the volley with mine hands. As were the torment, if each lazar-house Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 'Twixt July and September, with the isle Sardinia and Maremma's pestilent fen, Had heap'd their maladies all in one foss Together; such was here the torment: dire The stench, as issuing steams from fester'd limbs. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. More rueful was it not methinks to see The nation in Aegina droop, what time Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, All fell, so full of malice was the air (And afterward, as bards of yore have told, The ancient people were restor'd anew From seed of emmets) than was here to see The spirits, that languish'd through the murky vale Up-pil'd on many a stack. Confus'd they lay, One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one Roll'd of another; sideling crawl'd a third Along the dismal pathway. Step by step We journey'd on, in silence looking round And list'ning those diseas'd, who strove in vain To lift their forms. Then two I mark'd, that sat Propp'd 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, A tetter bark'd them round. Nor saw I e'er Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord Impatient waited, or himself perchance Tir'd with long watching, as of these each one Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales Scrap'd from the bream or fish of broader mail. "O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off Thy coat of proof," thus spake my guide to one, "And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them, Tell me if any born of Latian land Be among these within: so may thy nails Serve thee for everlasting to this toil." "Both are of Latium," weeping he replied, "Whom tortur'd thus thou seest: but who art thou That hast inquir'd of us?" To whom my guide: "One that descend with this man, who yet lives, From rock to rock, and show him hell's abyss." Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." "Arezzo was my dwelling," answer'd one, "And me Albero of Sienna brought To die by fire; but that, for which I died, Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him, That I had learn'd to wing my flight in air. And he admiring much, as he was void Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him The secret of mine art: and only hence, Because I made him not a Daedalus, Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me. But Minos to this chasm last of the ten, For that I practis'd alchemy on earth, Has doom'd me. Him no subterfuge eludes." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." The other leprous spirit heard my words, And thus return'd: "Be Stricca from this charge Exempted, he who knew so temp'rately To lay out fortune's gifts; and Niccolo Who first the spice's costly luxury Discover'd in that garden, where such seed Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano Lavish'd his vineyards and wide-spreading woods, And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show'd A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know Who seconds thee against the Siennese Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen'd sight, That well my face may answer to thy ken; So shalt thou see I am Capocchio's ghost, Who forg'd transmuted metals by the power Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right, Thus needs must well remember how I aped Creative nature by my subtle art." CANTO XXX WHAT time resentment burn'd in Juno's breast For Semele against the Theban blood, As more than once in dire mischance was rued, Such fatal frenzy seiz'd on Athamas, That he his spouse beholding with a babe Laden on either arm, "Spread out," he cried, "The meshes, that I take the lioness And the young lions at the pass:" then forth Stretch'd he his merciless talons, grasping one, One helpless innocent, Learchus nam'd, Whom swinging down he dash'd upon a rock, And with her other burden self-destroy'd The hapless mother plung'd: and when the pride Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height, By fortune overwhelm'd, and the old king With his realm perish'd, then did Hecuba, A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw Polyxena first slaughter'd, and her son, Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach Next met the mourner's view, then reft of sense Did she run barking even as a dog; Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul. Bet ne'er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads Infixing in the limbs of man or beast, As now two pale and naked ghost I saw That gnarling wildly scamper'd, like the swine Excluded from his stye. One reach'd Capocchio, And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs, Dragg'd him, that o'er the solid pavement rubb'd His belly stretch'd out prone. The other shape, He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake; "That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood Of random mischief vent he still his spite." To whom I answ'ring: "Oh! as thou dost hope, The other may not flesh its jaws on thee, Be patient to inform us, who it is, Ere it speed hence."--"That is the ancient soul Of wretched Myrrha," he replied, "who burn'd With most unholy flame for her own sire, "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." When vanish'd the two furious shades, on whom Mine eye was held, I turn'd it back to view The other cursed spirits. One I saw In fashion like a lute, had but the groin Been sever'd, where it meets the forked part. Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch Suits not the visage, open'd wide his lips Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, One towards the chin, the other upward curl'd. "O ye, who in this world of misery, Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," Thus he began, "attentively regard Adamo's woe. When living, full supply Ne'er lack'd me of what most I coveted; One drop of water now, alas! I crave. The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes Of Casentino, making fresh and soft The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, Stand ever in my view; and not in vain; For more the pictur'd semblance dries me up, Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh Desert these shrivel'd cheeks. So from the place, Where I transgress'd, stern justice urging me, Takes means to quicken more my lab'ring sighs. There is Romena, where I falsified The metal with the Baptist's form imprest, For which on earth I left my body burnt. But if I here might see the sorrowing soul Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's limpid spring I would not change The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, If truly the mad spirits tell, that round Are wand'ring. But wherein besteads me that? My limbs are fetter'd. Were I but so light, That I each hundred years might move one inch, I had set forth already on this path, Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, Although eleven miles it wind, not more Than half of one across. They brought me down Among this tribe; induc'd by them I stamp'd The florens with three carats of alloy." "Who are that abject pair," I next inquir'd, "That closely bounding thee upon thy right Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep'd In the chill stream?"--"When to this gulf I dropt," He answer'd, "here I found them; since that hour They have not turn'd, nor ever shall, I ween, Till time hath run his course. One is that dame The false accuser of the Hebrew youth; Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, In such a cloud upsteam'd." When that he heard, One, gall'd perchance to be so darkly nam'd, With clench'd hand smote him on the braced paunch, That like a drum resounded: but forthwith Adamo smote him on the face, the blow Returning with his arm, that seem'd as hard. "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," Said Sinon; "I am here but for one fault, And thou for more than any imp beside." "Remember," he replied, "O perjur'd one, The horse remember, that did teem with death, And all the world be witness to thy guilt." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more. And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." CANTO XXXI THE very tongue, whose keen reproof before Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain'd, Now minister'd my cure. So have I heard, Achilles and his father's javelin caus'd Pain first, and then the boon of health restor'd. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, W cross'd th' encircled mound in silence. There Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom Mine eye advanc'd not: but I heard a horn Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made The thunder feeble. Following its course The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent On that one spot. So terrible a blast Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout O'erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench'd His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long My head was rais'd, when many lofty towers Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land Is this?" He answer'd straight: "Too long a space Of intervening darkness has thine eye To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err'd In thy imagining. Thither arriv'd Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." As when a fog disperseth gradually, Our vision traces what the mist involves Condens'd in air; so piercing through the gross And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more We near'd toward the brink, mine error fled, And fear came o'er me. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls, E'en thus the shore, encompassing th' abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav'n Yet threatens, when his mutt'ring thunder rolls. Of one already I descried the face, Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge Great part, and both arms down along his ribs. All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand Left framing of these monsters, did display Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she Repent her not of th' elephant and whale, Who ponders well confesses her therein Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force And evil will are back'd with subtlety, Resistance none avails. His visage seem'd In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops Saint Peter's Roman fane; and th' other bones Of like proportion, so that from above The bank, which girdled him below, such height Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders Had striv'n in vain to reach but to his hair. Full thirty ample palms was he expos'd Downward from whence a man his garments loops. "Raphel bai ameth sabi almi," So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns Became not; and my guide address'd him thus: "O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck, There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on. Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast Where hangs the baldrick!" Then to me he spake: "He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this, Through whose ill counsel in the world no more One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste Our words; for so each language is to him, As his to others, understood by none." Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, And at a sling's throw found another shade Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say What master hand had girt him; but he held Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before The other with a chain, that fasten'd him From the neck down, and five times round his form Apparent met the wreathed links. "This proud one Would of his strength against almighty Jove Make trial," said my guide; "whence he is thus Requited: Ephialtes him they call. "Great was his prowess, when the giants brought Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled, Now moves he never." Forthwith I return'd: "Fain would I, if 't were possible, mine eyes Of Briareus immeasurable gain'd Experience next." He answer'd: "Thou shalt see Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks And is unfetter'd, who shall place us there Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made Like to this spirit, save that in his looks More fell he seems." By violent earthquake rock'd Ne'er shook a tow'r, so reeling to its base, As Ephialtes. More than ever then I dreaded death, nor than the terror more Had needed, if I had not seen the cords That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on, Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete Without the head, forth issued from the cave. "O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, Seems as men yet believ'd, that through thine arm The sons of earth had conquer'd, now vouchsafe To place us down beneath, where numbing cold Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. He in the upper world can yet bestow Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks For life yet longer, if before the time Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake The teacher. He in haste forth stretch'd his hands, And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt That grapple straighten'd score. Soon as my guide Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, That we were both one burden. As appears The tower of Carisenda, from beneath Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud So sail across, that opposite it hangs, Such then Antaeus seem'd, as at mine ease I mark'd him stooping. I were fain at times T' have pass'd another way. Yet in th' abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he plac'd us; nor there leaning stay'd, But rose as in a bark the stately mast. 
41537	----	produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) THE DIVINE COMEDY OF DANTE ALIGHIERI [Illustration] THE DIVINE COMEDY OF DANTE ALIGHIERI A TRANSLATION BY JAMES ROMANES SIBBALD EDINBURGH PUBLISHED BY DAVID DOUGLAS MDCCCLXXXIV _All Rights Reserved._ Edinburgh University Press: T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY. THE INFERNO A TRANSLATION WITH NOTES AND AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY BY JAMES ROMANES SIBBALD EDINBURGH PUBLISHED BY DAVID DOUGLAS MDCCCLXXXIV PREFACE. A Translator who has never felt his self-imposed task to be a light one may be excused from entering into explanations that would but too naturally take the form of apologies. I will only say that while I have striven to be as faithful as I could to the words as well as to the sense of my author, the following translation is not offered as being always closely literal. The kind of verse employed I believe to be that best fitted to give some idea, however faint, of the rigidly measured and yet easy strength of Dante's _terza rima_; but whoever chooses to adopt it with its constantly recurring demand for rhymes necessarily becomes in some degree its servant. Such students as wish to follow the poet word by word will always find what they need in Dr. J. A. Carlyle's excellent prose version of the _Inferno_, a work to which I have to acknowledge my own indebtedness at many points. The matter of the notes, it is needless to say, has been in very great part found ready to my hand in existing Commentaries. My edition of John Villani is that of Florence, 1823. The Note at page cx was printed before it had been resolved to provide the volume with a copy of Giotto's portrait of Dante. I have to thank the Council of the Arundel Society for their kind permission to Messrs. Dawson to make use of their lithograph of Mr. Seymour Kirkup's invaluable sketch in the production of the Frontispiece--a privilege that would have been taken more advantage of had it not been deemed advisable to work chiefly from the photograph of the same sketch, given in the third volume of the late Lord Vernon's sumptuous and rare edition of the _Inferno_ (Florence, 1865). In this Vernon photograph, as well as in the Arundel Society's chromolithograph, the disfiguring mark on the face caused by the damage to the plaster of the fresco is faithfully reproduced. A less degree of fidelity has been observed in the Frontispiece; although the restoration has not been carried the length of replacing the lost eye. EDINBURGH, _February_, 1884. CONTENTS. PAGE FLORENCE AND DANTE, xvii GIOTTO'S PORTRAIT OF DANTE, cx The Inferno. CANTO I. The Slumber--the Wood--the Hill--the three Beasts--Virgil--the Veltro or Greyhound, 1 CANTO II. Dante's misgivings--Virgil's account of how he was induced to come to his help--the three Heavenly Ladies--the beginning of the Journey, 9 CANTO III. The Gate of Inferno--the Vestibule of the Caitiffs--the Great Refusal--Acheron--Charon--the Earthquake--the Slumber of Dante, 17 CANTO IV. The First Circle, which is the Limbo of the Unbaptized and of the Virtuous Heathen--the Great Poets--the Noble Castle--the Sages and Worthies of the ancient world, 24 CANTO V. The Second Circle, which is that of Carnal Sinners--Minos--the Tempest--The Troop of those who died because of their Love-- Francesca da Rimini--Dante's Swoon, 32 CANTO VI. The Third Circle, which is that of the Gluttonous--the Hail and Rain and Snow--Cerberus--Ciacco and his Prophecy, 40 CANTO VII. The Fourth Circle, which is that of the Avaricious and the Thriftless--Plutus--the Great Weights rolled by the sinners in opposite directions--Fortune--the Fifth Circle, which is that of the Wrathful--Styx--the Lofty Tower, 47 CANTO VIII. The Fifth Circle continued--the Signals--Phlegyas--the Skiff-- Philip Argenti--the City of Dis--the Fallen Angels--the Rebuff of Virgil, 55 CANTO IX. The City of Dis, which is the Sixth Circle and that of the Heretics--the Furies and the Medusa head--the Messenger of Heaven who opens the gates for Virgil and Dante--the entrance to the City--the red-hot Tombs, 62 CANTO X. The Sixth Circle continued--Farinata degli Uberti--Cavalcante dei Cavalcanti--Farinata's prophecy--Frederick II., 69 CANTO XI. The Sixth Circle continued--Pope Anastasius--Virgil explains on what principle sinners are classified in Inferno--Usury, 77 CANTO XII. The Seventh Circle, First Division--the Minotaur--the River of Blood, which forms the Outer Ring of the Seventh Circle-- in it are those guilty of Violence against others--the Centaurs--Tyrants--Robbers and Murderers--Ezzelino Romano-- Guy of Montfort--the Passage of the River of Blood, 84 CANTO XIII. The Seventh Circle continued--the Second Division consisting of a Tangled Wood in which are those guilty of Violence against themselves--the Harpies--Pier delle Vigne--Lano--Jacopo da Sant' Andrea--Florence and its Patrons, 91 CANTO XIV. The Seventh Circle continued--the Third Division of it, consisting of a Waste of Sand on which descends an unceasing Shower of Fire-- in it are those guilty of Violence against God, against Nature, and against Art--Capaneus--the Crimson Brook--the Statue of Time-- the Infernal Rivers, 98 CANTO XV. The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Nature-- Brunetto Latini--Francesco d'Accorso--Andrea de' Mozzi, Bishop of Florence, 106 CANTO XVI. The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Nature-- Guidoguerra, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, and Jacopo Rusticucci-- the Cataract--the Cord--Geryon, 115 CANTO XVII. The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Art--Usurers-- the descent on Geryon's back into the Eighth Circle, 123 CANTO XVIII. The Eighth Circle, otherwise named Malebolge, which consists of ten concentric Pits or Moats connected by bridges of rock--in these are punished those guilty of Fraud of different kinds-- First Bolgia or Moat, where are Panders and Seducers, scourged by Demons--Venedico Caccianimico--Jason--Second Bolgia, where are Flatterers plunged in filth--Alessio Interminei, 130 CANTO XIX. The Eighth Circle--Third Bolgia, where are the Simoniacs, stuck head downwards in holes in the rock--Pope Nicholas III.--the Donation of Constantine, 137 CANTO XX. The Eighth Circle--Fourth Bolgia, where are Diviners and Sorcerers in endless procession, with their heads twisted on their necks-- Amphiaräus--Tiresias--Aruns--Manto and the foundation of Mantua-- Eurypylus--Michael Scott--Guido Bonatti--Asdente, 145 CANTO XXI. The Eighth Circle--Fifth Bolgia, where the Barrators, or corrupt officials, are plunged in the boiling pitch which fills the Bolgia--a Senator of Lucca is thrown in--the Malebranche, or Demons who guard the Moat--the Devilish Escort, 153 CANTO XXII. The Eighth Circle--Fifth Bolgia continued--the Navarese--trick played by him on the Demons--Fra Gomita--Michael Zanche--the Demons fall foul of one another, 161 CANTO XXIII. The Eighth Circle--escape from the Fifth to the Sixth Bolgia, where the Hypocrites walk at a snail's pace, weighed down by Gilded Cloaks of lead--the Merry Friars Catalano and Loderingo--Caiaphas, 168 CANTO XXIV. The Eighth Circle--arduous passage over the cliff into the Seventh Bolgia, where the Thieves are tormented by Serpents, and are constantly undergoing a hideous metamorphosis--Vanni Fucci, 176 CANTO XXV. The Eighth Circle--Seventh Bolgia continued--Cacus--Agnello Brunelleschi, Buoso degli Abati, Puccio Sciancato, Cianfa Donati, and Guercio Cavalcanti, 184 CANTO XXVI. The Eighth Circle--Eighth Bolgia, where are the Evil Counsellors, wrapped each in his own Flame--Ulysses tells how he met with death, 192 CANTO XXVII. The Eighth Circle--Eighth Bolgia continued--Guido of Montefeltro-- the Cities of Romagna--Guido and Boniface VIII., 200 CANTO XXVIII. The Eighth Circle--Ninth Bolgia, where the Schismatics in Church and State are for ever being dismembered--Mahomet--Fra Dolcino-- Pier da Medicina--Curio--Mosca--Bertrand de Born, 209 CANTO XXIX. The Eighth Circle--Ninth Bolgia continued--Geri del Bello--Tenth Bolgia, where Counterfeiters of various kinds, as Alchemists and Forgers, are tormented with loathsome diseases--Griffolino of Arezzo--Capocchio on the Sienese, 217 CANTO XXX. The Eighth Circle--Tenth Bolgia continued--Myrrha--Gianni Schicchi--Master Adam and his confession--Sinon, 225 CANTO XXXI. The Ninth Circle, outside of which they remain till the end of this Canto--this, the Central Pit of Inferno, is encircled and guarded by Giants--Nimrod, Ephialtes, and Antæus--entrance to the Pit, 233 CANTO XXXII. The Ninth Circle--that of the Traitors, is divided into four concentric rings, in which the sinners are plunged more or less deep in the ice of the frozen Cocytus--the Outer Ring is Caïna, where are those who contrived the murder of their Kindred-- Camicion de' Pazzi--Antenora, the Second Ring, where are such as betrayed their Country--Bocca degli Abati--Buoso da Duera-- Ugolino, 241 CANTO XXXIII. The Ninth Circle--Antenora continued--Ugolino and his tale--the Third Ring, or Ptolomæa, where are those treacherous to their Friends--Friar Alberigo--Branca d'Oria, 249 CANTO XXXIV. The Ninth Circle--the Fourth Ring or Judecca, the deepest point of the Inferno and the Centre of the Universe--it is the place of those treacherous to their Lords or Benefactors--Lucifer with Judas, Brutus, and Cassius hanging from his mouths--passage through the Centre of the Earth--ascent from the depths to the light of the stars in the Southern Hemisphere, 260 INDEX, 269 FLORENCE AND DANTE. Dante is himself the hero of the _Divine Comedy_, and ere many stages of the _Inferno_ have been passed the reader feels that all his steps are being taken in a familiar companionship. When every allowance has been made for what the exigencies of art required him to heighten or suppress, it is still impossible not to be convinced that the author is revealing himself much as he really was--in some of his weakness as well as in all his strength. The poem itself, by many an unconscious touch, does for his moral portraiture what the pencil of Giotto has done for the features of his face. The one likeness answers marvellously to the other; and, together, they have helped the world to recognise in him the great example of a man of genius who, though at first sight he may seem to be austere, is soon found to attract our love by the depth of his feelings as much as he wins our admiration by the wealth of his fancy, and by the clearness of his judgment on everything concerned with the lives and destiny of men. His other writings in greater or less degree confirm the impression of Dante's character to be obtained from the _Comedy_. Some of them are partly autobiographical; and, studying as a whole all that is left to us of him, we can gain a general notion of the nature of his career--when he was born and what was his condition in life; his early loves and friendships; his studies, military service, and political aims; his hopes and illusions, and the weary purgatory of his exile. To the knowledge of Dante's life and character which is thus to be acquired, the formal biographies of him have but little to add that is both trustworthy and of value. Something of course there is in the traditional story of his life that has come down from his time with the seal of genuineness; and something that has been ascertained by careful research among Florentine and other documents. But when all that old and modern _Lives_ have to tell us has been sifted, the additional facts regarding him are found to be but few; such at least as are beyond dispute. Boccaccio, his earliest biographer, swells out his _Life_, as the earlier commentators on the _Comedy_ do their notes, with what are plainly but legendary amplifications of hints supplied by Dante's own words; while more recent and critical writers succeed with infinite pains in little beyond establishing, each to his own satisfaction, what was the order of publication of the poet's works, where he may have travelled to, and when and for how long a time he may have had this or that great lord for a patron. A very few pages would therefore be enough to tell the events of Dante's life as far as they are certainly known. But, to be of use as an introduction to the study of his great poem, any biographical sketch must contain some account--more or less full--of Florentine affairs before and during his lifetime; for among the actors in these are to be found many of the persons of the _Comedy_. In reading the poem we are never suffered for long to forget his exile. From one point of view it is an appeal to future ages from Florentine injustice and ingratitude; from another, it is a long and passionate plea with his native town to shake her in her stubborn cruelty. In spite of the worst she can do against him he remains no less her son. In the early copies of it, the _Comedy_ is well described as the work of Dante Alighieri, the Florentine; since not only does he people the other world by preference with Florentines, but it is to Florence that, even when his words are bitter against her, his heart is always feeling back. Among the glories of Paradise he loves to let his memory rest on the church in which he was baptized and the streets he used to tread. He takes pleasure in her stones; and with her towers and palaces Florence stands for the unchanging background to the changing scenes of his mystical pilgrimage. The history of Florence during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries agrees in general outline with that of most of its neighbours. At the beginning of the period it was a place of but little importance, ranking far below Pisa both in wealth and political influence. Though retaining the names and forms of municipal government, inherited from early times, it was in reality possessed of no effective control over its own affairs, and was subject to its feudal superior almost as completely as was ever any German village planted in the shadow of a castle. To Florence, as to many a city of Northern and Central Italy, the first opportunity of winning freedom came with the contest between Emperor and Pope in the time of Hildebrand. In this quarrel the Church found its best ally in Matilda, Countess of Tuscany. She, to secure the goodwill of her subjects as against the Emperor, yielded first one and then another of her rights in Florence, generally by way of a pious gift--an endowment for a religious house or an increase of jurisdiction to the bishop--these concessions, however veiled, being in effect so many additions to the resources and liberties of the townsmen. She made Rome her heir, and then Florence was able to play off the Papal against the Imperial claims, yielding a kind of barren homage to both Emperor and Pope, and only studious to complete a virtual independence of both. Florence had been Matilda's favourite place of residence; and, benefiting largely as it did by her easy rule, it is no wonder that her name should have been cherished by the Florentines for ages after as a household word.[1] Nor is the greatest Florentine unmindful of her. Foe of the Empire though she was, he only remembers her piety; and it is by Matilda, as representing the active religious life, that Dante is ushered into the presence of Beatrice in the Earthly Paradise.[2] It was a true instinct which led Florence and other cities to side rather with the Pope than with the Emperor in the long-continued struggle between them for predominance in Italy. With the Pope for overlord they would at least have a master who was an Italian, and one who, his title being imperfect, would in his own interest be led to treat them with indulgence; while, in the permanent triumph of the Emperor, Italy must have become subject and tributary to Germany, and would have seen new estates carved out of her fertile soil for members of the German garrison. The danger was brought home to many of the youthful commonwealths during the eventful reign of Frederick Barbarossa (1152-1190). Strong in Germany beyond most of his predecessors, that monarch ascended the throne with high prerogative views, in which he was confirmed by the slavish doctrine of some of the new civilians. According to these there could be only one master in the world; as far as regarded the things of time, but one source of authority in Christendom. They maintained everything to be the Emperor's that he chose to take. When he descended into Italy to enforce his claims, the cities of the Lombard League met him in open battle. Those of Tuscany, and especially Florence, bent before the blast, temporising as long as they were able, and making the best terms they could when the choice lay between submission and open revolt. Even Florence, it is true, strong in her allies, did once take arms against an Imperial lieutenant; but as a rule she never refused obedience in words, and never yielded it in fact beyond what could not be helped. In her pursuit of advantages, skilfully using every opportunity, and steadfast of aim even when most she appeared to waver, she displayed something of the same address that was long to be noted as a trait in the character of the individual Florentine. The storm was weathered, although not wholly without loss. When, towards the close of his life, and after he had broken his strength against the obstinate patriotism of Lombardy, Frederick visited Florence in 1185, it was as a master justly displeased with servants who, while they had not openly rebelled against him, had yet proved eminently unprofitable, and whom he was concerned to punish if not to destroy. On the complaint of the neighbouring nobles, that they were oppressed and had been plundered by the city, he gave orders for the restoration to them of their lands and castles. This accomplished, all the territory left to Florence was a narrow belt around the walls. Villani even says that for the four years during which Frederick still lived the Commonwealth was wholly landless. And here, rather than lose ourselves among the endless treaties, leagues, and campaigns which fill so many pages of the chronicles, it may be worth while shortly to glance at the constitution of Florentine society, and especially at the place held in it by the class which found its protector in Barbarossa. Much about the time at which the Commonwealth was relieved of its feudal trammels, as a result of the favour or the necessities of Matilda, it was beginning to extend its commerce and increase its industry. Starting somewhat late on the career on which Venice, Genoa, and Pisa were already far advanced, Florence was as if strenuous to make up for lost time, and soon displayed a rare comprehension of the nature of the enterprise. It may be questioned if ever, until quite modern times, there has been anywhere so clear an understanding of the truth that public wellbeing is the sum of private prosperity, or such an enlightened perception of what tends to economical progress. Florence had no special command of raw material for her manufactures, no sea-port of her own, and no monopoly unless in the natural genius of her people. She could therefore thrive only by dint of holding open her communications with the world at large, and grudged no pains either of war or diplomacy to keep at Pisa a free way out and in for her merchandise. Already in the twelfth century she received through that port the rough woollens of Flanders, which, after being skilfully dressed and dyed, were sent out at great profit to every market of Europe. At a somewhat later period the Florentines were to give as strong a proof of their financial capacity as this was of their industrial. It was they who first conducted a large business in bills of exchange, and who first struck a gold coin which, being kept of invariable purity, passed current in every land where men bought and sold--even in countries where the very name of Florence was unknown.[3] In a community thus devoted to industry and commerce, it was natural that a great place should be filled by merchants. These were divided into six guilds, the members of which, with the notaries and lawyers, who composed a seventh, formed the true body of the citizens. Originally the consuls of these guilds were the only elected officials in the city, and in the early days of its liberty they were even charged with political duties, and are found, for example, signing a treaty of peace with a neighbouring state. In the fully developed commune it was only the wealthier citizens--the members, we may assume, of these guilds--who, along with the nobles,[4] were eligible for and had the right of electing to the public offices. Below them was the great body of the people; all, that is, of servile condition or engaged in the meaner kinds of business. From one point of view, the liberties of the citizens were only their privileges. But although the labourers and humbler tradesmen were without franchises, their interests were not therefore neglected, being bound up with those of the one or two thousand citizens who shared with the patricians the control of public affairs. There were two classes of nobles with whom Florence had to reckon as she awoke to life--those within the walls, and those settled in the neighbouring country. In later times it was a favourite boast among the noble citizens--a boast indulged in by Dante--that they were descended from ancient Roman settlers on the banks of the Arno. A safer boast would in many cases have been that their ancestors had come to Italy in the train of Otho and other conquering Emperors. Though settled in the city, in some cases for generations, the patrician families were not altogether of it, being distinguished from the other citizens, if not always by the possession of ancestral landward estates, at least by their delight in war and contempt for honest industry. But with the faults of a noble class they had many of its good qualities. Of these the Republic suffered them to make full proof, allowing them to lead in war and hold civil offices out of all proportion to their numbers. Like the city itself, the nobles in the country around had been feudally subject to the Marquis of Tuscany. After Matilda's death they claimed to hold direct from the Empire; which meant in practice to be above all law. They exercised absolute jurisdiction over their serfs and dependants, and, when favoured by the situation of their castles, took toll, like the robber barons of Germany, of the goods which passed beneath their walls. Already they had proved to be thorns in the side of the industrious burghers; but at the beginning of the twelfth century their neighbourhood became intolerable, and for a couple of generations the chief political work of Florence was to bring them to reason. Those whose lands came up almost to the city gates were first dealt with, and then in a widening circle the country was cleared of the pest. Year after year, when the days were lengthening out in spring, the roughly organised city militia was mustered, war was declared against some specially obnoxious noble and his fortress was taken by surprise, or, failing that, was subjected to a siege. In the absence of a more definite grievance, it was enough to declare his castle dangerously near the city. These expeditions were led by the nobles who were already citizens, while the country neighbours of the victim looked on with indifference, or even helped to waste the lands or force the stronghold of a rival. The castle once taken, it was either levelled with the ground, or was restored to the owner on condition of his yielding service to the Republic. And, both by way of securing a hold upon an unwilling vassal and of adding a wealthy house and some strong arms to the Commonwealth, he was compelled, along with his family, to reside in Florence for a great part of every year. With a wider territory and an increasing commerce, it was natural for Florence to assume more and more the attitude of a sovereign state, ready, when need was, to impose its will upon its neighbours, or to join with them for the common defence of Tuscany. In the noble class and its retainers, recruited as has been described, it was possessed of a standing army which, whether from love of adventure or greed of plunder, was never so well pleased as when in active employment. Not that the commons left the fighting wholly to the men of family, for they too, at the summons of the war-bell, had to arm for the field; but at the best they did it from a sense of duty, and, without the aid of professional men-at-arms, they must have failed more frequently in their enterprises, or at any rate have had to endure a greatly prolonged absence from their counters and workshops. And yet, esteem this advantage as highly as we will, Florence surely lost more than it gained by compelling the crowd of idle gentlemen to come within its walls. In the course of time some of them indeed condescended to engage in trade--sank, as the phrase went, into the ranks of the _Popolani_, or mere wealthy citizens; but the great body of them, while their landed property was being largely increased in value in consequence of the general prosperity, held themselves haughtily aloof from honest industry in every form. Each family, or rather each clan of them, lived apart in its own group of houses, from among which towers shot aloft for scores of yards into the air, dominating the humbler dwellings of the common burghers. These, whenever they came to the front for a time in the government, were used to decree that all private towers were to be lopped down to within a certain distance from the ground. It is a favourite exercise of Villani and other historians to trace the troubles and revolutions in the state of Florence to chance quarrels between noble families, arising from an angry word or a broken troth. Here, they tell, was sown the seed of the Guelf and Ghibeline wars in Florence; and here that of the feuds of Black and White. Such quarrels and party names were symptoms and nothing more. The enduring source of trouble was the presence within the city of a powerful idle class, constantly eager to recover the privilege it had lost, and to secure itself by every available means, including that of outside help, in the possession of what it still retained; which chafed against the curbs put upon its lawlessness, and whose ambitions were all opposed to the general interest. The citizens, for their part, had nothing better to hope for than that Italy should be left to the Italians, Florence to the Florentines. On the occasion of the celebrated Buondelmonti feud (1215), some of the nobles definitely went over to the side of the people, either because they judged it likely to win in the long-run, or impelled unconsciously by the forces that in every society divide ambitious men into two camps, and in one form or another develop party strife. They who made a profession of popular sympathy did it with a view of using rather than of helping the people at large. Both of the noble parties held the same end in sight--control of the Commonwealth; and this would be worth the more the fewer there were to share it. The faction irreconcilable with the Republic on any terms included many of the oldest and proudest houses. Their hope lay in the advent of a strong Emperor, who should depute to them his rights over the money-getting, low-born crowd. II. The opportunity of this class might seem to have come when the Hohenstaufen Frederick II., grandson of Barbarossa, ascended the throne, and still more when, on attaining full age, he claimed the whole of the Peninsula as his family inheritance. Other Emperors had withstood the Papal claims, but none had ever proved an antagonist like Frederick. His quarrel seemed indeed to be with the Church itself, with its doctrines and morals as well as with the ambition of churchmen; and he offered the strange spectacle of a Roman Emperor--one of the twin lights in the Christian firmament--whose favour was less easily won by Christian piety, however eminent, than by the learning of the Arab or the Jew. When compelled at last to fulfil a promise extorted from him of conducting a crusade to the Holy Land, he scandalised Christendom by making friends of the Sultan, and by using his presence in the East, not for the deliverance of the Sepulchre, but for the furtherance of learning and commerce. Thrice excommunicated, he had his revenge by proving with how little concern the heaviest anathemas of the Church could be met by one who was armed in unbelief. Literature, art, and manners were sedulously cultivated in his Sicilian court, and among the able ministers whom he selected or formed, the modern idea of the State may be said to have had its birth. Free thinker and free liver, poet, warrior, and statesman, he stood forward against the sombre background of the Middle Ages a figure in every respect so brilliant and original as well to earn from his contemporaries the title of the Wonder of the World. On the goodwill of Italians Frederick had the claim of being the most Italian of all the Emperors since the revival of the Western Empire, and the only one of them whose throne was permanently set on Italian soil. Yet he never won the popular heart. To the common mind he always appeared as something outlandish and terrible--as the man who had driven a profitable but impious trade in the Sultan's land. Dante, in his childhood, must have heard many a tale of him; and we find him keenly interested in the character of the Emperor who came nearest to uniting Italy into a great nation, in whose court there had been a welcome for every man of intellect, and in whom a great original poet would have found a willing and munificent patron. In the _Inferno_, by the mouth of Pier delle Vigne, the Imperial Chancellor, he pronounces Frederick to have been worthy of all honour;[5] yet justice requires him to lodge this flower of kings in the burning tomb of the Epicureans, as having been guilty of the arch-heresy of denying the moral government of the world, and holding that with the death of the body all is ended.[6] It was a heresy fostered by the lives of many churchmen, high and low; but the example of Frederick encouraged the profession of it by nobles and learned laymen. On Frederick's character there was a still darker stain than this of religious indifference--that of cold-blooded cruelty. Even in an age which had produced Ezzelino Romano, the Emperor's cloaks of lead were renowned as the highest refinement in torture.[7] But, with all his genius, and his want of scruple in the choice of means, he built nothing politically that was not ere his death crumbling to dust. His enduring work was that of an intellectual reformer under whose protection and with whose personal help his native language was refined, Europe was enriched with a learning new to it or long forgotten, and the minds of men, as they lost their blind reverence for Rome, were prepared for a freer treatment of all the questions with which religion deals. He was thus in some respects a precursor of Dante. More than once in the course of Frederick's career it seemed as if he might become master of Tuscany in fact as well as in name, had Florence only been as well affected to him as were Siena and Pisa. But already, as has been said, the popular interest had been strengthened by accessions from among the nobles. Others of them, without descending into the ranks of the citizens, had set their hopes on being the first in a commonwealth rather than privates in the Imperial garrison. These men, with their restless and narrow ambitions, were as dangerous to have for allies as for foes, but by throwing their weight into the popular scale they at least served to hold the Imperialist magnates in check, and established something like a balance in the fighting power of Florence; and so, as in the days of Barbarossa, the city was preserved from taking a side too strongly. The hearts of the Florentine traders were in their own affairs--in extending their commerce and increasing their territory and influence in landward Tuscany. As regarded the general politics of Italy, their sympathy was still with the Roman See; but it was a sympathy without devotion or gratitude. For refusing to join in the crusade of 1238 the town was placed under interdict by Gregory IX. The Emperor meanwhile was acknowledged as its lawful overlord, and his vicar received something more than nominal obedience, the choice of the chief magistrates being made subject to his approval. Yet with all this, and although his party was powerful in the city, it was but a grudging service that was yielded to Frederick. More than once fines were levied on the Florentines; and worse punishments were threatened for their persevering and active enmity to Siena, now dominated by its nobles and held in the Imperial interest. Volunteers from Florence might join the Emperor in his Lombard campaigns; but they were left equally free by the Commonwealth to join the other side. At last, when he was growing old, and when like his grandfather he had been foiled by the stubborn Lombards, he turned on the Florentines as an easier prey, and sent word to the nobles of his party to seize the city. For months the streets were filled with battle. In January 1248, Frederick of Antioch, the natural son of the Emperor, entered Florence with some squadrons of men-at-arms, and a few days later the nobles that had fought on the popular side were driven into banishment. This is known in the Florentine annals as the first dispersion of the Guelfs. Long before they were adopted in Italy, the names of Guelf and Ghibeline had been employed in Germany to mark the partisans of the Bavarian Welf and of the Hohenstaufen lords of Waiblingen. On Italian soil they received an extended meaning: Ghibeline stood for Imperialist; Guelf for anti-Imperialist, Papalist, or simply Nationalist. When the names began to be freely used in Florence, which was towards the close of Frederick's reign and about a century after their first invention, they denoted no new start in politics, but only supplied a nomenclature for parties already in existence. As far as Florence was concerned, the designations were the more convenient that they were not too closely descriptive. The Ghibeline was the Emperor's man, when it served his purpose to be so; while the Guelf, constant only in his enmity to the Ghibelines, was free to think of the Pope as he chose, and to serve him no more than he wished or needed to. Ultimately, indeed, all Florence may be said to have become Guelf. To begin with, the name distinguished the nobles who sought alliance with the citizens, from the nobles who looked on these as they might have done on serfs newly thriven into wealth. Each party was to come up in turn. Within a period of twenty years each was twice driven into banishment, a measure always accompanied with decrees of confiscation and the levelling of private strongholds in Florence. The exiles kept well together, retreating, as it were in the order of war, to camps of observation they found ready prepared for them in the nearest cities and fortresses held by those of their own way of thinking. All their wits were then bent on how, by dint of some fighting and much diplomacy, they might shake the strength and undermine the credit of their successful rivals in the city, and secure their own return in triumph. It was an art they were proud to be adepts in.[8] In a rapid sketch like this it would be impossible to tell half the changes made on the constitution of Florence during the second part of the thirteenth century. Dante in a well-known passage reproaches Florence with the political restlessness which afflicted her like a disease. Laws, he says, made in October were fallen into desuetude ere mid-November.[9] And yet it may be that in this constant readiness to change, lies the best proof of the political capacity of the Florentines. It was to meet new necessities that they made provision of new laws. Especial watchfulness was called for against the encroachments of the grandees, whose constant tendency--whatever their party name--was to weaken legal authority, and play the part of lords and masters of the citizens. But these were no mere weavers and quill-drivers to be plundered at will. Even before the return of the Guelfs, banished in 1248, the citizens, taking advantage of a check suffered in the field by the dominant Ghibelines, had begun to recast the constitution in a popular sense, and to organise the townsmen as a militia on a permanent footing. When, on the death of Frederick in 1250, the Imperialist nobles were left without foreign aid, there began a period of ten years, favourably known in Florentine history as the Government of the _Primo Popolo_ or _Popolo Vecchio_; that is, of the true body of the citizens, commoners possessed of franchises, as distinguished from the nobles above them and the multitude below. For it is never to be forgotten that Florence, like Athens, and like the other Italian Republics, was far from being a true democracy. The time was yet to come, and it was not far distant, when the ranks of citizenship were to be more widely opened than now to those below, and more closely shut to those above. In the meantime the comparatively small number of wealthy citizens who legally composed the 'People' made good use of their ten years of breathing-time, entering on commercial treaties and widening the possessions of the Commonwealth, now by war, and now by shrewd bargains with great barons. To balance the influence of the Podesta, who had hitherto been the one great officer of State--criminal judge, civil governor, and commander-in-chief all in one--they created the office of Captain of the People. The office of Podesta was not peculiar to Florence. There, as in other cities, in order to secure his impartiality, it was provided that he should be a foreigner, and hold office only for six months. But he was also required to be of gentle birth; and his councils were so composed that, like his own, their sympathies were usually with the nobles. The Captain of the People was therefore created partly as a tribune for the protection of the popular rights, and partly to act as permanent head of the popular forces. Like the Podesta, he had two councils assigned to him; but these were strictly representative of the citizens, and sat to control his conduct as well as to lend to his action the weight of public opinion. Such of the Ghibelines as had not been banished from Florence on the death of Frederick, lived there on sufferance, as it were, and under a rigid supervision. Once more they were to find a patron and ally in a member of the great house of Hohenstaufen; and with his aid they were again for a few years to become supreme in Florence, and to prove by their abuse of power how well justified was the mistrust the people had of them. In many ways Manfred, one of Frederick's bastards, was a worthy son of his father. Like him he was endowed with great personal charm, and was enamoured of all that opened new regions to intellectual curiosity or gave refinement to sensual pleasure. In his public as well as in his private behaviour, he was reckless of what the Church and its doctrines might promise or threaten; and equally so, his enemies declared, of the dictates of common humanity. Hostile eyes detected in the green clothes which were his favourite dress a secret attachment to Islam; and hostile tongues charged him with the murder of a father and of a brother, and the attempted murder of a nephew. His ambition did not aim at the Empire, but only at being King of Sicily and Naples, lands which the Hohenstaufens claimed as their own through the Norman mother of Frederick. Of these kingdoms he was actual ruler, even while his legitimate brother Conrad lived. On the death of that prince he brushed aside the claims of Conradin, his nephew, and bid boldly for recognition by the Pope, who claimed to be overlord of the southern kingdoms--a recognition refused, or given only to be immediately withdrawn. In the eyes of Rome he was no more than Prince of Tarentum, but by arms and policy he won what seemed a firm footing in the South; and eight years after the rule of the _Popolo Vecchio_ began in Florence he was the acknowledged patron of all in Italy who had been Imperialist--for the Imperial throne was now practically vacant. And Manfred was trusted all the more that he cared nothing for Germany, and stood out even more purely an Italian monarch than his father had ever been. The Ghibelines of Florence looked to him to free them of the yoke under which they groaned. When it was discovered that they were treating with Manfred, there was an outburst of popular wrath against the disaffected nobles. Some of them were seized and put to death, a fate shared by the Abbot of Vallombrosa, whom neither his priestly office nor his rank as Papal Legate availed to save from torture and a shameful end.[10] Well accustomed as was the age to violence and cruelty, it was shocked at this free disposal of a great ecclesiastic by a mercantile community; and even to the Guelf chronicler Villani the terrible defeat of Montaperti seemed no more than a just vengeance taken by Heaven upon a crime so heinous.[11] In the meantime the city was laid under interdict, and those concerned in the Abbot's death were excommunicated; while the Ghibelines, taking refuge in Siena, began to plot and scheme with the greater spirit against foes who, in the very face of a grave peril, had offended in the Pope their strongest natural ally. The leader of the exiles was Farinata, one of the Uberti, a family which, so long ago as 1180, had raised a civil war to force their way into the consulship. Ever since, they had been the most powerful, perhaps, and certainly the most restless, clan in Florence, rich in men of strong character, fiercely tenacious of their purpose. Such was Farinata. To the Florentines of a later age he was to stand for the type of the great Ghibeline gentleman, haughty as Lucifer, a Christian in name though scarcely by profession, and yet almost beloved for his frank excess of pride. It detracted nothing from the grandeur of his character, in the judgment of his countrymen, that he could be cunning as well as brave. Manfred was coy to afford help to the Tuscan Ghibelines, standing out for an exorbitant price for the loan of his men-at-arms; and to Farinata was attributed the device by which his point of honour was effectually touched.[12] When at last a reinforcement of eight hundred cavalry entered Siena, the exiles and their allies felt themselves more than a match for the militia of Florence, and set themselves to decoy it into the field. Earlier in the same year the Florentines had encamped before Siena, and sought in vain to bring on a general engagement. They were now misled by false messengers, primed by Farinata, into a belief that the Sienese, weary of the arrogance of Provenzano Salvani,[13] then all-powerful in Siena, were ready to betray a gate to them. In vain did Tegghiaio Aldobrandi,[14] one of the Guelf nobles, counsel delay till the German men-at-arms, wearied with waiting on and perhaps dissatisfied with their wages, should be recalled by Manfred. A march in full strength upon the hostile city was resolved on by the eager townsmen. The battle of Montaperti was fought in September 1260, among the earthy hills washed by the Arbia and its tributary rivulets, a few miles to the east of Siena. It marked the close of the rule of the _Popolo Vecchio_. Till then no such disastrous day had come to Florence; and the defeat was all the more intolerable that it was counted for a victory to Siena. Yet the battle was far from being a test of the strength of the two rival cities. Out of the thirty thousand foot in the Guelf army, there were only about five thousand Florentines. In the host which poured out on them from Siena, beside the militia of that city and the Florentine exiles, were included the Ghibelines of Arezzo, the retainers of great lords still unsubdued by any city, and, above all, the German men-at-arms of Manfred.[15] But the worst enemies of Florence were the traitors in her own ranks. She bore it long in mind that it was her merchants and handicraftsmen who stood stubbornly at bay, and tinged the Arbia red with their life-blood; while it was among the men of high degree that the traitors were found. On one of them, Bocca degli Abati, who struck off the right hand of the standard-bearer of the cavalry, and so helped on the confusion and the rout, Dante takes vengeance in his pitiless verse.[16] The fortifications of Florence had been recently completed and strengthened, and it was capable of a long defence. But the spirit of the people was broken for the time, and the conquerors found the gates open. Then it was that Farinata almost atoned for any wrong he ever did his native town, by withstanding a proposal made by the Ghibelines of the rival Tuscan cities, that Florence should be destroyed, and Empoli advanced to fill her room. 'Alone, with open face I defended her,' Dante makes him say.[17] But the wonder would rather be if he had voted to destroy a city of which he was about to be one of the tyrants. Florence had now a fuller experience than ever of the oppression which it was in the character of the Ghibelines to exercise. A rich booty lay ready to their hands; for in the panic after Montaperti crowds of the best in Florence had fled, leaving all behind them except their wives and children, whom they would not trust to the cruel mercy of the victors. It was in this exile that for the first time the industrious citizen was associated with the Guelf noble. From Lucca, not powerful enough to grant them protection for long, they were driven to Bologna, suffering terribly on the passage of the Apennines from cold and want of food, but safe when the mountains lay between them and the Val d'Arno. While the nobles and young men with a taste for fighting found their livelihood in service against the Lombard Ghibelines, the more sober-minded scattered themselves to seek out their commercial correspondents and increase their acquaintance with the markets of Europe. When at length the way was open for them to return home, they came back educated by travel, as men must always be who travel for a purpose; and from this second exile of the Guelfs dates a vast extension of the commerce of Florence. Their return was a fruit of the policy followed by the Papal Court The interests of both were the same. The Roman See could have as little independence of action while a hostile monarch was possessed of the southern kingdoms, as the people of Florence could have freedom while the Ghibeline nobility had for patron a military prince, to whom their gates lay open by way of Siena and Pisa. To Sicily and Naples the Pope laid claim by an alternative title--they were either dependent on the See of Rome, or, if they were Imperial fiefs, then, in the vacancy of the Empire, the Pope, as the only head of Christendom, had a right to dispose of them as he would. A champion was needed to maintain the claim, and at length the man was found in Charles of Anjou, brother of St. Louis. This was a prince of intellectual powers far beyond the common, of untiring industry in affairs, pious, 'chaste as a monk,' and cold-hearted as a usurer; gifted with all the qualities, in short, that make a man feared and well served, and with none that make him beloved. He was not one to risk failure for want of deliberation and foresight, and his measures were taken with such prudence that by the time he landed in Italy his victory was almost assured. He found his enemy at Benevento, in the Neapolitan territory (February 1266). In order to get time for reinforcements to come up, Manfred sought to enter into negotiations; but Charles was ready, and knew his advantage. He answered with the splendid confidence of a man sure of a heavenly if he missed an earthly triumph. 'Go tell the Sultan of Lucera,'[18] was his reply, 'that to-day I shall send him to Hell, or he will send me to Paradise.' Manfred was slain, and his body, discovered only after long search, was denied Christian burial. Yet, excommunicated though he was, and suspected of being at heart as much Mohammedan as Christian, he, as well as his great rival, is found by Dante in Purgatory.[19] And, while the Christian poet pours his invective on the pious Charles,[20] he is at no pains to hide how pitiful appeared to him the fate of the frank and handsome Manfred, all whose followers adored him. He, as more than once it happens in the _Comedy_ to those whose memory is dear to the poet, is saved from Inferno by the fiction that in the hour of death he sent one thought heavenward--'so wide is the embrace of infinite mercy.'[21] To Florence Charles proved a useful if a greedy and exacting protector. Under his influence as Pacificator of Tuscany--an office created for him by the Pope--the Guelfs were enabled slowly to return from exile, and the Ghibelines were gradually depressed into a condition of dependence on the goodwill of the citizens over whom they had so lately domineered. Henceforth failure attended every effort they made to lift their heads. The stubbornly irreconcilable were banished or put to death. Elaborate provisions were enacted in obedience to the Pope's commands, by which the rest were to be at peace with their old foes. Now they were to live in the city, but under disabilities as regarded eligibility to offices; now they were to be represented in the public councils, but so as to be always in a minority. The result of the measures taken, and of the natural drift of things, was that ere many more years had passed there were no avowed Ghibelines in Florence. One influence constantly at work in this direction was that of the _Parte Guelfa_, a Florentine society formed to guard the interests of the Guelfs, and which was possessed of the greater part of the Ghibeline property confiscated after the triumph of Charles had turned the balance of power in Italy. This organisation has been well described as a state within a state, and it seems as if the part it played in the Florentine politics of this period were not yet fully known. This much seems sure, that the members of the Society were mostly Guelf nobles; that its power, derived from the administration of vast wealth to a political end, was so great that the Captain of the _Parte Guelfa_ held a place almost on a level with that of the chief officials of the Commonwealth; and that it made loans of ready money to Florence and the Pope, on condition of their being used to the damage of the Ghibelines.[22] The Commonwealth, busy in resettling its government, was but slightly interested in much that went on around it. The boy Conradin, grandson of Frederick, nephew of Manfred, and in a sense the last of the Hohenstaufens, came to Italy to measure himself with Charles, and paid for his audacity upon the scaffold.[23] Charles deputed Guy of Montfort, son of the great Earl Simon, to be his vicar in Florence. The Pope smiled and frowned in turn on the Florentines, as their devotion to him waxed and waned; and so he did on his champion Charles, whose ambition was apt to outrun his piety. All this was of less importance to the Commonwealth than the promotion of its domestic interests. It saw with equanimity a check given to Charles by the election of a new Emperor in Rudolf of Hapsburg (1273), and a further check by the Sicilian Vespers, which lost him half his kingdom (1283). But Siena and Pisa, Arezzo, and even Pistoia, were the objects of a sleepless anxiety. Pisa was the chief source of danger, being both from sentiment and interest stubbornly Ghibeline. When at length its power was broken by Genoa, its great maritime rival, in the naval battle of Meloria (1284), there was no longer any city in Tuscany to be compared for wealth and strength with Florence. III. It was at this period that Dante, reaching the age of manhood, began to perform the duties that fell to him as a youthful citizen--duties which, till the age of thirty was reached, were chiefly those of military service. The family to which he belonged was a branch of the Elisei, who are included by Villani in the earliest catalogue given by him of the great Florentine houses. Cacciaguida, one of the Elisei, born in 1106, married a daughter of the Aldighieri, a family of Ferrara. Their son was christened Aldighiero, and this was adopted by the family as a surname, afterwards changed to Alighieri. The son of Aldighiero was Bellincione, father of Aldighiero II., the father of Dante. It serves no purpose to fill a page of biography with genealogical details when the hero's course in life was in no way affected by the accident of who was his grandfather. In the case of Dante, his position in the State, his political creed, and his whole fashion of regarding life, were vitally influenced by the circumstances of his birth. He knew that his genius, and his genius alone, was to procure him fame; he declares a virtuous and gentle life to be the true proof of nobility: and yet his family pride is always breaking through. In real life, from his family's being decayed in wealth and fallen in consideration compared with its neighbours, he may have been led to put emphasis on his assertion of gentility; and amid the poverty and humiliations of his exile he may have found a tonic in the thought that by birth, not to speak of other things, he was the equal of those who spurned him or coldly lent him aid. However this may be, there is a tacit claim of equality with them in the easy grace with which he encounters great nobles in the world of shades. The bent of his mind in relation to this subject is shown by such a touch as that when he esteems it among the glories of Francis of Assisi not to have been ashamed of his base extraction.[24] In Paradise he meets his great crusading ancestor Cacciaguida, and feigns contrition for the pleasure with which he listens to a declaration of the unmixed purity of their common blood.[25] In Inferno he catches a glimpse, sudden and terrible, of a kinsman whose violent death had remained unavenged; and, for the nonce, the philosopher-poet is nothing but the member of an injured Florentine clan, and winces at the thought of a neglected blood feud.[26] And when Farinata, the great Ghibeline, and haughtiest of all the Florentines of the past generation, asks him, 'Who were thine ancestors?' Dante says with a proud pretence of humility, 'Anxious to obey, I hid nothing, but told him all he demanded.'[27] Dante was born in Florence in the May of 1265.[28] A brother of his father had been one of the guards of the Florentine Caroccio, or standard-bearing car, at the battle of Montaperti (1260). Whether Dante's father necessarily shared in the exile of his party may be doubted. He is said--on slight authority--to have been a jurisconsult: there is no reason to suppose he was at Montaperti. It is difficult to believe that Florence was quite emptied of its lawyers and merchants as a consequence of the Ghibeline victory. In any case, it is certain that while the fugitive Guelfs were mostly accompanied by their wives, and did not return till 1267, we have Dante's own word for it that he was born in the great city by the Arno,[29] and was baptized in the Baptistery, his beautiful St. John's.[30] At the font he received the name of Durante, shortened, as he bore it, into Dante. It is in this form that it finds a place in the _Comedy_,[31] once, and only once, written down of necessity, the poet says--the necessity of being faithful in the report of Beatrice's words: from the wider necessity, we may assume, of imbedding in the work itself the name by which the author was commonly known, and by which he desired to be called for all time. When Dante was about ten years old he lost his father. Of his mother nothing but her Christian name of Bella is known. Neither of them is mentioned in the _Comedy_,[32] nor indeed are his wife and children. Boccaccio describes the Alighieri as having been in easy though not in wealthy circumstances; and Leonardo Bruni, who in the fifteenth century sought out what he could learn of Dante, says of him that he was possessed of a patrimony sufficient for an honourable livelihood. That he was so might be inferred from the character of the education he received. His studies, says Boccaccio, were not directed to any object of worldly profit. That there is no sign of their having been directed by churchmen tends to prove the existence in his native town of a class of cultivated laymen; and that there was such appears from the ease with which, when, passing from boyhood to manhood, he felt a craving for intellectual and congenial society, he found in nobles of the stamp of Guido Cavalcanti men like-minded with himself. It was indeed impossible but that the revival of the study of the civil law, the importation of new learning from the East, and the sceptical spirit fostered in Italy by the influence of Frederick II. and his court, should all have told on the keen-witted Florentines, of whom a great proportion--even of the common people--could read; while the class with leisure had every opportunity of knowing what was going on in the world.[33] Heresy, the rough word for intellectual life as well as for religious aspiration, had found in Florence a congenial soil.[34] In the thirteenth century, which modern ignorance loves to reckon as having been in a special sense an age of faith, there were many Florentines who, in spite of their outward conformity, had drifted as far from spiritual allegiance to the Church as the furthest point reached by any of their descendants who some two ages later belonged to the school of Florentine Platonists. Chief among these free-thinkers, and, sooth to say, free-livers--though in this respect they were less distinguished from the orthodox--was Brunetto Latini, for some time Secretary to the Republic, and the foremost Italian man of letters of his day. Meagre though his greatest work, the _Tesoro_, or _Treasure_, must seem to any one who now glances over its pages, to his contemporaries it answered the promise of its title and stood for a magazine of almost complete information in the domains of natural history, ethics, and politics. It was written in French, as being a more agreeable language than Italian; and was composed, there is reason to believe, while Latini lived in Paris as an exiled Guelf after Montaperti. His _Tesoretto_, or _Little Treasure_, a poem in jingling eight-syllabled Italian verse, has been thought by some to have supplied hints to Dante for the _Comedy_.[35] By neither of these works is he evinced a man of strong intellect, or even of good taste. Yet there is the testimony of Villani that he did much to refine the language of his contemporaries, and to apply fixed principles to the conduct of State affairs.[36] Dante meets him in Inferno, and hails him as his intellectual father--as the master who taught him from day to day how fame is to be won.[37] But it is too much to infer from these words that Latini served as his teacher, in the common sense of the word. It is true they imply an intimacy between the veteran scholar and his young townsman; but the closeness of their intercourse is perhaps best accounted for by supposing that Latini had been acquainted with Dante's father, and by the great promise of Dante's boyhood was led to take a warm interest in his intellectual development. Their intimacy, to judge from the tone of their conversation down in Inferno, had lasted till Latini's death. But no tender reminiscence of the days they spent together avails to save him from condemnation at the hands of his severe disciple. By the manners of Brunetto, and the Epicurean heresies of others of his friends, Dante, we may be sure, was never infected or defiled. Dante describes himself as having begun the serious study of philosophy and theology only at the mature age of twenty-seven. But ere that time he had studied to good effect, and not books alone, but the world around him too, and the world within. The poet was formed before the theologian and philosopher. From his earliest years he was used to write in verse; and he seems to have esteemed as one of his best endowments the easy command of his mother tongue acquired by him while still in boyhood. Of the poems written in his youth he made a selection, and with a commentary gave them to the world as his first work.[38] All the sonnets and canzoni contained in it bear more or less directly on his love for Beatrice Portinari. This lady, whose name is so indissolubly associated with that of Dante, was the daughter of a rich citizen of good family. When Dante saw her first he was a child of nine, and she a few months younger. It would seem fabulous, he says, if he related what things he did, and of what a passion he was the victim during his boyhood. He seized opportunities of beholding her, but for long never passed beyond a silent worship; and he was eighteen before she spoke to him, and then only in the way of a passing salutation. On this he had a vision, and that inspired him with a sonnet, certainly not the first he had written, but the first he put into circulation. The mode of publication he adopted was the common one of sending copies of it to such other poets as were within reach. The sonnet in itself contains a challenge to interpret his dream. Several poets attempted the riddle--among them the philosopher and poet Guido Cavalcanti. They all failed in the solution; but with some of them he was thus brought into terms of intimacy, and with Cavalcanti of the closest friendship. Some new grace of style in Dante's verse, some art in the presentation of his mystical meaning that escapes the modern reader, may have revealed to the middle-aged man of letters that a new genius had arisen. It was by Guido's advice that the poems of which this sonnet stands the first were some years later collected and published with the explanatory narrative. To him, in a sense, the whole work is addressed; and it agreed with his taste, as well as Dante's own, that it should contain nothing but what was written in the vulgar tongue. Others besides Guido must have recognised in the little book, as it passed from hand to hand, the masterpiece of Italian prose, as well as of Italian verse. In the simple title of _Vita Nuova_, or _The New Life_,[39] we can fancy that a claim is laid to originality of both subject and treatment. Through the body of the work, though not so clearly as in the _Comedy_, there rings the note of assurance of safety from present neglect and future oblivion. It may be owing to the free use of personification and symbol in the _Vita Nuova_ that some critics, while not denying the existence of a real Beatrice, have held that she is introduced only to help out an allegory, and that, under the veil of love for her, the poet would express his youthful passion for truth. Others, going to the opposite extreme, are found wondering why he never sought, or, seeking, failed to win, the hand of Beatrice. To those who would refine the Beatrice of the early work into a being as purely allegorical as she of the _Comedy_, it may be conceded that the _Vita Nuova_ is not so much the history of a first love as of the new emotional and intellectual life to which a first love, as Dante experienced it, opens the door. Out of the incidents of their intercourse he chooses only such as serve for motives to the joys and sorrows of the passionate aspiring soul. On the other hand, they who seek reasons why Dante did not marry Beatrice have this to justify their curiosity, that she did marry another man. But her husband was one of the rich and powerful Bardi; and her father was so wealthy that after providing for his children he could endow a hospital in Florence. The marriage was doubtless arranged as a matter of family convenience, due regard being had to her dower and her husband's fortune; and we may assume that when Dante, too, was married later on, his wife was found for him by the good offices of his friends.[40] Our manners as regards these things are not those of the Italy of the thirteenth century. It may safely be said that Dante never dreamed of Beatrice for his wife; that the expectation of wedding her would have sealed his lips from uttering to the world any word of his love; and that she would have lost something in his esteem if, out of love for him, she had refused the man her father chose for her. We must not seek in the _Vita Nuova_ what it does not profess to give. There was a real Beatrice Portinari, to a careless glance perhaps not differing much from other Florentine ladies of her age and condition; but her we do not find in Dante's pages. These are devoted to a record of the dreams and visions, the new thoughts and feelings of which she was the occasion or the object. He worshipped at a distance, and in a single glance found reward enough for months of adoration; he read all heaven into a smile. So high strung is the narrative, that did we come on any hint of loving dalliance it would jar with all the rest She is always at a distance from him, less a woman than an angel. In all this there is certainly as much of reticence as of exaggeration. When he comes to speak of her death he uses a phrase on which it would seem as if too little value had been set. He cannot dwell on the circumstances of her departure, he says, without being his own panegyrist. Taken along with some other expressions in the _Vita Nuova_, and the tone of her words to him when they meet in the Earthly Paradise, we may gather from this that not only was she aware of his long devotion, but that, ere she died, he had been given to understand how highly she rated it. And on the occasion of her death, one described as being her nearest relative by blood and, after Cavalcanti, Dante's chief friend--her brother, no doubt--came to him and begged him to write something concerning her. It would be strange indeed if they had never looked frankly into one another's faces; and yet, for anything that is directly told in the _Vita Nuova_, they never did. The chief value of the _Vita Nuova_ is therefore psychological. It is a mine of materials illustrative of the author's mental and emotional development, but as regards historical details it is wanting in fulness and precision. Yet, even in such a sketch of Dante's life as this tries to be, it is necessary to dwell on the turning-points of the narrative contained in the _Vita Nuova_; the reader always remembering that on one side Dante says more than the fact that so he may glorify his love, and less on another that he may not fail in consideration for Beatrice. She is first a maiden whom no public breath is to disturb in her virgin calm; and afterwards a chaste wife, whose lover is as jealous of her reputation as any husband could be. The youthful lover had begun by propounding the riddle of his love so obscurely that even by his fellow-poets it had been found insoluble, adepts though they themselves were in the art of smothering a thought. Then, though all his longing is for Beatrice, lest she become the subject of common talk he feigns that he is in love first with one lady and then with another.[41] He even pushes his deceit so far that she rebukes him for his fickleness to one of his sham loves by denying him the customary salutation when they meet--this salutation being the only sign of friendship she has ever shown. It is already some few years since the first sonnet was written. Now, in a ballad containing a more direct avowal of his love than he has yet ventured on,[42] he protests that it was always Beatrice his heart was busy with, and that to her, though his eyes may have seemed to wander, his affection was always true. In the very next poem we find him as if debating with himself whether he shall persevere. He weighs the ennobling influence of a pure love and the sweetness it gives to life, against the pains and self-denial to which it condemns its servant. Here, he tells us in his commentary, he was like a traveller who has come to where the ways divide. His only means of escape--and he feels it is a poor one--is to throw himself into the arms of Pity. From internal evidence it seems reasonably certain that the marriage of Beatrice fell at the time when he describes himself as standing at the parting of the ways. Before that he has been careful to write of his love in terms so general as to be understood only by those in possession of the key. Now he makes direct mention of her, and seeks to be in her company; and he even leads us to infer that it was owing to his poems that she became a well-known personage in the streets of Florence. Immediately after the sonnet in which he has recourse to Pity, he tells how he was led by a friend into the house of a lady, married only that day, whom they find surrounded by her lady friends, met to celebrate her home-coming after marriage. It was the fashion for young gentlemen to offer their services at such a feast. On this occasion Dante for one can give no help. A sudden trembling seizes him; he leans for support against the painted wall of the chamber; then, lifting his eyes to see if the ladies have remarked his plight, he is troubled at beholding Beatrice among them, with a smile on her lips, as, leaning towards her, they mock at her lover's weakness. To his friend, who, as he leads him from the chamber, asks what ails him, he replies: 'My feet have reached that point beyond which if they pass they can never return.' It was only matrons that gathered round a bride at her home-coming; Beatrice was therefore by this time a married woman. That she was but newly married we may infer from Dante's confusion on finding her there.[43] His secret has now been discovered, and he must either renounce his love, or, as he is at length free to do, Beatrice being married, declare it openly, and spend his life in loyal devotion to her as the mistress of his imagination and of his heart.[44] But how is he to pursue his devotion to her, and make use of his new privilege of freer intercourse, when the very sight of her so unmans him? He writes three sonnets explaining what may seem pusillanimity in him, and resolves to write no more. Now comes the most fruitful episode in the history. Questioned by a bevy of fair ladies what is the end of a love like his, that cannot even face the object of its desire, he answers that his happiness lies in the words by which he shows forth the praises of his mistress. He has now discovered that his passion is its own reward. In other words, he has succeeded in spiritualising his love; although to a careless reader it might seem in little need of passing through the process. Then, soon after, as he walks by a crystal brook, he is inspired with the words which begin the noblest poem he had yet produced,[45] and that as the author of which he is hailed by a fellow-poet in Purgatory. It is the first to glorify Beatrice as one in whom Heaven is more concerned than Earth; and in it, too, he anticipates his journey through the other world. She dies,[46] and we are surprised to find that within a year of her death he wavers in his allegiance to her memory. A fair face, expressing a tender compassion, looks down on him from a window as he goes nursing his great sorrow; and he loves the owner of the face because she pities him. But seeing Beatrice in a vision he is restored, and the closing sonnet tells how his whole desire goes forth to her, and how his spirit is borne above the highest sphere to behold her receiving honour, and shedding radiance on all around her. The narrative closes with a reference to a vision which he does not recount, but which incites him to severe study in order that he may learn to write of her as she deserves. And the last sentence of the _Vita Nuova_ expresses a hope--a hope which would be arrogant coming after anything less perfect than the _Vita Nuova_--that, concerning her, he shall yet say things never said before of any woman. Thus the poet's earliest work contains an earnest of the latest, and his morning makes one day with his evening. The narrative of the _Vita Nuova_ is fluent and graceful, in this contrasting strongly with the analytical arguments attached to the various poems. Dante treats his readers as if they were able to catch the meaning of the most recondite allegory, and yet were ignorant of the alphabet of literary form. And, as is the case with other poets of the time, the free movement of his fancy is often hampered by the necessity he felt of expressing himself in the language of the popular scholastic philosophy. All this is but to say that he was a man of his period, as well as a great genius. And even in this his first work he bettered the example of Guido Cavalcanti, Guido of Bologna, and the others whom he found, but did not long suffer to remain, the masters of Italian verse.[47] These inherited from the Provençal and Sicilian poets much of the cant of which European poetry has been so slow to clear itself; and chiefly that of presenting all human emotion and volition under the figure of love for a mistress, who was often merely a creature of fancy, set up to act as Queen of Beauty while the poet ran his intellectual jousts. But Dante dealt in no feigned inspiration, and distinguishes himself from the whole school of philosophical and artificial poets as 'one who can only speak as love inspires.'[48] He may deal in allegory and utter sayings dark enough, but the first suggestions of his thoughts are obtained from facts of emotion or of real life. His lady was no creature of fancy, but his neighbour Beatrice Portinari: and she who ends in the _Paradiso_ as the embodied beauty of holiness was, to begin with, a fair Florentine girl. The instance of Beatrice is the strongest, although others might be adduced, to illustrate Dante's economy of actual experience; the skilful use, that is, of real emotions and incidents to serve for suggestion and material of poetical thought. As has been told, towards the close of the _Vita Nuova_ he describes how he found a temporary consolation for the loss of Beatrice in the pity of a fair and noble lady. In his next work, the _Convito_, or _Banquet_, she appears as the personification of philosophy. The plan of the _Convito_ is that of a commentary on odes which are interpreted as having various meanings--among others the literal as distinguished from the allegorical or essentially true. As far as this lady is concerned, Dante shows some eagerness to pass from the literal meaning; desirous, it may be, to correct the belief that he had ever wavered in his exclusive devotion to Beatrice. That for a time he did transfer his thoughts from Beatrice in Heaven to the fair lady of the window is almost certain, and by the time he wrote the _Purgatorio_ he was able to make confession of such a fault. But at the earlier period at which the _Convito_[49] was written, he may have come to regard the avowal in the _Vita Nuova_ as an oversight dishonouring to himself as well as to his first love, and so have slurred it over, leaving the fact to stand enveloped in an allegory. At any rate, to his gloss upon this passage in his life we are indebted for an interesting account of how, at the age of twenty-seven, he put himself to school:-- 'After losing the earliest joy of my life, I was so smitten with sorrow that in nothing could I find any comfort. Yet after some time my mind, eager to recover its tone, since nought that I or others could do availed to restore me, directed itself to find how people, being disconsolate, had been comforted. And so I took to reading that little-known book by Boethius, by writing which he, captive and in exile, had obtained relief. Next, hearing that Tully as well had written a book in which, treating of friendship, he had consoled the worthy Laelius on the occasion of the loss of his friend Scipio, I read that too. And though at the first I found their meaning hard, at last I comprehended it as far as my knowledge of the language and some little command of mother-wit enabled me to do: which same mother-wit had already helped me to much, as may be seen by the _Vita Nuova_. And as it often happens that a man goes seeking silver, and lights on gold he is not looking for--the result of chance, or of some divine provision; so I, besides finding the consolation I was in search of to dry my tears, became possessed of wisdom from authors and sciences and books. Weighing this well, I deemed that philosophy, the mistress of these authors, sciences, and books, must be the best of all things. And imagining her to myself fashioned like a great lady, rich in compassion, my admiration of her was so unbounded that I was always delighting myself in her image. And from thus beholding her in fancy I went on to frequent the places where she is to be found in very deed--in the schools of theology, to wit, and the debates of philosophers. So that in a little time, thirty months or so, I began to taste so much of her sweetness that the love I bore to her effaced or banished every other thought.'[50] No one would guess from this description of how he grew enamoured of philosophy, that at the beginning of his arduous studies Dante took a wife. She was Gemma, the daughter of Manetto Donati, but related only distantly, if at all, to the great Corso Donati. They were married in 1292, he being twenty-seven; and in the course of the nine years that elapsed till his exile she bore him five sons and two daughters.[51] From his silence regarding her in his works, and from some words of Boccaccio's which apply only to the period of his exile, it has been inferred that the union was unhappy. But Dante makes no mention in his writings of his parents or children any more than of Gemma.[52] And why should not his wife be included among the things dearest to him which, he tells us, he had to leave behind him on his banishment? For anything we know to the contrary, their wedded life up to the time of his exile may have been happy enough; although most probably the marriage was one of convenience, and almost certainly Dante found little in Gemma's mind that answered to his own.[53] In any case it is not safe to lay stress upon his silence. During the period covered by the _Vita Nuova_ he served more than once in the field, and to this none of his earlier works make any reference. In 1289, Arezzo having warmly espoused the Ghibeline cause, the Florentines, led by Corso Donati and the great merchant Vieri dei Cerchi, took up arms and met the foe in the field of Campaldino, on the edge of the upland region of the Casentino. Dante, as a young man of means and family, fought in the vanguard;[54] and in a letter partly preserved by one of his early biographers[55] he describes himself as being then no tiro in arms, and as having with varying emotions watched the fortunes of the day. From this it is clear that he had served before, probably in an expedition into the Aretine territory made in the previous year, and referred to in the _Inferno_.[56] In the same year as Campaldino was won he was present at the surrender of Caprona, a fortress belonging to Pisa.[57] But of all this he is silent in his works, or only makes casual mention of it by way of illustration. It is, therefore, a waste of time trying to prove his domestic misery from his silence about his marriage. IV. So hard a student was Dante that he now for a time nearly lost the use of his eyes.[58] But he was cured by regimen, and came to see as well as ever, he tells us; which we can easily believe was very well indeed. For his work, as he planned it out, he needed all his powers. The _Convito_, for example, was designed to admit of a full treatment of all that concerns philosophy. It marks an earlier stage of his intellectual and spiritual life than does the opening of the _Inferno_. In it we have the fruit of the years during which he was wandering astray from his early ideal, misled by what he afterwards came to count as a vain and profitless curiosity. Most of its contents, as we have it,[59] are only indirectly interesting. It is impossible for most people to care for discussions, conducted with all the nicety of scholastic definition, on such subjects as the system of the universe as it was evolved out of the brains of philosophers; the subject-matter of knowledge; and how we know. But there is one section of it possessed of a very special interest, the Fourth, in which he treats of the nature of nobility. This he affirms to be independent of wealth or ancestry, and he finds every one to be noble who practises the virtues proper to his time of life. 'None of the Uberti of Florence or the Visconti of Milan can say he is noble because belonging to such or such a race; for the Divine seed is sown not in a family but in the individual man.' This amounts, it must be admitted, to no more than saying that high birth is one thing, and nobility of character another; but it is significant of what were the current opinions, that Dante should be at such pains to distinguish between the two qualities. The canzone which supplies the text for the treatise closes with a picture of the noble soul at every stage of life, to which Chaucer may well have been indebted for his description of the true gentleman:[60]--'The soul that is adorned by this grace does not keep it hid, but from the day when soul is wed to body shows it forth even until death. In early life she is modest, obedient, and gentle, investing the outward form and all its members with a gracious beauty: in youth she is temperate and strong, full of love and courteous ways, delighting in loyal deeds: in mature age she is prudent, and just, and apt to liberality, rejoicing to hear of others' good. Then in the fourth stage of life she is married again to God,[61] and contemplates her approaching end with thankfulness for all the past.'[62] In this passage it is less the poet that is heard than the sober moralist, one with a ripe experience of life, and contemptuous of the vulgar objects of ambition. The calm is on the surface. As has been said above, he was proud of his own birth, the more proud perhaps that his station was but a middling one; and to the close of his life he hated upstarts with their sudden riches, while the Philip Argenti on whom in the _Inferno_ he takes what has much the air of a private revenge may have been only a specimen of the violent and haughty nobles with whom he stood on an uneasy footing. Yet the impression we get of Dante's surroundings in Florence from the _Vita Nuova_ and other poems, from references in the _Comedy_, and from some anecdotes more or less true which survive in the pages of Boccaccio and elsewhere, is on the whole a pleasant one. We should mistake did we think of him as always in the guise of absorbed student or tearful lover. Friends he had, and society of various kinds. He tells how in a severe illness he was nursed by a young and noble lady, nearly related to him by blood--his sister most probably; and other ladies are mentioned as watching in his sick-chamber.[63] With Forese and Piccarda Donati, brother and sister of the great Corso Donati, he was on terms of the warmest friendship.[64] From the _Vita Nuova_ we can gather that, even when his whole heart fainted and failed at the mere sight of Beatrice, he was a favourite with other ladies and conversed familiarly with them. The brother of Beatrice was his dear friend; while among those of the elder generation he could reckon on the friendship of such men as Guido Cavalcanti and Brunetto Latini. Through Latini he would, even as a young man, get the entry of the most lettered and intellectually active society of Florence. The tradition of his intimacy with Giotto is supported by the mention he makes of the painter,[65] and by the fact, referred to in the _Vita Nuova_, that he was himself a draughtsman. It is to be regretted there are not more anecdotes of him on record like that which tells how one day as he drew an angel on his tablets he was broken in upon by 'certain people of importance.' The musician Casella, whom he 'woes to sing in Purgatory'[66] and Belacqua, the indolent good-humoured lutemaker,[67] are greeted by him in a tone of friendly warmth in the one case and of easy familiarity in the other, which help us to know the terms on which he stood with the quick-witted artist class in Florence.[68] Already he was in the enjoyment of a high reputation as a poet and scholar, and there seemed no limit to the greatness he might attain to in his native town as a man of action as well as a man of thought. In most respects the Florence of that day was as fitting a home for a man of genius as could well be imagined. It was full of a life which seemed restless only because the possibilities of improvement for the individual and the community seemed infinite. A true measure of its political progress and of the activity of men's minds is supplied by the changes then being made in the outward aspect of the city. The duties of the Government were as much municipal as political, and it would have surprised a Florentine to be told that the one kind of service was of less dignity than the other. The population grew apace, and, to provide the means for extending the city walls, every citizen, on pain of his testament being found invalid, was required to bequeath a part of his estate to the public. Already the banks of the Arno were joined by three bridges of stone, and the main streets were paved with the irregularly-shaped blocks of lava still familiar to the sojourner in Florence. But between the time of Dante's boyhood and the close of the century the other outstanding features of the city were greatly altered, or were in the course of change. The most important churches of Florence, as he first knew it, were the Baptistery and the neighbouring small cathedral church of Santa Reparata; after these ranked the church of the Trinity, Santo Stefano, and some other churches which are now replaced by larger ones, or of which the site alone can be discovered. On the other side of the river, Samminiato with its elegant façade rose as now upon its hill.[69] The only great civic building was the Palace of the Podesta. The Old Market was and had long been the true centre of the city's life. At the time Dante went into exile Arnolfo was already working on the great new cathedral of St. Mary of the Flowers, the spacious Santa Croce, and the graceful Badia; and Santa Maria Novella was slowly assuming the perfection of form that was later to make it the favourite of Michel Angelo. The Palace of the Signory was already planned, though half a century was to elapse before its tower soared aloft to daunt the private strongholds which bristled, fierce and threatening, all over the city. The bell-tower of Giotto, too, was of later erection--the only pile we can almost regret that Dante never saw. The architect of it was however already adorning the walls of palace and cloister with paintings whose inspiration was no longer, like that of the works they overshadowed, drawn from the outworn motives of Byzantine art, but from the faithful observation of nature.[70] He in painting and the Pisan school in sculpture were furnishing the world with novel types of beauty in the plastic arts, answering to the 'sweet new style' in verse of which it was Dante that discovered the secret.[71] Florence was now by far the leading city in Tuscany. Its merchants and money-dealers were in correspondence with every Mediterranean port and with every country of the West. Along with bales of goods and letters of exchange new ideas and fresh intelligence were always on the road to Florence. The knowledge of what was going on in the world, and of what men were thinking, was part of the stock-in-trade of the quick-witted citizens, and they were beginning to be employed throughout Europe in diplomatic work, till then almost a monopoly of churchmen. 'These Florentines seem to me to form a fifth element,' said Boniface, who had ample experience of how accomplished they were. At home they had full employment for their political genius; and still upon the old problem, of how to curb the arrogance of the class that, in place of being satisfied to share in the general prosperity, sought its profit in the maintenance of privilege. It is necessary, at the cost of what may look like repetition, to revert to the presence and activity of this class in Florence, if we are to form a true idea of the circumstances of Dante's life, and enter into the spirit with which much of the _Comedy_ is informed. Though many of the nobles were now engaged in commerce and figured among the popular leaders, most of the greater houses stood proudly aloof from everything that might corrupt their gentility. These were styled the magnates: they found, as it were, a vocation for themselves in being nobles. Among them the true distinctive spirit of Ghibelinism survived, although none of them would now have dared to describe himself as a Ghibeline. Their strength lay partly in the unlimited control they retained over the serfs on their landward estates; in the loyalty with which the members of a family held by one another; in their great command of resources as the administrators of the _Parte Guelfa_; and in the popularity they enjoyed with the smaller people in consequence of their lavish expenditure, and frank if insolent manners. By law scarcely the equals of the full citizens, in point of fact they tyrannised over them. Their houses, set like fortresses in the crowded streets, frequently served as prisons and torture-chambers for the low-born traders or artisans who might offend them. Measures enough had been passed towards the close of the century with a view to curb the insolence of the magnates; but the difficulty was to get them put in force. At length, in 1294, they, with many additional reforms, were embodied in the celebrated Ordinances of Justice. These for long were counted back to as the Great Charter of Florence--a Great Charter defining the popular rights and the disabilities of the baronage. Punishments of special severity were enacted for nobles who should wrong a plebeian, and the whole of a family or clan was made responsible for the crimes and liabilities of its several members. The smaller tradesmen were conciliated by being admitted to a share in political influence. If serfage was already abolished in the State of Florence, it was the Ordinances which made it possible for the serf to use his liberty.[72] But the greatest blow dealt to the nobles by the new laws was their exclusion, as nobles, from all civil and political offices. These they could hold only by becoming members of one of the trade guilds.[73] And to deprive a citizen of his rights it was enough to inscribe his name in the list of magnates. It is not known in what year Dante became a member of the Guild of Apothecaries. Without much reason it has been assumed that he was one of the nobles who took advantage of the law of 1294. But there is no evidence that in his time the Alighieri ranked as magnates, and much ground for believing that for some considerable time past they had belonged to the order of full citizens. It was not necessary for every guildsman to practise the art or engage in the business to which his guild was devoted, and we are not required to imagine Dante as having anything to do with medicine or with the spices and precious stones in which the apothecaries traded. The guilds were political as much as industrial associations, and of the public duties of his membership he took his full share. The constitution of the Republic, jealously careful to limit the power of the individual citizen, provided that the two chief executive officers, the Podesta and the Captain of the People, should always be foreigners. They held office only for six months. To each of them was assigned a numerous Council, and before a law could be abrogated or a new one passed it needed the approval of both these Councils, as well as that of the Priors, and of the heads of the principal guilds. The Priors were six in number, one for each district of the city. With them lay the administration in general of the laws, and the conduct of foreign affairs. Their office was elective, and held for two months.[74] Of one or other of the Councils Dante is known to have been a member in 1295, 1296, 1300, and 1301.[75] In 1299 he is found engaged on a political mission to the little hill-city of San Gemigniano, where in the town-house they still show the pulpit from which he addressed the local senate.[76] From the middle of June till the middle of August 1300 he served as one of the Priors.[77] At the time when Dante entered on this office, Florence was distracted by the feud of Blacks and Whites, names borrowed from the factions of Pistoia, but fated to become best known from their use in the city which adopted them. The strength of the Blacks lay in the nobles whom the Ordinances of Justice had been designed to depress; both such of them as had retained their standing as magnates, and such as, under the new law, had unwillingly entered the ranks of the citizens. Already they had succeeded in driving into exile Giano della Bella,[78] the chief author of the Ordinances; and their efforts--and those of the citizens who, fearing the growing power of the lesser guilds, were in sympathy with them--were steadily directed to upset the reforms. An obvious means to this end was to lower in popular esteem the public men whose policy it was to govern firmly on the new lines. The leader of the discontented party was Corso Donati, a man of small fortune, but of high birth; of splendid personal appearance, open-handed, and of popular manners. He and they who went with him affected a violent Guelfism, their chance of recovering the control of domestic affairs being the better the more they could frighten the Florentines with threats of evils like those incurred by the Aretines and Pisans from Ghibeline oppression. It may be imagined what meaning the cry of Ghibeline possessed in days when there was still a class of beggars in Florence--men of good names--whose eyes had been torn out by Farinata and his kind. One strong claim which Corso Donati had on the goodwill of his fellow-townsmen was that by his ready courage in pushing on the reserves, against superior orders, at the battle of Campaldino,[79] the day had been won to Florence and her allies. As he rode gallantly through the streets he was hailed as the Baron (_il Barone_), much as in the last generation the victor of Waterloo was sufficiently distinguished as the Duke. At the same battle, Vieri dei Cerchi, the leader of the opposite party of the Whites, had shown no less bravery, but he was ignorant of the art, or despised it, of making political capital out of the performance of his duty. In almost every respect he offered a contrast to Donati. He was of a new family, and his influence depended not on landed possessions, though he had these too, but on wealth derived from commerce.[80] According to John Villani, a competent authority on such a point,[81] he was at the head of one of the greatest trading houses in the world. The same crowds that cheered Corso as the great Baron sneered at the reticent and cold-tempered merchant as the Ghibeline. It was a strange perversion of ideas, and yet had this of justification, that all the nobles of Ghibeline tendency and all the citizens who, on account of their birth, were suspected of leaning that way were driven into the party of the Whites by the mere fact of the Blacks hoisting so defiantly the Guelf flag, and commanding the resources of the _Parte Guelfa_. But if Ghibelinism meant, as fifty years previously it did mean, a tendency to exalt privilege as against the general liberties and to court foreign interference in the affairs of Florence, it was the Blacks and not the Whites who had served themselves heirs to Ghibelinism. That the appeal was now taken to the Pope instead of to the Emperor did not matter; or that French soldiers in place of German were called in to settle domestic differences. The Roman See was at this time filled by Boniface VIII., who six years previously, by violence and fraud, had procured the resignation of Celestine V.--him who made the great refusal.[82] Boniface was at once arrogant and subtle, wholly faithless, and hampered by no scruple either of religion or humanity. But these qualities were too common among those who before and after him filled the Papal throne, to secure him in a special infamy. That he has won from the ruthless hatred which blazes out against him in many a verse of Dante's,[83] and for this hatred he is indebted to his interference in the affairs of Florence, and what came as one of the fruits of it--the poet's exile. And yet, from the point of view not only of the interest of Rome but also of Italy, there is much to be said for the policy of Boniface. German domination was a just subject of fear, and the Imperialist element was still so strong in Northern and Central Italy, that if the Emperor Albert[84] had been a man of a more resolute ambition, he might--so contemporaries deemed--have conquered Italy at the cost of a march through it. The cities of Romagna were already in Ghibeline revolt, and it was natural that the Pope should seek to secure Florence on the Papal side. It was for the Florentines rather than for him to judge what they would lose or gain by being dragged into the current of general politics. He made a fair beginning with an attempt to reconcile the two parties. The Whites were then the dominant faction, and to them reconciliation meant that their foes would at once divide the government with them, and at the long-run sap the popular liberties, while the Pope's hand would soon be allowed to dip freely into the communal purse. The policy of the Whites was therefore one of steady opposition to all foreign meddling with Florence. But it failed to secure general support, for without being Ghibeline in fact it had the air of being so; and the name of Ghibeline was one that no reasoning could rob of its terrors.[85] As was usual in Florence when political feeling ran high, the hotter partisans came to blows, and the streets were more than once disturbed by violence and bloodshed. To an onlooker it must have seemed as if the interposition of some external authority was desirable; and almost on the same day as the new Priors, of whom Dante was one and who were all Whites, took office in the June of 1300, the Cardinal Acquasparta entered the city, deputed by the Pope to establish peace. His proposals were declined by the party in power, and having failed in his mission he left the city, and took the priestly revenge upon it of placing it under interdict.[86] Ere many months were passed, the Blacks, at a meeting of the heads of the party, resolved to open negotiations anew with Boniface. For this illegal step some of them, including Corso Donati, were ordered into exile by the authorities, who, to give an appearance of impartiality to their proceedings, at the same time banished some of the Whites, and among them Guido Cavalcanti. It was afterwards made a charge against Dante that he had procured the recall of his friend Guido and the other Whites from exile; but to this he could answer that he was not then in office.[87] Corso in the meantime was using his enforced absence from Florence to treat freely with the Pope. Boniface had already entered into correspondence with Charles of Valois, brother of Philip, the reigning King of France, with the view of securing the services of a strongly-connected champion. It was the game that had been played before by the Roman Court when Charles of Anjou was called to Italy to crush the Hohenstaufens. This second Charles was a man of ability of a sort, as he had given cruel proof in his brother's Flemish wars. By the death of his wife, daughter of his kinsman Charles II. of Naples and so grand-daughter of Charles of Anjou, he had lost the dominions of Maine and Anjou, and had got the nickname of Lackland from his want of a kingdom. He lent a willing ear to Boniface, who presented him with the crown of Sicily on condition that he first wrested it from the Spaniard who wore it.[88] All the Papal influence was exerted to get money for the expenses of the descent on Sicily. Even churchmen were required to contribute, for it was a holy war, and the hope was that when Charles, the champion of the Church, had reduced Italy to obedience, won Sicily for himself by arms, and perhaps the Eastern Empire by marriage, he would win the Holy Sepulchre for Christendom. Charles crossed the Alps in August 1301, with five hundred men-at-arms, and, avoiding Florence on his southward march, found Boniface at his favourite residence of Anagni. He was created Pacificator of Tuscany, and loaded with other honours. What better served the purpose of his ambition, he was urged to retrace his steps and justify his new title by restoring peace to Florence. There the Whites were still in power, but they dared not declare themselves openly hostile to the Papal and Guelf interest by refusing him admission to the city. He came with gentle words, and ready to take the most stringent oaths not to tamper with the liberties of the Commonwealth; but once he had gained an entrance (November 1301) and secured his hold on Florence, he threw off every disguise, gave full play to his avarice, and amused himself with looking on at the pillage of the dwellings and warehouses of the Whites by the party of Corso Donati. By all this, says Dante, Charles 'gained no land,' Lackland as he was, 'but only sin and shame.'[89] There is a want of precise information as to the events of this time. But it seems probable that Dante formed one of an embassy sent by the rulers of Florence to the Pope in the autumn of this year; and that on the occasion of the entrance of Charles he was absent from Florence. What the embassy had to propose which Boniface could be expected to be satisfied with, short of complete submission, is not known and is not easy to guess. It seems clear at least that Dante cannot have been chosen as a person likely to be specially pleasing to the Roman Court. Within the two years preceding he had made himself prominent in the various Councils of which he was a member, by his sturdy opposition to affording aid to the Pope in his Romagnese wars. It is even possible that his theory of the Empire was already more or less known to Boniface, and as that Pontiff claimed Imperial authority over such states as Florence, this would be sufficient to secure him a rough reception.[90] Where he was when the terrible news came to him that for some days there had been no law in Florence, and that Corso Donati was sharing in the triumph of Charles, we do not know. Presageful of worse things to come, he did not seek to return, and is said to have been in Siena when he heard that, on the 27th January 1302, he had been sentenced to a heavy fine and political disabilities for having been guilty of extortion while a Prior, of opposing the coming of Charles, and of crimes against the peace of Florence and the interest of the _Parte Guelfa_. If the fine was not paid within three days his goods and property were to be confiscated. This condemnation he shared with three others. In the following March he was one of twelve condemned, for contumacy, to be burned alive if ever they fell into the hands of the Florentine authorities. We may perhaps assume that the cruel sentence, as well as the charge of peculation, was uttered only in order to conform to some respectable precedents. V. Besides Dante many other Whites had been expelled from Florence.[91] Whether they liked it or not, they were forced to seek aid from the Ghibelines of Arezzo and Romagna. This led naturally to a change of political views, and though at the time of their banishment all of them were Guelfs in various degrees, as months and years went on they developed into Ghibelines, more or less declared. Dissensions, too, would be bred among them out of recriminations touching the past, and charges of deserting the general interest for the sake of securing private advantage in the way of making peace with the Republic. For a time, however, the common desire of gaining a return to Florence held them together. Of the Council constituted to bring this about, Dante was a member. Once only with his associates does he appear to have come the length of formal negotiations with a view to getting back. Charles of Valois had passed away from the temporary scene of his extortions and treachery, upon the futile quest of a crown. Boniface, ere being persecuted to death by his old ally, Philip of France (1303), had vainly attempted to check the cruelty of the Blacks; and Benedict, his successor, sent the Cardinal of Ostia to Florence with powers to reconcile the two parties. Dante is usually credited with the composition of the letter in which Vieri dei Cerchi and his fellow-exiles answered the call of the Cardinal to discuss the conditions of their return home. All that had been done by the banished party, said the letter, had been done for the public good.[92] The negotiations came to nothing; nor were the exiles more fortunate in arms. Along with their allies they did once succeed by a sudden dash in penetrating to the market-place, and Florence lay within their grasp when, seized with panic, they turned and fled from the city, which many of them were never to see again. Almost certainly Dante took no active part in this attempt, and indeed there is little to show that he was ever heartily associated with the exiles. In his own words, he was compelled to break with his companions owing to their imbecility and wickedness, and to form a party by himself.[93] With the Whites, then, he had little more to do; and the story of their fortunes need not longer detain us. It is enough to say that while, like Dante, the chief men among them were for ever excluded from Florence, the principles for which they had contended survived, and even obtained something like a triumph within its walls. The success of Donati and his party, though won with the help of the people, was too clearly opposed to the popular interest to be permanent. Ere long the inveterate contradiction between magnate and merchant was again to change the course of Florentine politics; the disabilities against lawless nobles were again to be enforced; and Corso Donati himself was to be crushed in the collision of passions he had evoked but could not control (1308). Though tenderly attached to members of his family, Dante bore Corso a grudge as having been the chief agent in procuring his exile--a grudge which years could do nothing to wipe out. He places in the mouth of Forese Donati a prophecy of the great Baron's shameful death, expressed in curt and scornful words, terrible from a brother.[94] It is no figure of speech to say that Dante nursed revenge. For some few years his hopes were set on Henry of Luxemburg, elected Emperor in 1308. A Ghibeline, in the ordinary sense of the term, Dante never was. We have in his _De Monarchia_ a full account of the conception he had formed of the Empire--that of authority in temporal affairs embodied in a just ruler, who, being already supreme, would be delivered from all personal ambition; who should decree justice and be a refuge for all that were oppressed. He was to be the captain of Christian society and the guardian of civil right; as in another sphere the Pope was to be the shepherd of souls and the guardian of the deposit of Divine truth. In Dante's eyes the one great officer was as much God's vicegerent as the other. While the most that a Ghibeline or a moderate Guelf would concede was that there should be a division of power between Pope and Emperor--the Ghibeline leaving it to the Emperor and the Guelf to the Pope to define their provinces--Dante held, and in this he stood almost alone among politicians, that they ought to be concerned with wholly different kingdoms, and that Christendom was wronged by the trespass of either upon the other's domain. An equal wrong was done by the neglect by either of his duty, and both, as Dante judged, had been shamefully neglecting it. For more than half a century no Emperor had set foot in Italy; and since the Papal Court had under Clement V. been removed to Avignon (1305), the Pope had ceased to be a free agent, owing to his neighbourhood to France and the unscrupulous Philip.[95] Dante trusted that the virtuous single-minded Henry VII. would prove a monarch round whom all the best in Italy might gather to make him Emperor in deed as well as in name. His judgment took the colour of his hopes, for under the awful shadow of the Emperor he trusted to enter Florence. Although no Ghibeline or Imperialist in the vulgar sense, he constituted himself Henry's apologist and herald; and in letters addressed to the 'wicked Florentines,' to the Emperor, and to the Princes and Peoples of Italy, he blew as it were a trumpet-blast of triumph over the Emperor's enemies and his own. Henry had crossed the Alps, and was tarrying in the north of Italy, when Dante, with a keen eye for where the key of the situation lay, sharpened by his own wishes, urged him to lose no more time in reducing the Lombard cities to obedience, but to descend on Florence, the rotten sheep which was corrupting all the Italian flock. The men of Florence he bids prepare to receive the just reward of their crimes. The Florentines answered Dante's bitter invective and the Emperor's milder promises by an unwearied opposition with the arms which their increasing command of all that tends to soften life made them now less willing to take up, and by the diplomacy in which they were supreme The exiles were recalled, always excepting the more stubborn or dangerous; and among these was reckoned Dante. Alliances were made on all hands, an art which Henry was notably wanting in the trick of. Wherever he turned he was met and checkmated by the Florentines, who, wise by experience, were set on retaining control of their own affairs. After his coronation at Rome (1312),[96] he marched northwards, and with his Pisan and Aretine allies for six weeks laid fruitless siege to Florence. King Robert of Naples, whose aid he had hoped to gain by means of a family alliance, was joined to the league of Guelfs, and Henry passed away from Florence to engage in an enterprise against the Southern Kingdom, a design cut short by his death (1313). He was the last Emperor that ever sought to take the part in Italian affairs which on Dante's theory belonged to the Imperial office. Well-meaning but weak, he was not the man to succeed in reducing to practice a scheme of government which had broken down even in the strong hands of the two Fredericks, and ere the Commonwealths of Italy had become each as powerful as a Northern kingdom. To explain his failure, Dante finds that his descent into Italy was unseasonable: he came too soon. Rather, it may be said, he came far too late.[97] When, on the death of Henry, Dante was disappointed in his hopes of a true revival of the Empire, he devoted himself for a time to urging the restoration of the Papal Court to Rome, so that Italy might at least not be left without some centre of authority. In a letter addressed to the Italian Cardinals, he besought them to replace Clement V., who died in 1314,[98] by an Italian Pope. Why should they, he asked, resign this great office into Gascon hands? Why should Rome, the true centre of Christendom, be left deserted and despised? His appeal was fruitless, as indeed it could not fail to be with only six Italian Cardinals in a College of twenty-four; and after a vacancy of two years the Gascon Clement was succeeded by another Gascon. Although Dante's motives in making this attempt were doubtless as purely patriotic as those which inspired Catherine of Siena to similar action a century later, he met, we may be sure, with but little sympathy from his former fellow-citizens. They were intent upon the interests of Florence alone, and even of these they may sometimes have taken a narrow view. His was the wider patriotism of the Italian, and it was the whole Peninsula that he longed to see delivered from French influence and once more provided with a seat of authority in its midst, even if it were only that of spiritual power. The Florentines for their part, desirous of security against the incursions of the northern horde, were rather set on retaining the goodwill of France than on enjoying the neighbourhood of the Pope. In this they were guilty of no desertion of their principles. Their Guelfism had never been more than a mode of minding themselves. For about three years (1313-1316) the most dangerous foe of Florence was Uguccione de la Faggiuola, a partisan Ghibeline chief, sprung from the mountain-land of Urbino, which lies between Tuscany and Romagna. He made himself lord of Pisa and Lucca, and defeated the Florentines and their allies in the great battle of Montecatini (1315). To him Dante is believed to have attached himself.[99] It would be easy for the Republic to form an exaggerated idea of the part which the exile had in shaping the policy or contributing to the success of his patron; and we are not surprised to find that, although Dante's fighting days were done, he was after the defeat subjected to a third condemnation (November 1315). If caught, he was to lose his head; and his sons, or some of them, were threatened with the same fate. The terms of the sentence may again have been more severe than the intentions of those who uttered it. However this may be, an amnesty was passed in the course of the following year, and Dante was urged to take advantage of it. He found the conditions of pardon too humiliating. Like a malefactor he would require to walk, taper in hand and a shameful mitre on his head, to the church of St John, and there make an oblation for his crimes. It was not in this fashion that in his more hopeful hours the exile had imagined his restoration. If ever he trod again the pavement of his beautiful St John's, it was to be proudly, as a patriot touching whom his country had confessed her sins; or, with a poet's more bashful pride, to receive the laurel crown beside the font in which he was baptized. But as he would not enter his well beloved, well hated Florence on the terms imposed by his enemies, so he never had the chance of entering it on his own. The spirit in which he, as it were, turned from the open gates of his native town is well expressed in a letter to a friend, who would seem to have been a churchman who had tried to win his compliance with the terms of the pardon. After thanking his correspondent for his kindly eagerness to recover him, and referring to the submission required, he says:--'And is it in this glorious fashion that Dante Alighieri, wearied with an almost trilustral exile, is recalled to his country? Is this the desert of an innocence known to all, and of laborious study which for long has kept him asweat?... But, Father, this is no way for me to return to my country by; though if by you or others one can be hit upon through which the honour and fame of Dante will take no hurt, it shall be followed by me with no tardy steps. If by none such Florence is to be entered, I will never enter Florence. What then! Can I not, wherever I may be, behold the sun and stars? Is not meditation upon the sweetness of truth as free to me in one place as another? To enjoy this, no need to submit myself ingloriously and with ignominy to the State and People of Florence! And wherever I may be thrown, in any case I trust at least to find daily bread.' The cruelty and injustice of Florence to her greatest son have been the subject of much eloquent blame. But, in justice to his contemporaries, we must try to see Dante as they saw him, and bear in mind that the very qualities fame makes so much of--his fervent temper and devotion to great ideas--placed him out of the reach of common sympathy. Others besides him had been banished from Florence, with as much or as little reason, and had known the saltness of bread which has been begged, and the steepness of strange stairs. The pains of banishment made them the more eager to have it brought to a close. With Dante all that he suffered went to swell the count of grievances for which a reckoning was some day to be exacted. The art of returning was, as he himself knew well, one he was slow to learn.[100] His noble obstinacy, which would stoop to no loss of dignity or sacrifice of principle, must excite our admiration; it also goes far to account for his difficulty in getting back. We can even imagine that in Florence his refusal to abate one tittle of what was due to him in the way of apology was, for a time, the subject of wondering speculation to the citizens, ere they turned again to their everyday affairs of politics and merchandise. Had they been more used to deal with men in whom a great genius was allied to a stubborn sense of honour, they would certainly have left less room in their treatment of Dante for happier ages to cavil at. How did the case stand? In the letter above quoted from, Dante says that his innocence was known to all. As far as the charge of corruption in his office-bearing went, his banishment--no one can doubt it for a moment--was certainly unjust; and the political changes in Florence since the death of Corso Donati had taken all the life out of the other charges. But by his eager appeals to the Emperor to chastise the Florentines he had raised fresh barriers against his return. The governors of the Republic could not be expected to adopt his theory of the Empire and share his views of the Imperial claims; and to them Dante must have seemed as much guilty of disloyalty to the Commonwealth in inviting the presence of Henry, as Corso Donati had been in Dante's eyes for his share in bringing Charles of Valois to harry Florence. His political writings since his exile--and all his writings were more or less political--had been such as might well confirm or create an opinion of him as a man difficult to live with, as one whose intellectual arrogance had a ready organ in his unsparing tongue or pen. Rumour would most willingly dwell upon and distort the features of his character and conduct that separated him from the common herd. And to add to all this, even after he had deserted the party of the Whites in exile, and had become a party to himself, he found his friends and patrons--for where else could he find them?--among the foes of Florence. VI. History never abhors a vacuum so much as when she has to deal with the life of a great man, and for those who must have details of Dante's career during the nineteen years which elapsed between his banishment and his death, the industry of his biographers has exhausted every available hint, while some of them press into their service much that has only the remotest bearing on their hero. If even one-half of their suppositions were adopted, we should be forced to the conclusion that the _Comedy_ and all the other works of his exile were composed in the intervals of a very busy life. We have his own word for this much, (_Convito_ i. 3,) that since he was cast forth out of Florence--in which he would 'fain rest his wearied soul and fulfil his appointed time'--he had been 'a pilgrim, nay, even a mendicant,' in every quarter of Italy,[101] and had 'been held cheap by many who, because of his fame, had looked to find him come in another guise.' But he gives no journal of his wanderings, and, as will have been observed, says no word of any country but Italy. Keeping close to well-ascertained facts, it seems established that in the earlier period of his exile he sojourned with members of the great family of the Counts Guidi,[102] and that he also found hospitality with the Malaspini,[103] lords of the Val di Magra, between Genoa and Lucca. At a still earlier date (August 1306) he is found witnessing a deed in Padua. It was most probably in the same year that Dante found Giotto there, painting the walls of the Scrovegni Chapel, and was courteously welcomed by the artist, and taken to his house.[104] At some time of his life he studied at Bologna: John Villani says, during his exile.[105] Of his supposed residence in Paris, though it is highly probable, there is a want of proof; of a visit to England, none at all that is worth a moment's consideration. Some of his commentators and biographers seem to think he was so short-witted that he must have been in a place before it could occur to him to name it in his verse. We have Dante's own word for it that he found his exile almost intolerable. Besides the bitter resentment which he felt at the injustice of it, he probably cherished the conviction that his career had been cut short when he was on the point of acquiring great influence in affairs. The illusion may have been his--one not uncommon among men of a powerful imagination--that, given only due opportunity, he could mould the active life of his time as easily as he moulded and fashioned the creations of his fancy. It was, perhaps, owing to no fault of his own that when a partial opportunity had offered itself, he failed to get his views adopted in Florence; indeed, to judge from the kind of employment in which he was more than once engaged for his patrons, he must have been possessed of no little business tact. Yet, as when his feelings were deeply concerned his words knew no restraint, so his hopes would partake of the largeness of his genius. In the restored Empire, which he was almost alone in longing for as he conceived of it, he may have imagined for himself a place beside Henry like what in Frederick's court had been filled by Pier delle Vigne--the man who held both keys to the Emperor's heart, and opened and shut it as he would.[106] Thus, as his exile ran on it would grow sadder with the accumulating memories of hopes deferred and then destroyed, and of dreams which had faded away in the light of a cheerless reality. But some consolations he must have found even in the conditions of his exile. He had leisure for meditation, and time enough to spend in that other world which was all his own. With the miseries of a wanderer's life would come not a few of its sweets--freedom from routine, and the intellectual stimulus supplied by change of place. Here and there he would find society such as he cared for--that of scholars, theologians, and men familiar with every court and school of Christendom. And, beyond all, he would get access to books that at home he might never have seen. It was no spare diet that would serve his mind while he was making such ample calls on it for his great work. As it proceeds we seem to detect a growing fulness of knowledge, and it is by reason of the more learned treatment, as well as the loftier theme of the Third Cantica, that so many readers, when once well at sea in the _Paradiso_, recognise the force of the warning with which it begins.[107] What amount of intercourse he was able to maintain with Florence during his wanderings is a matter of mere speculation, although of a more interesting kind than that concerned with the chronology of his uneasy travels. That he kept up at least some correspondence with his friends is proved by the letter regarding the terms of his pardon. There is also the well-known anecdote told by Boccaccio as to the discovery and despatch to him of the opening Cantos of the _Inferno_--an anecdote we may safely accept as founded on fact, although Boccaccio's informants may have failed to note at the time what the manuscript consisted of, and in the course of years may have magnified the importance of their discovery. With his wife he would naturally communicate on subjects of common interest--as, for instance, that of how best to save or recover part of his property--and especially regarding the welfare of his sons, of whom two are found to be with him when he acquires something like a settlement in Verona. It is quite credible that, as Boccaccio asserts, he would never after his exile was once begun 'go to his wife or suffer her to join him where he was;' although the statement is probably an extension of the fact that she never did join him. In any case it is to make too large a use of the words to find in them evidence, as has frequently been done, of the unhappiness of all his married life, and of his utter estrangement from Gemma during his banishment. The union--marriage of convenience though it was--might be harmonious enough as long as things went moderately well with the pair. Dante was never wealthy, but he seems to have had his own house in Florence and small landed possessions in its neighbourhood.[108] That before his banishment he was considerably in debt appears to be ascertained;[109] but, without knowing the circumstances in which he borrowed, it is impossible to be sure whether he may not only have been making use of his credit in order to put out part of his means to advantage in some of the numerous commercial enterprises in which his neighbours were engaged. In any case his career must have seemed full of promise till he was driven into banishment. When that blow had fallen, it is easy to conceive how what if it was not mutual affection had come to serve instead of it--esteem and forbearance--would be changed into indifference with the lapse of months and years of enforced separation, embittered and filled on both sides with the mean cares of indigence, and, it may be, on Gemma's side with the conviction that her husband had brought her with himself into disgrace. If all that is said by Boccaccio and some of Dante's enemies as to his temperament and behaviour were true, we could only hope that Gemma's indifference was deep enough to save her from the pangs of jealousy. And on the other hand, if we are to push suspicion to its utmost length, we may find an allusion to his own experience in the lines where Dante complains of how soon a widow forgets her husband.[110] But this is all matter of the merest speculation. Gemma is known to have been alive in 1314.[111] She brought up her children, says Boccaccio, upon a trifling part of her husband's confiscated estate, recovered on the plea that it was a portion of her dowry. There may have been difficulties of a material kind, insuperable save to an ardent love that was not theirs, in the way of Gemma's joining her husband in any of his cities of refuge. Complete evidence exists of Dante's having in his later years lived for a longer or shorter time in the three cities of Lucca, Verona, and Ravenna. In Purgatory he meets a shade from Lucca, in the murmur of whose words he catches he 'knows not what of Gentucca;'[112] and when he charges the Lucchese to speak plainly out, he is told that Lucca shall yet be found pleasant by him because of a girl not yet grown to womanhood. Uguccione, acting in the interest of Pisa, took possession of Lucca in 1314, and Dante is supposed to have taken up his residence there for some considerable time. What we may certainly infer from his own words in the _Purgatorio_ is that they were written after a stay in Lucca had been sweetened to him by the society of a lady named Gentucca. He cannot well have found shelter there before the city was held by Uguccione; and research has established that at least two ladies of the uncommon name of Gentucca were resident there in 1314. From the whole tone of his allusion--the mention of her very name and of her innocent girlhood--we may gather that there was nothing in his liking for her of which he had any reason to feel ashamed. In the _Inferno_ he had covered the whole people of Lucca with his scorn.[113] By the time he got thus far with the _Purgatorio_ his thoughts of the place were all softened by his memory of one fair face--or shall we rather say, of one compassionate and womanly soul? That Dante was more than susceptible to feminine charms is coarsely asserted by Boccaccio.[114] But on such a matter Boccaccio is a prejudiced witness, and, in the absence of sufficient proof to the contrary, justice requires us to assume that the tenor of Dante's life was not at variance with that of his writings. He who was so severe a judge of others was not, as we can infer from more than one passage of the _Comedy_, a lenient judge when his own failings were concerned.[115] That his conduct never fell short of his standard no one will venture to maintain. But what should have hindered him, in his hours of weariness and when even his hold on the future seemed to slacken, in lonely castle or strange town, to seek sympathy from some fair woman who might remind him in something of Beatrice?[116] When, in 1316, Uguccione was driven out of Lucca and Pisa, that great partisan took military service with Can Grande. It has been disputed whether Dante had earlier enjoyed the hospitality of the Scaligers, or was indebted for his first reception in Verona to the good offices of Uguccione. It is barely credible that by this time in his life he stood in need of any one to answer for him in the court of Can Grande. His fame as a political writer must have preceded him; and it was of a character to commend him to the good graces of the great Imperialist. In his _De Monarchia_ he had, by an exhaustive treatment of propositions which now seem childish or else the mere commonplaces of everyday political argument, established the right of the civil power to independence of Church authority; and though to the Scaliger who aimed at becoming Imperial lieutenant for all the North of Italy he might seem needlessly tender to the spiritual lordship of the Holy Father, yet the drift of his reasoning was all in favour of the Ghibeline position.[117] Besides this he had written on the need of refining the dialects of Italian, and reducing them to a language fit for general use in the whole of the Peninsula; and this with a novelty of treatment and wealth of illustration unequalled before or since in any first work on such a subject.[118] And, what would recommend him still more to a youthful prince of lofty taste, he was the poet of the 'sweet new style' of the _Vita Nuova_, and of sonnets, ballads, and canzoni rich in language and thought beyond the works of all previous poets in the vulgar tongues. Add to this that the _Comedy_ was already written, and published up, perhaps, to the close of the _Purgatorio_, and that all Italy was eager to find who had a place, and what kind of place, in the strange new world from which the veil was being withdrawn; and it is easy to imagine that Dante's reception at Can Grande's court was rather that of a man both admired and feared for his great genius, than that of a wandering scholar and grumbling exile. At what time Dante came to Verona, and for how long he stayed, we have no means of fixing with certainty. He himself mentions being there in 1320,[119] and it is usually supposed that his residence covered three years previous to that date; as also that it was shared by his two sons, Piero and Jacopo. One of these was afterwards to find a settlement at Verona in a high legal post. Except some frivolous legends, there is no evidence that Dante met with anything but generous treatment from Can Grande. A passage of the _Paradiso_, written either towards the close of the poet's residence at Verona, or after he had left it, is full of a praise of the great Scaliger so magnificent[120] as fully to make amends for the contemptuous mention in the _Purgatorio_ of his father and brother.[121] To Can Grande the _Paradiso_ was dedicated by the author in a long epistle containing an exposition of how the first Canto of that Cantica, and, by implication, the whole of the poem, is to be interpreted. The letter is full of gratitude for favours already received, and of expectation of others yet to come. From the terms of the dedication it has been assumed that ere it was made the whole of the _Paradiso_ was written, and that Dante praises the lord of Verona after a long experience of his bounty.[122] Whether owing to the restlessness of an exile, or to some prospect of attaining a state of greater ease or of having the command of more congenial society, we cannot tell; but from the splendid court of Can Grande he moved down into Romagna, to Ravenna, the city which of all in Italy would now be fixed upon by the traveller as the fittest place for a man of genius, weighed down by infinite sorrows, to close his days in and find a tomb. Some writers on the life of Dante will have it that in Ravenna he spent the greater part of his exile, and that when he is found elsewhere--in Lucca or Verona--he is only on a temporary absence from his permanent home.[123] But this conclusion requires some facts to be ignored, and others unduly dwelt on. In any case his patron there, during at least the last year or two of his life, was Guido Novello of Polenta, lord of Ravenna, the nephew of her who above all the persons of the _Comedy_ lives in the hearts of its readers. Bernardino, the brother of Francesca and uncle of Guido, had fought on the side of Florence at the battle of Campaldino, and Dante may then have become acquainted with him. The family had the reputation of being moderate Guelfs; but ere this the exile, with his ripe experience of men, had doubtless learned, while retaining intact his own opinions as to what was the true theory of government, to set good-heartedness and a noble aim in life above political orthodoxy. This Guido Novello--the younger Guido--bears the reputation of having been well-informed, of gentle manners, and fond of gathering around him men accomplished in literature and the fine arts. On the death of Dante he made a formal oration in honour of the poet. If his welcome of Dante was as cordial as is generally supposed, and as there is no reason to doubt that it was, it proved his magnanimity; for in the _Purgatorio_ a family specially hostile to the Polentas had been mentioned with honour,[124] while that to which his wife belonged had been lightly spoken of. How he got over the condemnation of his kinswoman to Inferno--even under such gentle conditions--it would be more difficult to understand were there not reason to believe that ere Dante went to Ravenna it had come to be a matter of pride in Italy for a family to have any of its members placed anywhere in that other world of which Dante held the key. It seems as if we might assume that the poet's last months or years were soothed by the society of his daughter--the child whom he had named after the object of his first and most enduring love.[125] Whether or not he was acting as Ambassador for Guido to Venice when he caught his last illness, it appears to be pretty well established that he was held in honour by his patron and all around him.[126] For his hours of meditation he had the solemn churches of Ravenna with their storied walls,[127] and the still more solemn pine forest of Classis, by him first annexed to the world of Romance.[128] For hours of relaxation, when they came, he had neighbours who dabbled in letters and who could at any rate sympathise with him in his love of study. He maintained correspondence with poets and scholars in other cities. In at least one instance this was conducted in the bitter fashion with which the humanists of a century or two later were to make the world familiar;[129] but with the Bolognese scholar, Giovanni del Virgilio, he engaged in a good-humoured, half-bantering exchange of Latin pastoral poems, through the artificial imagery of which there sometimes breaks a natural thought, as when in answer to the pedant's counsel to renounce the vulgar tongue and produce in Latin something that will entitle him to receive the laurel crown in Bologna, he declares that if ever he is crowned as a poet it will be on the banks of the Arno. Most of the material for forming a judgment of how Dante stood affected to the religious beliefs of his time is to be gathered from the _Comedy_, and the place for considering it would rather be in an essay on that work than in a sketch of his life which necessity compels to be swift. A few words may however be here devoted to the subject, as it is one with some bearing on the manner in which he would be regarded by those around him, and through that on the tenor of his life. That Dante conformed to Church observances, and, except with a few malevolent critics, bore the reputation of a good Catholic, there can be no doubt. It was as a politician and not as a heretic that he suffered persecution; and when he died he was buried in great honour within the Franciscan Church at Ravenna. Some few years after his death, it is true, his _De Monarchia_ was burned as heretical by orders of the Papal Legate in Lombardy, who would gladly, if he could, have had the bones of the author exhumed to share the fate of his book. But all this was only because the partisans of Lewis of Bavaria were making political capital out of the treatise. Attempts have been made to demonstrate that in spite of his outward conformity Dante was an unbeliever at heart, and that the _Comedy_ is devoted to the promulgation of a Ghibeline heresy--of which, we may be sure, no Ghibeline ever heard--and to the overthrow of all that the author professed most devoutly to believe.[130] Other critics of a more sober temper in speculation would find in him a Catholic who held the Catholic beliefs with the same slack grasp as the teaching of Luther was held by Lessing or Goethe.[131] But this is surely to misread the _Comedy_, which is steeped from beginning to end in a spirit of the warmest faith in the great Christian doctrines. It was no mere intellectual perception of these that Dante had--or professed to have--for when in Paradise he has satisfied Saint Peter of his being possessed of a just conception of the nature of faith, and is next asked if, besides knowing what is the alloy of the coin and the weight of it, he has it in his own purse, he answers boldly, 'Yea, and so shining and round that of a surety it has the lawful stamp.'[132] And further on, when required to declare in what he believes, nothing against the fulness of his creed is to be inferred from the fact that he stops short after pronouncing his belief in the existence of God and in the Trinity. This article he gives as implying all the others; it is 'the spark which spreads out into a vivid flame.'[133] Yet if the inquiry were to be pushed further, and it were sought to find how much of free thought he allowed himself in matters of religion, Dante might be discovered to have reached his orthodox position by ways hateful to the bigots who then took order for preserving the purity of the faith. The office of the Pope he deeply revered, but the Papal absolution avails nothing in his eyes compared with one tear of heartfelt repentance.[134] It is not on the word of Pope or Council that he rests his faith, but on the Scriptures, and on the evidences of the truth of Christianity, freely examined and weighed.[135] Chief among these evidences, it must however be noted, he esteemed the fact of the existence of the Church as he found it;[136] and in his inquiries he accepted as guides the Scholastic Doctors on whose reasonings the Church had set its seal of approbation. It was a foregone conclusion he reached by stages of his own. Yet that he sympathised at least as much with the honest search for truth as with the arrogant profession of orthodoxy, is shown by his treatment of heretics. He could not condemn severely such as erred only because their reason would not consent to rest like his in the prevalent dogmatic system; and so we find that he makes heresy consist less in intellectual error than in beliefs that tend to vitiate conduct, or to cause schism in societies divinely constituted.[137] For his own part, orthodox although he was, or believed himself to be--which is all that needs to be contended for,--in no sense was he priest-ridden. It was liberty that he went seeking on his great journey;[138] and he gives no hint that it is to be gained by the observance of forms or in submission to sacerdotal authority. He knows it is in his reach only when he has been crowned, and mitred too, lord of himself[139]--subject to Him alone of whom even Popes were servants.[140] Although in what were to prove his last months Dante might amuse himself with the composition of learned trifles, and in the society and correspondence of men who along with him, if on lines apart from his, were preparing the way for the revival of classical studies, the best part of his mind, then as for long before, was devoted to the _Comedy_; and he was counting on the suffrages of a wider audience than courts and universities could supply. Here there is no room to treat at length of that work, to which when we turn our thoughts all else he wrote--though that was enough to secure him fame--seems to fall into the background as if unworthy of his genius. What can hardly be passed over in silence is that in the _Comedy_, once it was begun, he must have found a refuge for his soul from all petty cares, and a shield against all adverse fortune. We must search its pages, and not the meagre records of his biographers, to find what was the life he lived during the years of his exile; for, in a sense, it contains the true journal of his thoughts, of his hopes, and of his sorrows. The plan was laid wide enough to embrace the observations he made of nature and of man, the fruits of his painful studies, and the intelligence he gathered from those experienced in travel, politics, and war. It was not only his imagination and artistic skill that were spent upon the poem: he gave his life to it. The future reward he knew was sure--an immortal fame; but he hoped for a nearer profit on his venture. Florence might at last relent, if not because of his innocence and at the spectacle of his inconsolable exile, at least on hearing the rumour of his genius borne to her from every corner of Italy:-- If e'er it comes that this my sacred Lay, To which both Heaven and Earth have set their hand-- Through which these many years I waste away-- Shall quell the cruelty that keeps me banned From the fair fold where I, a lamb, was found Hostile to wolves who 'gainst it violence planned; With other fleece and voice of other sound, Poet will I return, and at the font Where I was christened be with laurel crowned.[141] But with the completion of the _Comedy_ Dante's life too came to a close. He died at Ravenna in the month of September 1321. FOOTNOTES: [1] Matilda died in 1115. The name Tessa, the contraction of Contessa, was still, long after her time, sometimes given to Florentine girls. See Perrens, _Histoire de Florence_, vol. i. p. 126. [2] Whether by Matilda the great Countess is meant has been eagerly disputed, and many of the best critics--such as Witte and Scartazzini--prefer to find in her one of the ladies of the _Vita Nuova_. In spite of their pains it seems as if more can be said for the great Matilda than for any other. The one strong argument against her is, that while she died old, in the poem she appears as young. [3] See note on _Inferno_ xxx. 73. [4] It might, perhaps, be more correct to say that to some offices the nobles were eligible, but did not elect. [5] _Inf._ xiii. 75. [6] _Inf._ x. 119. [7] _Inf._ xxiii. 66. [8] _Inf._ x. 51. [9] _Purg._ vi. 144. [10] Dante sets the Abbot among the traitors in Inferno, and says scornfully of him that his throat was cut at Florence (_Inf._ xxxii. 119). [11] Villani throws doubt on the guilt of the Abbot. There were some cases of churchmen being Ghibelines, as for instance that of the Cardinal Ubaldini (_Inf._ x. 120). Twenty years before the Abbot's death the General of the Franciscans had been jeered at in the streets of Florence for turning his coat and joining the Emperor. On the other hand, many civilians were to be found among the Guelfs. [12] Manfred, says John Villani (_Cronica_, vi. 74 and 75), at first sent only a hundred men. Having by Farinata's advice been filled with wine before a skirmish in which they were induced to engage, they were easily cut in pieces by the Florentines; and the royal standard was dragged in the dust. The truth of the story matters less than that it was believed in Florence. [13] Provenzano is found by Dante in Purgatory, which he has been admitted to, in spite of his sins, because of his self-sacrificing devotion to a friend (_Purg._ xi. 121). [14] For this good advice he gets a word of praise in Inferno (_Inf._ xvi. 42). [15] These mercenaries, though called Germans, were of various races. There were even Greeks and Saracens among them. The mixture corresponded with the motley civilisation of Manfred's court. [16] _Inf._ xxxii. 79. [17] _Inf._ x. 93. [18] Lucera was a fortress which had been peopled with Saracens by Frederick. [19] Manfred, _Purg._ iii. 112; Charles, _Purg._ vii. 113. [20] _Purg._ xx. 67. [21] _Purg._ iii. 122. [22] For an account of the constitution and activity of the _Parte Guelfa_ at a later period, see Perrens, _Hist. de Florence_, vol. iv. p. 482. [23] _Purg._ xx. 68. [24] _Parad._ xi. 89. [25] _Parad._ xvi. 40, etc. [26] _Inf._ xxix. 31. [27] _Inf._ x. 42. Though Dante was descended from nobles, his rank in Florence was not that of a noble or magnate, but of a commoner. [28] The month is indicated by Dante himself, _Parad._ xxii. 110. The year has recently been disputed. For 1265 we have J. Villani and the earliest biographers; and Dante's own expression at the beginning of the _Comedy_ is in favour of it. [29] _Inf._ xxiii. 95. [30] _Inf._ xix. 17; _Parad._ xxv. 9. [31] _Purg._ xxx. 55. [32] _Inf._ viii. 45, where Virgil says of Dante that blessed was she that bore him, can scarcely be regarded as an exception to this statement. [33] In 1326, out of a population of ninety thousand, from eight to ten thousand children were being taught to read; and from five to six hundred were being taught grammar and logic in four high schools. There was not in Dante's time, or till much later, a University in Florence. See J. Villani, xi. 94, and Burckhardt, _Cultur der Renaissance_, vol. i. p. 76. [34] For an interesting account of Heresy in Florence from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, see Perrens, _Hist. de Florence_, vol. i. livre ii. chap. iii. [35] It opens with Brunetto's being lost in the forest of Roncesvalles, and there are some other features of resemblance--all on the surface--between his experience and Dante's. [36] G. Villani, viii. 10. Latini died in 1294. Villani gives the old scholar a very bad moral character. [37] _Inf._ xv. 84. [38] We may, I think, assume the _Vita Nuova_ to have been published some time between 1291 and 1300; but the dates of Dante's works are far from being ascertained. [39] So long as even Italian critics are not agreed as to whether the title means _New Life_, or _Youth_, I suppose one is free to take his choice; and it seems most natural to regard it as referring to the new world into which the lover is transported by his passion. [40] As, indeed, Boccaccio, _Vita di Dante_, expressly says was the case. [41] In this adopting a device frequently used by the love-poets of the period.--Witte, _Dante-Forschungen_, vol. ii. p. 312. [42] The _Vita Nuova_ contains some thirty poems. [43] See Sir Theodore Martin's Introduction to his Translation of _Vita Nuova_, page xxi. [44] In this matter we must not judge the conduct of Dante by English customs. [45] _Donne, ch' avete intelletto d' amore_: Ladies that are acquainted well with love. Quoted in _Purg._ xxiv. 51. [46] Beatrice died in June 1290, having been born in April 1266. [47] _Purg._ xi. 98. [48] _Purg._ xxiv. 52. [49] The date of the _Convito_ is still the subject of controversy, as is that of most of Dante's works. But it certainly was composed between the _Vita Nuova_ and the _Comedy_. There is a remarkable sonnet by Guido Cavalcanti addressed to Dante, reproaching him for the deterioration in his thoughts and habits, and urging him to rid himself of the woman who has bred the trouble. This may refer to the time after the death of Beatrice. See also _Purg._ xxx. 124. [50] _Convito_ ii. 13. [51] Some recent writers set his marriage five years later, and reduce the number of his children to three. [52] His sister is probably meant by the 'young and gentle lady, most nearly related to him by blood' mentioned in the _Vita Nuova_. [53] The difference between the Teutonic and Southern conception of marriage must be kept in mind. [54] He describes the weather on the day of the battle with the exactness of one who had been there (_Purg._ v. 155). [55] Leonardo Bruni. [56] _Inf._ xxii. 4. [57] _Inf._ xxi. 95. [58] _Conv._ iii. 9, where he illustrates what he has to say about the nature of vision, by telling that for some time the stars, when he looked at them, seemed lost in a pearly haze. [59] The _Convito_ was to have consisted of fifteen books. Only four were written. [60] _Wife of Bath's Tale._ In the context he quotes _Purg._ vii. 121, and takes ideas from the _Convito_. [61] Dies to sensual pleasure and is abstracted from all worldly affairs and interests. See _Convito_ iv. 28. [62] From the last canzone of the _Convito_. [63] In the _Vita Nuova_. [64] _Purg._ xxiii. 115, xxiv. 75; _Parad._ iii. 49. [65] _Purg._ xi. 95. [66] _Purg._ ii. 91. [67] _Purg._ iv. 123. [68] Sacchetti's stories of how Dante showed displeasure with the blacksmith and the donkey-driver who murdered his _canzoni_ are interesting only as showing what kind of legends about him were current in the streets of Florence.--Sacchetti, _Novelle_, cxiv, cxv. [69] _Purg._ xii. 101. [70] _Purg._ xi. 94:-- 'In painting Cimabue deemed the field His own, but now on Giotto goes the cry, Till by his fame the other's is concealed.' [71] Giotto is often said to have drawn inspiration from the _Comedy_; but that Dante, on his side, was indebted to the new school of painting and sculpture appears from many a passage of the _Purgatorio_. [72] Serfage had been abolished in 1289. But doubt has been thrown on the authenticity of the deed of abolition. See Perrens, _Hist. de Florence_, vol. ii. p. 349. [73] No unusual provision in the industrious Italian cities. Harsh though it may seem, it was probably regarded as a valuable concession to the nobles, for their disaffection appears to have been greatly caused by their uneasiness under disabilities. There is much obscurity on several points. How, for example, came the nobles to be allowed to retain the command of the vast resources of the _Parte Guelfa_? This made them almost independent of the Commonwealth. [74] At a later period the Priors were known as the Signory. [75] Fraticelli, _Storia della Vita di Dante_, page 112 and note. [76] It is to be regretted that Ampère in his charming _Voyage Dantesque_ devoted no chapter to San Gemigniano, than which no Tuscan city has more thoroughly preserved its mediæval character. There is no authority for the assertion that Dante was employed on several Florentine embassies. The tendency of his early biographers is to exaggerate his political importance and activity. [77] Under the date of April 1301 Dante is deputed by the Road Committee to see to the widening, levelling, and general improvement of a street in the suburbs.--Witte, _Dante-Forschungen_, vol. ii. p. 279. [78] Dante has a word of praise for Giano, at _Parad._ xvi. 127. [79] At which Dante fought. See page lxii. [80] Vieri was called Messer, a title reserved for magnates, knights, and lawyers of a certain rank--notaries and jurisconsults; Dante, for example, never gets it. [81] Villani acted for some time as an agent abroad of the great business house of Peruzzi. [82] _Inf._ iii. 60. [83] He is 'the Prince of the modern Pharisees' (_Inf._ xxvii. 85); his place is ready for him in hell (_Inf._ xix. 53); and he is elsewhere frequently referred to. In one great passage Dante seems to relent towards him (_Purg._ xx. 86). [84] Albert of Hapsburg was chosen Emperor in 1298, but was never crowned at Rome. [85] As in the days of Guelf and Ghibeline, so now in those of Blacks and Whites, the common multitude of townsmen belonged to neither party. [86] An interdict means that priests are to refuse sacred offices to all in the community, who are thus virtually subjected to the minor excommunication. [87] Guido died soon after his return in 1301. He had suffered in health during his exile. See _Inf._ x. 63. [88] Charles of Anjou had lost Sicily at the Sicilian Vespers, 1282. [89] _Purg._ xx. 76. [90] Witte attributes the composition of the _De Monarchia_ to a period before 1301 (_Dante-Forschungen_, vol. i. Fourth Art.), but the general opinion of critics sets it much later. [91] _Inf._ vi. 66, where their expulsion is prophesied. [92] Dante's authorship of the letter is now much questioned. The drift of recent inquiries has been rather to lessen than to swell the bulk of materials for his biography. [93] _Parad._ xvii. 61. [94] _Purg._ xxiv. 82. [95] See at _Purg._ xx. 43 Dante's invective against Philip and the Capets in general. [96] Henry had come to Italy with the Pope's approval. He was crowned by the Cardinals who were in Rome as Legates. [97] _Parad._ xxx. 136. High in Heaven Dante sees an ample chair with a crown on it, and is told it is reserved for Henry. He is to sit among those who are clothed in white. The date assigned to the action of the _Comedy_, it will be remembered, is the year 1300. [98] _Inf._ xix. 82, where the Gascon Clement is described as a 'Lawless Pastor from the West.' [99] The ingenious speculations of Troya (_Del Veltro Allegorico di Dante_) will always mark a stage in the history of the study of Dante, but as is often the case with books on the subject, his shows a considerable gap between the evidence adduced and the conclusions drawn from it. He would make Dante to have been for many years a satellite of the great Ghibeline chief. Dante's temper or pride, however we call it, seems to have been such as to preserve him from ever remaining attached for long to any patron. [100] _Inf._ x. 81. [101] The _Convito_ is in Italian, and his words are: 'wherever this language is spoken.' [102] His letter to the Florentines and that to the Emperor are dated in 1311, from 'Near the sources of the Arno'--that is, from the Casentino, where the Guidi of Romena dwelt. If the letter of condolence with the Counts Oberto and Guido of Romena on the death of their uncle is genuine, it has great value for the passage in which he excuses himself for not having come to the funeral:--'It was not negligence or ingratitude, but the poverty into which I am fallen by reason of my exile. This, like a cruel persecutor, holds me as in a prison-house where I have neither horse nor arms; and though I do all I can to free myself, I have failed as yet.' The letter has no date. Like the other ten or twelve epistles attributed to Dante, it is in Latin. [103] There is a splendid passage in praise of this family, _Purg._ viii. 121. A treaty is on record in which Dante acts as representative of the Malaspini in settling the terms of a peace between them and the Bishop of Luni in October 1306. [104] The authority for this is Benvenuto of Imola in his comment on the _Comedy_ (_Purg._ xi.). The portrait of Dante by Giotto, still in Florence, but ruined by modern bungling restoration, is usually believed to have been executed in 1301 or 1302. But with regard to this, see the note at the end of this essay. [105] It is true that Villani not only says that 'he went to study at Bologna,' but also that 'he went to Paris and many parts of the world' (_Cronica_, ix. 136), and that Villani, of all contemporary or nearly contemporary writers, is by far the most worthy of credence. But he proves to be more than once in error regarding Dante; making him, _e.g._, die in a wrong month and be buried in a wrong church at Ravenna. And the 'many parts of the world' shows that here he is dealing in hearsay of the vaguest sort. Nor can much weight be given to Boccaccio when he sends Dante to Bologna and Paris. But Benvenuto of Imola, who lectured on the _Comedy_ at Bologna within fifty years of Dante's death, says that Dante studied there. It would indeed be strange if he did not, and at more than one period, Bologna being the University nearest Florence. Proof of Dante's residence in Paris has been found in his familiar reference to the Rue du Fouarre (_Parad._ x. 137). His graphic description of the coast between Lerici and Turbia (_Purg._ iii. 49, iv. 25) certainly seems to show a familiarity with the Western as well as the Eastern Rivieras of Genoa. But it scarcely follows that he was on his way to Paris when he visited them. [106] _Inf._ xiii. 58. [107] 'O ye, who have hitherto been following me in some small craft, ... put not further to sea, lest, losing sight of me, you lose yourselves' (_Parad._ ii. 1). But, to tell the truth, Dante is never so weak as a poet as when he is most the philosopher or the theologian. The following list of books more or less known to him is not given as complete:--The Vulgate, beginning with St. Jerome's Prologue; Aristotle, through the Latin translation then in vogue; Averroes, etc.; Thomas Aquinas and the other Schoolmen; much of the Civil and Canon law; Boethius; Homer only in scraps, through Aristotle, etc.; Virgil, Cicero in part, Livy, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Lucan, and Statius; the works of Brunetto Latini; the poetical literature of Provence, France, and Italy, including the Arthurian Romances--the favourite reading of the Italian nobles, and the tales of Charlemagne and his Peers--equally in favour with the common people. There is little reason to suppose that among the treatises of a scientific and quasi-scientific kind that he fell in with, and of which he was an eager student, were included the works of Roger Bacon. These there was a conspiracy among priests and schoolmen to keep buried. Dante seems to have set little store on ecclesiastical legends of wonder; at least he gives them a wide berth in his works. [108] In the notes to Fraticelli's _Vita di Dante_ (Florence 1861) are given copies of documents relating to the property of the Alighieri, and of Dante in particular. In 1343 his son Jacopo, by payment of a small fine, recovered vineyards and farms that had been his father's.--Notes to Chap. iii. Fraticelli's admirable Life is now in many respects out of date. He accepts, _e.g._, Dino Compagni as an authority, and believes in the romantic story of the letter of Fra Ilario. [109] The details are given by Witte, _Dante-Forschungen_, vol ii. p. 61. The amount borrowed by Dante and his brother (and a friend) comes to nearly a thousand gold florins. Witte takes this as equivalent to 37,000 francs, _i.e._ nearly £1500. But the florin being the eighth of an ounce, or about ten shillings' worth of gold, a thousand florins would be equal only to £500--representing, of course, an immensely greater sum now-a-days. [110] _Purg._ viii. 76. [111] See in Scartazzini, _Dante Alighieri_, 1879, page 552, extract from the will of her mother Maria Donati, dated February 1314. Many of these Florentine dates are subject to correction, the year being usually counted from Lady-Day. 'In 1880 a document was discovered which proves Gemma to have been engaged in a law-suit in 1332.--_Il Propugnatore_, xiii^a. 156,'--Scheffer-Boichorst, _Aus Dantes Verbannung_, page 213. [112] _Purg._ xxiv. 37. [113] _Inf._ xxi. 40. [114] _In questo mirifico poeta trovò ampissimo luego la lussuria; e non solamente ne' giovanili anni, ma ancora ne' maturi._--Boccaccio, _La Vita di Dante_. After mentioning that Dante was married, he indulges in a long invective against marriage; confessing, however, that he is ignorant of whether Dante experienced the miseries he describes. His conclusion on the subject is that philosophers should leave marriage to rich fools, to nobles, and to handicraftsmen. [115] In Purgatory his conscience accuses him of pride, and he already seems to feel the weight of the grievous burden beneath which the proud bend as they purge themselves of their sin (_Purg._ xiii. 136). Some amount of self-accusation seems to be implied in such passages as _Inf._, v. 142 and _Purg._ xxvii. 15, etc.; but too much must not be made of it. [116] In a letter of a few lines to one of the Marquises Malaspina, written probably in the earlier years of his exile, he tells how his purpose of renouncing ladies' society and the writing of love-songs had been upset by the view of a lady of marvellous beauty who 'in all respects answered to his tastes, habits, and circumstances.' He says he sends with the letter a poem containing a fuller account of his subjection to this new passion. The poem is not found attached to the copy of the letter, but with good reason it is guessed to be the Canzone beginning _Amor, dacchè convien_, which describes how he was overmastered by a passion born 'in the heart of the mountains in the valley of that river beside which he had always been the victim of love.' This points to the Casentino as the scene. He also calls the Canzone his 'mountain song.' The passion it expresses may be real, but that he makes the most of it appears from the close, which is occupied by the thought of how the verses will be taken in Florence. [117] However early the _De Monarchia_ may have been written, it is difficult to think that it can be of a later date than the death of Henry. [118] The _De Vulgari Eloquio_ is in Latin. Dante's own Italian is richer and more elastic than that of contemporary writers. Its base is the Tuscan dialect, as refined by the example of the Sicilian poets. His Latin, on the contrary, is I believe regarded as being somewhat barbarous, even for the period. [119] In his _Quæstio de Aqua et Terra_. In it he speaks of having been in Mantua. The thesis was maintained in Verona, but of course he may, after a prolonged absence, have returned to that city. [120] _Parad._ xvii. 70. [121] _Purg._ xviii. 121. [122] But in urgent need of more of it.--He says of 'the sublime Cantica, adorned with the title of the _Paradiso_', that '_illam sub præsenti epistola, tamquam sub epigrammate proprio dedicatam, vobis adscribo, vobis offero, vobis denique recommendo_.' But it may be questioned if this involves that the Cantica was already finished. [123] As, for instance, Herr Scheffer-Boichorst in his _Aus Dantes Verbannung_, 1882. [124] The Traversari (_Purg._ xiv. 107). Guido's wife was of the Bagnacavalli (_Purg._ xiv. 115). The only mention of the Polenta family, apart from that of Francesca, is at _Inf._ xxvii. 41. [125] In 1350 a sum of ten gold florins was sent from Florence by the hands of Boccaccio to Beatrice, daughter of Dante; she being then a nun at Ravenna. [126] The embassy to Venice is mentioned by Villani, and there was a treaty concluded in 1321 between the Republic and Guido. But Dante's name does not appear in it among those of the envoys from Ravenna. A letter, probably apocryphal, to Guido from Dante in Venice is dated 1314. If Dante, as is maintained by some writers, was engaged in tuition while in Ravenna, it is to be feared that his pupils would find in him an impatient master. [127] Not that Dante ever mentions these any more than a hundred other churches in which he must have spent thoughtful hours. [128] _Purg._ xxviii. 20. [129] A certain Cecco d'Ascoli stuck to him like a bur, charging him, among other things, with lust, and a want of religious faith which would one day secure him a place in his own Inferno. Cecco was himself burned in Florence, in 1327, for making too much of evil spirits, and holding that human actions are necessarily affected by the position of the stars. He had been at one time a professor of astronomy. [130] Gabriel Rossetti, _Comment on the Divina Commedia_, 1826, and Aroux, _Dante, Hérétique, Révolutionnaire et Socialiste_, 1854. [131] Scartazzini, _Dante Alighieri, Seine Zeit_, etc., 1879, page 268. [132] _Parad._ xxiv. 86. [133] _Parad._ xxiv. 145. [134] _Inf._ xxvii. 101; _Purg._ iii. 118. [135] _Parad._ xxiv. 91. [136] _Parad._ xxiv. 106. [137] _Inf._ x. and xxviii. There is no place in Purgatory where those who in their lives had once held heretical opinions are purified of the sin; leaving us to infer that it could be repented of in the world so as to obliterate the stain. See also _Parad._ iv. 67. [138] _Purg._ i. 71. [139] _Purg._ xxvii. 139. [140] _Purg._ xix. 134. [141] _Parad._ xxv. 1. GIOTTO'S PORTRAIT OF DANTE.[142] Vasari, in his _Lives of the Painters_, tells that in his day the portrait of Dante by Giotto was still to be seen in the chapel of the Podesta's palace in Florence. Writers of an earlier date had already drawn attention to this work.[143] But in the course of an age when Italians cared little for Dante, and less for Giotto, it was allowed to be buried out of sight; and when at length there came a revival of esteem for these great men, the alterations in the interior arrangement of the palace were found to have been so sweeping that it was even uncertain which out of many chambers had formerly served as the chapel. Twenty years after a fruitless attempt had been made to discover whether or not the portrait was still in existence, Signor Aubrey Bezzi, encouraged by Mr. Wilde and Mr. Kirkup, took the first step in a search (1839) which was to end by restoring to the world what is certainly the most interesting of all portraits, if account be taken of its beauty, as well as of who was its author and who its subject. On the removal from it of a layer of lime, one of the end walls of what had been the chapel was found to be covered by a fresco painting, evidently the work of Giotto, and representing a Paradise--the subject in which Dante's portrait was known to occur. As is usual in such works, from the time of Giotto downwards, the subject is treated so as to allow of the free introduction of contemporary personages. Among these was a figure in a red gown, which there was no difficulty in recognising as the portrait of Dante. It shows him younger and with a sweeter expression than does Raphael's Dante, or Masaccio's,[144] or that in the Cathedral of Florence,[145] or that of the mask said to have been taken after his death. But to all of them it bears a strong resemblance. The question of when this portrait was painted will easily be seen to be one of much importance in connection with Dante's biography. The fresco it belongs to is found to contain a cardinal, and a young man, who, because he wears his hair long and has a coronet set on his cap, is known to be meant for a French prince.[146] If, as is usually assumed, this prince is Charles of Valois, then the date of the event celebrated in the fresco is 1301 or 1302. With regard to when the work was executed, Messrs Crowe and Cavalcaselle, in their valuable book, say as follows:[147]-- 'All inferences to be deduced from the subject and form of these frescos point to the date of 1301-2. It may be inquired whether they were executed by Giotto at the time, and this inquiry can only be satisfied approximatively. It may be inferred that Dante's portrait would hardly have been introduced into a picture so conspicuously visible as this, had not the poet at the time been influent in Florence.... Dante's age in the fresco corresponds with the date of 1302, and is that of a man of thirty-five. He had himself enjoyed the highest office of Florence from June to August 1300.[148] In the fresco he does not wear the dress of the "Priori," but he holds in the ranks of those near Charles of Valois an honourable place. It may be presumed that the frescos were executed previous[149] to Dante's exile, and this view is confirmed by the technical and artistic progress which they reveal. They exhibit, indeed, the master in a higher sphere of development than at Assisi and Rome.' This account of the subject of the work and the probable date of its execution may, I think, be accepted as containing all that is to be said in favour of the current opinion on the matter. That writer after writer has adopted that opinion without a sign of doubt as to its credibility must surely have arisen from failure to observe the insuperable difficulties it presents. Both Charles of Valois and the Cardinal Acquasparta were in Florence during part of the winter of 1301-1302; but the circumstances under which they were there make it highly improbable that the Commonwealth was anxious to do them honour beyond granting them the outward show of respect which it would have been dangerous to refuse. Earlier in the year 1301 the Cardinal Acquasparta, having failed in gaining the object which brought him to Florence, had, as it were, shaken the dust of the city from off his feet and left the people of it under interdict. While Charles of Valois was in Florence the Cardinal returned to make a second attempt to reconcile the opposing parties, failed a second time, and again left the city under an interdict--if indeed the first had ever been raised. On the occasion of his first visit, the Whites, who were then in power, would have none of his counsels; on his second, the Blacks in their turn despised them.[150] There would therefore have been something almost satirical in the compliment, had the Commonwealth resolved to give him a place in a triumphal picture. As for Charles of Valois, though much was expected from an alliance with him while he was still at a distance, the very party that invited his presence was soon disgusted with him owing to his faithlessness and greed. The earlier part of his stay was disturbed by pillage and bloodshed. Nor is it easy to imagine how, at any time during his residence of five months, the leading citizens could have either the time or the wish to arrange for honouring him in a fashion he was not the man to care for. His one craving was for money, and still more money; and any leisure the members of public bodies had to spare from giving heed to their own interests and securing vengeance upon their opponents, was devoted to holding the common purse shut as tightly as they could against their avaricious Pacificator. When he at last delivered the city from his presence no one would have the heart to revive the memory of his disastrous visit. But if, in all this confusion of Florentine affairs, Giotto did receive a commission to paint in the palace of the Podesta, yet it remains incredible that he should have been suffered to assign to Dante, of all men, a place of honour in the picture. No citizen had more stubbornly opposed the policy which brought Charles of Valois to Florence, and that Charles was in the city was reason enough for Dante to keep out of it. In his absence, he was sentenced in January 1302 to pay a ruinously heavy fine, and in the following March he was condemned to be put to death if ever he was caught. On fuller acquaintance his fellow-citizens liked the Frenchman as little as he, but this had no effect in softening their dislike or removing their fear of Dante. We may be sure that any friends he may still have had in Florence, as their influence could not protect his goods from confiscation or him from banishment, would hardly care to risk their own safety by urging, while his condemnation was still fresh, the admission of his portrait among those of illustrious Florentines.[151] It is true that there have been instances of great artists having reached so high a pitch of fame as to be able to dictate terms to patrons, however exalted. In his later years Giotto could perhaps have made such a point a matter of treaty with his employers, but in 1301 he was still young,[152] and great although his fame already was, he could scarcely have ventured to insist on the Republic's confessing its injustice to his friend; as it would have done had it consented that Dante, newly driven into exile, should obtain a place of honour in a work painted at the public cost. These considerations seem to make it highly improbable that Giotto's wall-painting was meant to do honour to Charles of Valois and the Cardinal Acquasparta. But if it should still be held that it was painted in 1302, we must either cease to believe, in spite of all that Vasari and the others say, that the portrait is meant for Dante; or else confess it to be inexplicable how it got there. A way out of the difficulty begins to open up as soon as we allow ourselves some latitude in speculating as to when Giotto may have painted the fresco. The order in which that artist's works were produced is very imperfectly settled; and it may easily be that the position in Vasari's pages of the mention made by him of this fresco has given rise to a misunderstanding regarding the date of it. He speaks of it at the very beginning of his Life of Giotto. But this he does because he needs an illustration of what he has been saying in his opening sentences about the advance that painter made on Cimabue. Only after making mention of Dante's portrait does he begin his chronological list of Giotto's works; to the portrait he never returns, and so, as far as Vasari is concerned, it is without a date. Judging of it by means of Mr. Kirkup's careful and beautiful sketch--and unfortunately we have now no other means of knowing what the original was like--it may safely be asserted to be in Giotto's ripest style.[153] Everything considered, it is therefore allowable to search the Florentine chronicles lower down for an event more likely to be the subject of Giotto's fresco than that usually fixed upon. We read in John Villani that in the middle of the year 1326 the Cardinal Gianni Orsini came to Florence as Papal Legate and Pacificator of Tuscany. The city was greatly pleased at his coming, and as an earnest of gratitude for his services presented him with a cup containing a thousand florins.[154] A month later there arrived Charles Duke of Calabria, the eldest son of King Robert of Naples, and great-grandson of Charles of Anjou. He came as Protector of the Commonwealth, which office--an extraordinary one, and with a great salary attached to it--he had been elected to hold for five years. Never before had a spectacle like that of his entry been offered to Florence. Villani gives a long list of the barons who rode in his train, and tells that in his squadrons of men-at-arms there were no fewer than two hundred knights. The chronicler pauses to bid the reader note how great an enterprise his fellow-citizens had shown in bringing to sojourn among them, and in their interest, not only such a powerful lord as the Duke of Calabria was, but a Papal Legate as well. Italy counted it a great thing, he says, and he deems that the whole world ought to know of it.[155] Charles took up his abode in the Podesta's palace. He appears to have gained a better place in the hearts of the Florentines than what they were used to give to strangers and princes. When a son was born to him, all the city rejoiced, and it mourned with him when, in a few weeks, he lost the child. After seventeen months' experience of his rule the citizens were sorry to lose him, and bade him a farewell as hearty as their welcome had been. To some of them, it is true, the policy seemed a dangerous one which bore even the appearance of subjecting the Republic to the Royal House of Naples; and some of them could have wished that he 'had shown more vigour in civil and military affairs. But he was a gentle lord, popular with the townsfolk, and in the course of his residence he greatly improved the condition of things in Florence, and brought to a close many feuds.'[156] They felt that the nine hundred thousand gold florins spent on him and his men had, on the whole, been well laid out. One detail of the Duke's personal appearance deserves remark. We have seen that the prince in the fresco has long hair. John Villani had known the Duke well by sight, and when he comes to record his death and describe what kind of man he was to look upon, he specially says that 'he wore his hair loose.'[157] A subject worthy of Giotto's pencil, and one likely to be offered to him if he was then in Florence, we have therefore found in this visit of the Duke and the Cardinal. But that Giotto was in Florence at that time is certain. He painted a portrait[158] of the Duke in the Palace of the Signory; and through that prince, as Vasari tells, he was invited by King Robert to go down to work in Naples. All this, in the absence of evidence of any value in favour of another date, makes it, at the very least, highly probable that the fresco was a work of 1326 or 1327. In 1326 Dante had been dead for five years. The grudge his fellow-townsmen had nourished against him for so long was now worn out. We know that very soon after his death Florence began to be proud of him; and even such of his old enemies as still survived would be willing that Giotto should set him in a place of honour among the great Florentines who help to fill the fresco of the Paradise. That he was already dead would be no hindrance to his finding room alongside of Charles of Calabria; for the age was wisely tolerant of such anachronisms.[159] Had Dante been still living the painter would have been less at liberty to create, out of the records he doubtless possessed of the features of the friend who had paid him beforehand with one immortal line, the face which, as we look into it, we feel to be a glorified transcript of what it was in the flesh. It is the face of one who has wellnigh forgotten his earthly life, instead of having the worst of it still before him; of one who, from that troubled Italy which like his own Sapia he knew but as a pilgrim, has passed to the 'true city,' of which he remains for evermore a citizen--the city faintly imaged by Giotto upon the chapel wall. FOOTNOTES: [142] It is best known, and can now be judged of only through the lithograph after a tracing made by Mr. Seymour Kirkup before it was restored and ruined: published by the Arundel Society. [143] Antonio Pucci, born in 1300, in his _Centiloquio_, describes the figure of Dante as being clothed in blood-red. Philip Villani also mentions it. He wrote towards the close of the fourteenth century; Vasari towards the middle of the sixteenth. [144] In the Munich collection of drawings, and ascribed to Masaccio, but with how much reason I do not know. [145] Painted by Domenico Michelino in 1465, after a sketch by Alessio Baldovinetto. [146] 'Wearing over the long hair of the Frenchmen of the period a coroneted cap.'--Crowe and Cavalcaselle, _History of Painting in Italy_ (1864), i. 264. [147] Vol. i. p. 269. [148] The Priorate was the highest office to which a citizen could aspire, but by no means the highest in Florence. [149] I suppose the meaning is 'immediately previous.' [150] John Villani, _Cronica_, viii. 40 and 49; and Perrens, _Hist. de Florence_, under date of 1301. Charles entered Florence on the 1st of November of that year, and left it in the following April. [151] Who the other Florentines in the fresco are does not greatly affect the present question. Villani says that along with Dante Giotto painted Corso Donati and Brunetto Latini. [152] Only twenty-five, if the commonly accepted date of his birth is correct. In any case, he was still a young man. [153] It is true that, on technical grounds, it has been questioned if it is Giotto's at all; but there is more than sufficient reason to think it is. With such doubts however we are scarcely here concerned. Even were it proved to be by a pupil, everything in the text that applies to the question of date would still remain in point. [154] J. Villani, ix. 353. [155] J. Villani, x. 1. [156] _Ibid._ x. 49. [157] J. Villani, x. 107. [158] Long since destroyed. [159] An anachronism of another kind would have been committed by Giotto, if, before the _Comedy_ was even begun, he had represented Dante as holding the closed book and cluster of three pomegranates--emblematical of the three regions described by him and of the completion of his work.--I say nothing of the Inferno found on another wall of the chapel, since there seems good reason to doubt if it is by Giotto. THE INFERNO. CANTO I. In middle[160] of the journey of our days I found that I was in a darksome wood[161]-- The right road lost and vanished in the maze. Ah me! how hard to make it understood How rough that wood was, wild, and terrible: By the mere thought my terror is renewed. More bitter scarce were death. But ere I tell At large of good which there by me was found, I will relate what other things befell. Scarce know I how I entered on that ground, 10 So deeply, at the moment when I passed From the right way, was I in slumber drowned. But when beneath a hill[162] arrived at last, Which for the boundary of the valley stood, That with such terror had my heart harassed, I upwards looked and saw its shoulders glowed, Radiant already with that planet's[163] light Which guideth surely upon every road. A little then was quieted by the sight The fear which deep within my heart had lain 20 Through all my sore experience of the night. And as the man, who, breathing short in pain, Hath 'scaped the sea and struggled to the shore, Turns back to gaze upon the perilous main; Even so my soul which fear still forward bore Turned to review the pass whence I egressed, And which none, living, ever left before. My wearied frame refreshed with scanty rest, I to ascend the lonely hill essayed; The lower foot[164] still that on which I pressed. 30 And lo! ere I had well beginning made, A nimble leopard,[165] light upon her feet, And in a skin all spotted o'er arrayed: Nor ceased she e'er me full in the face to meet, And to me in my path such hindrance threw That many a time I wheeled me to retreat. It was the hour of dawn; with retinue Of stars[166] that were with him when Love Divine In the beginning into motion drew Those beauteous things, the sun began to shine; 40 And I took heart to be of better cheer Touching the creature with the gaudy skin, Seeing 'twas morn,[167] and spring-tide of the year; Yet not so much but that when into sight A lion[168] came, I was disturbed with fear. Towards me he seemed advancing in his might, Rabid with hunger and with head high thrown: The very air was tremulous with fright. A she-wolf,[169] too, beheld I further on; All kinds of lust seemed in her leanness pent: 50 Through her, ere now, much folk have misery known. By her oppressed, and altogether spent By the terror breathing from her aspect fell, I lost all hope of making the ascent. And as the man who joys while thriving well, When comes the time to lose what he has won In all his thoughts weeps inconsolable, So mourned I through the brute which rest knows none: She barred my way again and yet again, And thrust me back where silent is the sun. 60 And as I downward rushed to reach the plain, Before mine eyes appeared there one aghast, And dumb like those that silence long maintain. When I beheld him in the desert vast, 'Whate'er thou art, or ghost or man,' I cried, 'I pray thee show such pity as thou hast.' 'No man,[170] though once I was; on either side Lombard my parents were, and both of them For native place had Mantua,' he replied. 'Though late, _sub Julio_,[171] to the world I came, 70 And lived at Rome in good Augustus' day, While yet false gods and lying were supreme. Poet I was, renowning in my lay Anchises' righteous son, who fled from Troy What time proud Ilion was to flames a prey. But thou, why going back to such annoy? The hill delectable why fear to mount, The origin and ground of every joy?' 'And thou in sooth art Virgil, and the fount Whence in a stream so full doth language flow?' 80 Abashed, I answered him with humble front. 'Of other poets light and honour thou! Let the long study and great zeal I've shown In searching well thy book, avail me now! My master thou, and author[172] thou, alone! From thee alone I, borrowing, could attain The style[173] consummate which has made me known. Behold the beast which makes me turn again: Deliver me from her, illustrious Sage; Because of her I tremble, pulse and vein.' 90 'Thou must attempt another pilgrimage,' Observing that I wept, he made reply, 'If from this waste thyself thou 'dst disengage. Because the beast thou art afflicted by Will suffer none along her way to pass, But, hindering them, harasses till they die. So vile a nature and corrupt she has, Her raging lust is still insatiate, And food but makes it fiercer than it was. Many a creature[174] hath she ta'en for mate, 100 And more she'll wed until the hound comes forth To slay her and afflict with torment great. He will not batten upon pelf or earth; But he shall feed on valour, love, and lore; Feltro and Feltro[175] 'tween shall be his birth. He will save humbled Italy, and restore, For which of old virgin Camilla[176] died; Turnus, Euryalus, Nisus, died of yore. Her through all cities chasing far and wide, He at the last to Hell will thrust her down, 110 Whence envy[177] first unloosed her. I decide Therefore and judge that thou hadst best come on With me for guide;[178] and hence I'll lead thee where A place eternal shall to thee be shown. There shalt thou hear the howlings of despair In which the ancient spirits make lament, All of them fain the second death to share. Next shalt thou them behold who are content, Because they hope some time, though now in fire, To join the blessed they will win consent. 120 And if to these thou later wouldst aspire, A soul[179] shall guide thee, worthier far than I; When I depart thee will I leave with her. Because the Emperor[180] who reigns on high Wills not, since 'gainst His laws I did rebel,[181] That to His city I bring any nigh. O'er all the world He rules, there reigns as well; There is His city and exalted seat: O happy whom He chooses there to dwell!' And I to him: 'Poet, I thee entreat, 130 Even by that God who was to thee unknown, That I may 'scape this present ill, nor meet With worse, conduct me whither thou hast shown, That I may see Saint Peter's gate,[182] and those Whom thou reportest in such misery thrown.' He moved away; behind him held I close. FOOTNOTES: [160] _Middle_: In his _Convito_ (iv. 23), comparing human life to an arch, Dante says that at the age of thirty-five a man has reached the top and begins to go down. As he was born in 1265 that was his own age in 1300, the year in which the action of the poem is laid. [161] _Darksome wood_: A state of spiritual darkness or despair into which he has gradually drifted, not without fault of his own. [162] _A hill_: Lower down this hill is termed 'the origin and cause of all joy.' It is symbolical of spiritual freedom--of the peace and security that spring from the practice of virtue. Only, as it seems, by gaining such a vantage-ground can he escape from the wilderness of doubt--the valley of the shadow of death--in which he is lost. [163] _That planet_: On the Ptolemaic system, which, as perfected by the Arabian astronomers, and with some Christian additions, was that followed by Dante, the sun is reckoned as one of the seven planets; all the others as well as the earth and the fixed stars deriving their light from it. Here the sunlight may signify the Divine help granted to all men in their efforts after virtue. [164] _The lower foot, etc._: This describes a cautious, slow ascent. [165] _A nimble leopard_: The leopard and the lion and wolf that come with it are suggested by Jeremiah v. 6: 'A lion out of the forest shall slay them,' etc. We have Dante's own authority for it, in his letter to Can Grande, that several meanings are often hidden under the incidents of the _Comedy_. But whatever else the beasts may signify, their chief meaning is that of moral hindrances. It is plain that the lion and wolf are the sins of others--pride and avarice. If the leopard agrees with them in this, it most probably stands for the envy of those among whom Dante lived: at _Inf._ vi. 74 we find envy, pride, and avarice classed together as the sins that have corrupted Florence. But from _Inf._ xvi. 106 it appears that Dante hoped to get the better of the leopard by means of a cord which he wore girt about his loins. The cord is emblematical of self-control; and hence the leopard seems best to answer the idea of sensual pleasure in the sense of a temptation that makes difficult the pursuit of virtue. But it will be observed that this hindrance Dante trusts to overcome. [166] _Stars, etc._: The sun being then in Aries, as it was believed to have been at the creation. [167] _Morn, etc._: It is the morning of Friday the 25th of March in the year 1300, and by the use of Florence, which began the year on the anniversary of the incarnation, it is the first day of the New Year. The Good Friday of 1300 fell a fortnight later; but the 25th of March was held to be the true anniversary of the crucifixion as well as of the incarnation and of the creation of the world. The date of the action is fixed by _Inf._ xxi. 112. The day was of good omen for success in the struggle with his lower self. [168] _A lion_: Pride or arrogance; to be taken in its widest sense of violent opposition to all that is good. [169] _A she-wolf_: Used elsewhere in the _Comedy_ to represent avarice. Dante may have had specially in his mind the greed and worldly ambition of the Pope and the Court of Rome, but it is plain from line 110 that the wolf stands primarily for a sin, and not for a person or corporate body. [170] _No man_: Brunetto Latini, the friend and master of Dante, says 'the soul is the life of man, but without the body is not man.' [171] _Sub Julio_: Julius was not even consul when Virgil was born. But Dante reckoned Julius as the founder of the Empire, and therefore makes the time in which he flourished his. Virgil was only twenty-five years of age when Cæsar was slain; and thus it was under Augustus that his maturer life was spent. [172] _Author_: Dante defines an author as 'one worthy to be believed and obeyed' (_Convito_ iv. 6). For a guide and companion on his great pilgrimage he chooses Virgil, not only because of his fame as a poet, but also because he had himself described a descent to the Shades--had been already there. The vulgar conception of Virgil was that of a virtuous great magician. [173] _The style, etc._: Some at least of Dante's minor works had been given to the world before 1300, certainly the _Vita Nuova_ and others of his poems. To his study of Virgil he may have felt himself indebted for the purity of taste that kept him superior to the frigid and artificial style of his contemporaries, He prided himself on suiting his language to his theme, as well as on writing straight from the heart. [174] _Many a creature, etc._: Great men and states, infected with avarice in its extended sense of encroachment on the rights of others. [175] _Feltro and Feltro, etc._: Who the deliverer was that Dante prophesies the coming of is not known, and perhaps never can be. Against the claims of Can Grande of Verona the objection is that, at any date which can reasonably be assigned for the publication of the _Inferno_, he had done nothing to justify such bright hopes of his future career. There seems proof, too, that till the _Paradiso_ was written Dante entertained no great respect for the Scala family (_Purg._ xvi. 118, xviii. 121). Neither is Verona, or the widest territory over which Can Grande ever ruled, at all described by saying it lay between Feltro and Feltro.--I have preferred to translate _nazi-one_ as birth rather than as nation or people. 'The birth of the deliverer will be found to have been between feltro and feltro.' Feltro, as Dante wrote it, would have no capital letter; and according to an old gloss the deliverer is to be of humble birth; _feltro_ being the name of a poor sort of cloth. This interpretation I give as a curiosity more than anything else; for the most competent critics have decided against it, or ignored it.--Henry of Luxemburg, chosen Emperor in November 1308, is an old claimant for the post of the allegorical _veltro_ or greyhound. On him Dante's hopes were long set as the man who should 'save Italy;' and it seems not out of place to draw attention to what is said of him by John Villani, the contemporary and fellow-townsman of Dante: 'He was of a magnanimous nature, though, as regarded his family, of poor extraction' (_Cronica_, ix. 1). Whatever may be made of the Feltros, the description in the text of the deliverer as one superior to all personal ambition certainly answers better to Dante's ideal of a righteous Emperor than to the character of a partisan leader like Uguccione della Faggiuola, or an ambitious prince like Can Grande. [176] _Camilla, etc._: All persons of the _Æneid_. [177] _Envy_: That of Satan. [178] _Thou hadst best, etc._: As will be seen from the next Canto, Virgil has been sent to the relief of Dante; but how that is to be wrought out is left to his own judgment. He might secure a partial deliverance for his ward by conducting him up the Delectable Mount--the peaceful heights familiar to himself, and which are to be won by the practice of natural piety. He chooses the other course, of guiding Dante through the regions of the future state, where the pilgrim's trust in the Divine government will be strengthened by what he sees, and his soul acquire a larger peace. [179] _A soul_: Beatrice. [180] _The Emperor_: The attribution of this title to God is significant of Dante's lofty conception of the Empire. [181] _'Gainst his laws, etc._: Virgil was a rebel only in the sense of being ignorant of the Christian revelation (_Inf._ iv. 37). [182] _Saint Peter's gate_: Virgil has not mentioned Saint Peter. Dante names him as if to proclaim that it is as a Christian, though under heathen guidance, that he makes the pilgrimage. Here the gate seems to be spoken of as if it formed the entrance to Paradise, as it was popularly believed to do, and as if it were at that point Virgil would cease to guide him. But they are to find it nearer at hand, and after it has been passed Virgil is to act as guide through Purgatory. CANTO II. It was the close of day;[183] the twilight brown All living things on earth was setting free From toil, while I preparing was alone[184] To face the battle which awaited me, As well of ruth as of the perilous quest, Now to be limned by faultless memory. Help, lofty genius! Muses,[185] manifest Goodwill to me! Recording what befell, Do thou, O mind, now show thee at thy best! I thus began: 'Poet, and Guide as well, 10 Ere trusting me on this adventure wide, Judge if my strength of it be capable. Thou say'st that Silvius' father,[186] ere he died, Still mortal to the world immortal went, There in the body some time to abide. Yet that the Foe of evil was content That he should come, seeing what high effect, And who and what should from him claim descent, No room for doubt can thoughtful man detect: For he of noble Rome, and of her sway 20 Imperial, in high Heaven grew sire elect. And both of these,[187] the very truth to say, Were founded for the holy seat, whereon The Greater Peter's follower sits to-day. Upon this journey, praised by thee, were known And heard things by him, to the which he owed His triumph, whence derives the Papal gown.[188] That path the Chosen Vessel[189] later trod So of the faith assurance to receive, Which is beginning of salvation's road. 30 But why should I go? Who will sanction give? For I am no Æneas and no Paul; Me worthy of it no one can believe, Nor I myself. Hence venturing at thy call, I dread the journey may prove rash. But vain For me to reason; wise, thou know'st it all.' Like one no more for what he wished for fain, Whose purpose shares mutation with his thought Till from the thing begun he turns again; On that dim slope so grew I all distraught, 40 Because, by brooding on it, the design I shrank from, which before I warmly sought. 'If well I understand these words of thine,' The shade of him magnanimous made reply, 'Thy soul 'neath cowardice hath sunk supine, Which a man often is so burdened by, It makes him falter from a noble aim, As beasts at objects ill-distinguished shy. To loose thee from this terror, why I came, And what the speech I heard, I will relate, 50 When first of all I pitied thee. A dame[190] Hailed me where I 'mongst those in dubious state[191] Had my abode: so blest was she and fair, Her to command me I petitioned straight. Her eyes were shining brighter than the star;[192] And she began to say in accents sweet And tuneable as angel's voices are: "O Mantuan Shade, in courtesy complete, Whose fame survives on earth, nor less shall grow Through all the ages, while the world hath seat; 60 A friend of mine, with fortune for his foe, Has met with hindrance on his desert way, And, terror-smitten, can no further go, But turns; and that he is too far astray, And that I rose too late for help, I dread, From what in Heaven concerning him they say. Go, with thy speech persuasive him bestead, And with all needful help his guardian prove, That touching him I may be comforted. Know, it is Beatrice seeks thee thus to move. 70 Thence come I where I to return am fain: My coming and my plea are ruled by love. When I shall stand before my Lord again, Often to Him I will renew thy praise." And here she ceased, nor did I dumb remain: "O virtuous Lady, thou alone the race Of man exaltest 'bove all else that dwell Beneath the heaven which wheels in narrowest space.[193] To do thy bidding pleases me so well, Though 'twere already done 'twere all too slow; 80 Thy wish at greater length no need to tell. But say, what tempted thee to come thus low, Even to this centre, from the region vast,[194] Whither again thou art on fire to go?" "This much to learn since a desire thou hast," She answered, "briefly thee I'll satisfy, How, coming here, I through no terrors passed. We are, of right, such things alarmèd by, As have the power to hurt us; all beside Are harmless, and not fearful. Wherefore I-- 90 Thus formed by God, His bounty is so wide-- Am left untouched by all your miseries, And through this burning[195] unmolested glide. A noble lady[196] is in Heaven, who sighs O'er the obstruction where I'd have thee go, And breaks the rigid edict of the skies. Calling on Lucia,[197] thus she made her know What she desired: 'Thy vassal[198] now hath need Of help from thee; do thou then helpful show.' Lucia, who hates all cruelty, in speed 100 Rose, and approaching where I sat at rest, To venerable Rachel[199] giving heed, Me: 'Beatrice, true praise of God,' addressed; 'Why not help him who had such love for thee, And from the vulgar throng to win thee pressed? Dost thou not hear him weeping pitiably, Nor mark the death now threatening him upon A flood[200] than which less awful is the sea?' Never on earth did any ever run, Allured by profit or impelled by fear, 110 Swifter than I, when speaking she had done, From sitting 'mong the blest descended here, My trust upon thy comely rhetoric cast, Which honours thee and those who lend it ear." When of these words she spoken had the last, She turned aside bright eyes which tears[201] did fill, And I by this was urged to greater haste. And so it was I joined thee by her will, And from that raging beast delivered thee, Which barred the near way up the beauteous hill. 120 What ails thee then? Why thus a laggard be? Why cherish in thy heart a craven fear? Where is thy franchise, where thy bravery, When three such blessed ladies have a care For thee in Heaven's court, and these words of mine Thee for such wealth of blessedness prepare?' As flowers, by chills nocturnal made to pine And shut themselves, when touched by morning bright Upon their stems arise, full-blown and fine; So of my faltering courage changed the plight, 130 And such good cheer ran through my heart, it spurred Me to declare, like free-born generous wight: 'O pitiful, who for my succour stirred! And thou how full of courtesy to run, Alert in service, hearkening her true word! Thou with thine eloquence my heart hast won To keen desire to go, and the intent Which first I held I now no longer shun. Therefore proceed; my will with thine is blent: Thou art my Guide, Lord, Master;[202] thou alone!' 140 Thus I; and with him, as he forward went, The steep and rugged road I entered on. FOOTNOTES: [183] _Close of day_: The evening of the Friday. It comes on us with something of a surprise that a whole day has been spent in the attempt to ascend the hill, and in conference with Virgil. [184] _Alone_: Of earthly creatures, though in company with Virgil, a shade. In these words is to be found the keynote to the Canto. With the sense of deliverance from immediate danger his enthusiasm has died away. After all, Virgil is only a shade; and his heart misgives him at the thought of engaging, in the absence of all human companionship, upon a journey so full of terrors. He is not reassured till Virgil has displayed his commission. [185] _Muses_: The invocation comes now, the First Canto being properly an introduction. Here it may be pointed out, as illustrating the refinement of Dante's art, that the invocation in the _Purgatorio_ is in a higher strain, and that in the _Paradiso_ in a nobler still. [186] _Silvius' father_: Æneas, whose visit to the world of shades is described in the Sixth _Æneid_. He finds there his father Anchises, who foretells to him the fortunes of his descendants down to the time of Augustus. [187] _Both of these_: Dante uses language slightly apologetic as he unfolds to Virgil, the great Imperialist poet, the final cause of Rome and the Empire. But while he thus exalts the Papal office, making all Roman history a preparation for its establishment, Dante throughout his works is careful to refuse any but a spiritual or religious allegiance to the Pope, and leaves himself free, as will be frequently seen in the course of the _Comedy_, to blame the Popes as men, while yielding all honour to their great office. In this emphatic mention of Rome as the divinely-appointed seat of Peter's Chair may be implied a censure on the Pope for the transference of the Holy See to Avignon, which was effected in 1305, between the date assigned to the action of the poem and the period when it was written. [188] _Papal gown_: 'The great mantle' Dante elsewhere terms it; the emblem of the Papal dignity. It was only in Dante's own time that coronation began to take the place of investiture with the mantle. [189] _Chosen Vessel_: Paul, who like Æneas visited the other world, though not the same region of it. Throughout the poem instances drawn from profane history, and even poetry and mythology, are given as of authority equal to those from Christian sources. [190] _A dame_: Beatrice, the heroine of the _Vita Nuova_, at the close of which Dante promises some day to say of her what was never yet said of any woman. She died in 1290, aged twenty-four. In the _Comedy_ she fills different parts: she is the glorified Beatrice Portinari whom Dante first knew as a fair Florentine girl; but she also represents heavenly truth, or the knowledge of it--the handmaid of eternal life. Theology is too hard and technical a term to bestow on her. Virgil, for his part, represents the knowledge that men may acquire of Divine law by the use of their reason, helped by such illumination as was enjoyed by the virtuous heathen. In other words, he is the exponent of the Divine revelation involved in the Imperial system--for the Empire was never far from Dante's thoughts. To him it meant the perfection of just rule, in which due cognisance is taken of every right and of every duty. The relation Dante bears to these two is that of erring humanity struggling to the light. Virgil leads him as far as he can, and then commits him to the holier rule of Beatrice. But the poem would lose its charm if the allegorical meaning of every passage were too closely insisted on. And, worse than that, it cannot always be found. [191] _Dubious state_: The limbo of the virtuous heathen (Canto iv.). [192] _The star_: In the _Vita Nuova_ Dante speaks of the star in the singular when he means the stars. [193] _In narrowest space_: The heaven of the moon, on the Ptolemaic system the lowest of the seven planets. Below it there is only the heaven of fire, to which all the flames of earth are attracted. The meaning is, above all on earth. [194] _The region vast_: The empyrean, or tenth and highest heaven of all. It is an addition by the Christian astronomers to the heavens of the Ptolemaic system, and extends above the _primum mobile_, which imparts to all beneath it a common motion, while leaving its own special motion to each. The empyrean is the heaven of Divine rest. [195] _Burning_: 'Flame of this burning,' allegorical, as applied to the limbo where Virgil had his abode. He and his companions suffer only from unfulfilled but lofty desire (_Inf._ iv. 41). [196] _A noble lady_: The Virgin Mary, of whom it is said (_Parad._ xxxiii. 16) that her 'benignity not only succours those who ask, but often anticipates their demand;' as here. She is the symbol of Divine grace in its widest sense. Neither Christ nor Mary is mentioned by name in the _Inferno_. [197] _Lucia_: The martyr saint of Syracuse. Witte (_Dante-Forschungen_, vol. ii. 30) suggests that Lucia Ubaldini may be meant, a thirteenth-century Florentine saint, and sister of the Cardinal (_Inf._ x. 120). The day devoted to her memory was the 30th of May. Dante was born in May, and if it could be proved that he was born on the 30th of the month the suggestion would be plausible. But for the greater Lucy is to be said that she was especially helpful to those troubled in their eyesight, as Dante was at one time of his life. Here she is the symbol of illuminating grace. [198] _Thy vassal_: Saint Lucy being held in special veneration by Dante; or only that he was one that sought light. The word _fedele_ may of course, as it usually is, be read in its primary sense of 'faithful one;' but it is old Italian for vassal; and to take the reference to be to the duty of the overlord to help his dependant in need seems to give force to the appeal. [199] _Rachel_: Symbol of the contemplative life. [200] _A flood, etc._: 'The sea of troubles' in which Dante is involved. [201] _Tears_: Beatrice weeps for human misery--especially that of Dante--though unaffected by the view of the sufferings of Inferno. [202] _My Guide, etc._: After hearing how Virgil was moved to come, Dante accepts him not only for his guide, as he did at the close of the First Canto, but for his lord and master as well. CANTO III. Through me to the city dolorous lies the way, Who pass through me shall pains eternal prove, Through me are reached the people lost for aye. 'Twas Justice did my Glorious Maker move; I was created by the Power Divine,[203] The Highest Wisdom, and the Primal Love. No thing's creation earlier was than mine, If not eternal;[204] I for aye endure: Ye who make entrance, every hope resign! These words beheld I writ in hue obscure 10 On summit of a gateway; wherefore I: 'Hard[205] is their meaning, Master.' Like one sure Beforehand of my thought, he made reply: 'Here it behoves to leave all fears behind; All cowardice behoveth here to die. For now the place I told thee of we find, Where thou the miserable folk shouldst see Who the true good[206] of reason have resigned.' Then, with a glance of glad serenity, He took my hand in his, which made me bold, 20 And brought me in where secret things there be. There sighs and plaints and wailings uncontrolled The dim and starless air resounded through; Nor at the first could I from tears withhold. The various languages and words of woe, The uncouth accents,[207] mixed with angry cries And smiting palms and voices loud and low, Composed a tumult which doth circling rise For ever in that air obscured for aye; As when the sand upon the whirlwind flies. 30 And, horror-stricken,[208] I began to say: 'Master, what sound can this be that I hear, And who the folk thus whelmed in misery?' And he replied: 'In this condition drear Are held the souls of that inglorious crew Who lived unhonoured, but from guilt kept clear. Mingled they are with caitiff angels, who, Though from avowed rebellion they refrained, Disloyal to God, did selfish ends pursue. Heaven hurled them forth, lest they her beauty stained; Received they are not by the nether hell, 41 Else triumph[209] thence were by the guilty gained.' And I: 'What bear they, Master, to compel Their lamentations in such grievous tone?' He answered: 'In few words I will thee tell. No hope of death is to the wretches known; So dim the life and abject where they sigh They count all sufferings easier than their own. Of them the world endures no memory; Mercy and justice them alike disdain. 50 Speak we not of them: glance, and pass them by.' I saw a banner[210] when I looked again, Which, always whirling round, advanced in haste As if despising steadfast to remain. And after it so many people chased In long procession, I should not have said That death[211] had ever wrought such countless waste. Some first I recognised, and then the shade I saw and knew of him, the search to close, Whose dastard soul the great refusal[212] made. 60 Straightway I knew and was assured that those Were of the tribe of caitiffs,[213] even the race Despised of God and hated of His foes. The wretches, who when living showed no trace Of life, went naked, and were fiercely stung By wasps and hornets swarming in that place. Blood drawn by these out of their faces sprung And, mingled with their tears, was at their feet Sucked up by loathsome worms it fell among. Casting mine eyes beyond, of these replete, 70 People I saw beside an ample stream, Whereon I said: 'O Master, I entreat, Tell who these are, and by what law they seem Impatient till across the river gone; As I distinguish by this feeble gleam.' And he: 'These things shall unto thee be known What time our footsteps shall at rest be found Upon the woful shores of Acheron.' Then with ashamèd eyes cast on the ground, Fearing my words were irksome in his ear, 80 Until we reached the stream I made no sound. And toward us, lo, within a bark drew near A veteran[214] who with ancient hair was white, Shouting: 'Ye souls depraved, be filled with fear. Hope never more of Heaven to win the sight; I come to take you to the other strand, To frost and fire and everlasting night. And thou, O living soul, who there dost stand, From 'mong the dead withdraw thee.' Then, aware That not at all I stirred at his command, 90 'By other ways,[215] from other ports thou'lt fare; But they will lead thee to another shore, And 'tis a skiff more buoyant must thee bear.' And then my leader: 'Charon, be not sore, For thus it has been willed where power ne'er came Short of the will; thou therefore ask no more.' And hereupon his shaggy cheeks grew tame Who is the pilot of the livid pool, And round about whose eyes glowed wheels of flame. But all the shades, naked and spent with dool, 100 Stood chattering with their teeth, and changing hue Soon as they heard the words unmerciful. God they blasphemed, and families whence they grew; Mankind, the time, place, seed in which began Their lives, and seed whence they were born. Then drew They crowding all together, as they ran, Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore Predestinate for every godless man. The demon Charon, with eyes evermore Aglow, makes signals, gathering them all; 110 And whoso lingers smiteth with his oar. And as the faded leaves of autumn fall One after the other, till at last the bough Sees on the ground spread all its coronal; With Adam's evil seed so haps it now: At signs each falls in turn from off the coast, As fowls[216] into the ambush fluttering go. The gloomy waters thus by them are crossed, And ere upon the further side they land, On this, anew, is gathering a host. 120 'Son,' said the courteous Master,[217] 'understand, All such as in the wrath of God expire, From every country muster on this strand. To cross the river they are all on fire; Their wills by Heavenly justice goaded on Until their terror merges in desire. This way no righteous soul has ever gone; Wherefore[218] of thee if Charon should complain, Now art thou sure what by his words is shown.' When he had uttered this the dismal plain 130 Trembled[219] so violently, my terror past Recalling now, I'm bathed in sweat again. Out of the tearful ground there moaned a blast Whence lightning flashed forth red and terrible, Which vanquished all my senses; and, as cast In sudden slumber, to the ground I fell. FOOTNOTES: [203] _Power Divine, etc._: The Persons of the Trinity, described by their attributes. [204] _If not eternal_: Only the angels and the heavenly spheres were created before Inferno. The creation of man came later. But from _Inf._ xxxiv. 124 it appears that Inferno was hollowed out of the earth; and at _Parad._ vii. 124 the earth is declared to be 'corruptible and enduring short while;' therefore not eternal. [205] _Hard, etc._: The injunction to leave all hope behind makes Dante hesitate to enter. Virgil anticipates the objection before it is fully expressed, and reminds him that the passage through Inferno is to be only one stage of his journey. Not by this gate will he seek to quit it. [206] _True good, etc._: Truth in its highest form--the contemplation of God. [207] _Uncouth accents_: 'Like German,' says Boccaccio. [208] _Horror-stricken_: 'My head enveloped in horror.' Some texts have 'error,' and this yields a better meaning--that Dante is amazed to have come full into the crowd of suffering shades before he has even crossed Acheron. If with the best texts 'horror' be read, the meaning seems to be that he is so overwhelmed by fear as to lose his presence of mind. They are not yet in the true Inferno, but only in the vestibule or forecourt of it--the flat rim which runs round the edge of the pit. [209] _Else triumph, etc._: The satisfaction of the rebel angels at finding that they endured no worse punishment than that of such as remained neutral. [210] _A banner_: Emblem of the instability of those who would never take a side. [211] _That death, etc._: The touch is very characteristic of Dante. He feigns astonishment at finding that such a proportion of mankind can preserve so pitiful a middle course between good and evil, and spend lives that are only 'a kind of--as it were.' [212] _The great refusal_: Dante recognises him, and so he who made the great refusal must have been a contemporary. Almost beyond doubt Celestine V. is meant, who was in 1294 elected Pope against his will, and resigned the tiara after wearing it a few months; the only Pope who ever resigned it, unless we count Clement I. As he was not canonized till 1326, Dante was free to form his own judgment of his conduct. It has been objected that Dante would not treat with contumely a man so devout as Celestine. But what specially fits him to be the representative caitiff is just that, being himself virtuous, he pusillanimously threw away the greatest opportunity of doing good. By his resignation Boniface VIII. became Pope, to whose meddling in Florentine affairs it was that Dante owed his banishment. Indirectly, therefore, he owed it to the resignation of Celestine; so that here we have the first of many private scores to be paid off in the course of the _Comedy_. Celestine's resignation is referred to (_Inf._ xxvii. 104).--Esau and the rich young man in the Gospel have both been suggested in place of Celestine. To either of them there lies the objection that Dante could not have recognised him. And, besides, Dante's contemporaries appear at once to have discovered Celestine in him who made the great refusal. In Paradise the poet is told by his ancestor Cacciaguida that his rebuke is to be like the wind, which strikes most fiercely on the loftiest summits (_Parad._ xvii. 133); and it agrees well with such a profession, that the first stroke he deals in the _Comedy_ is at a Pope. [213] _Caitiffs_: To one who had suffered like Dante for the frank part he took in affairs, neutrality may well have seemed the unpardonable sin in politics; and no doubt but that his thoughts were set on the trimmers in Florence when he wrote, 'Let us not speak of them!' [214] _A veteran_: Charon. In all this description of the passage of the river by the shades, Dante borrows freely from Virgil. It has been already remarked on _Inf._ ii. 28 that he draws illustrations from Pagan sources. More than that, as we begin to find, he boldly introduces legendary and mythological characters among the persons of his drama. With Milton in mind, it surprises, on a first acquaintance with the _Comedy_, to discover how nearly independent of angels is the economy invented by Dante for the other world. [215] _Other ways, etc._: The souls bound from earth to Purgatory gather at the mouth of the Tiber, whence they are wafted on an angel's skiff to their destination (_Purg._ ii. 100). It may be here noted that never does Dante hint a fear of one day becoming a denizen of Inferno. It is only the pains of Purgatory that oppress his soul by anticipation. So here Charon is made to see at a glance that the pilgrim is not of those 'who make descent to Acheron.' [216] _As fowls, etc._: 'As a bird to its lure'--generally interpreted of the falcon when called back. But a witness of the sport of netting thrushes in Tuscany describes them as 'flying into the vocal ambush in a hurried, half-reluctant, and very remarkable manner.' [217] _Courteous Master_: Virgil here gives the answer promised at line 76; and Dante by the epithet he uses removes any impression that his guide had been wanting in courtesy when he bade him wait. [218] _Wherefore_: Charon's displeasure only proves that he feels he has no hold on Dante. [219] _Trembled, etc._: Symbolical of the increase of woe in Inferno when the doomed souls have landed on the thither side of Acheron. Hell opens to receive them. Conversely, when any purified soul is released from Purgatory the mountain of purification trembles to its base with joy (_Purg._ xxi. 58). CANTO IV. Resounding thunder broke the slumber deep That drowsed my senses, and myself I shook Like one by force awakened out of sleep. Then rising up I cast a steady look, With eyes refreshed, on all that lay around, And cognisance of where I found me took. In sooth, me on the valley's brink I found Of the dolorous abyss, where infinite Despairing cries converge with thundering sound.[220] Cloudy it was, and deep, and dark as night; 10 So dark that, peering eagerly to find What its depths held, no object met my sight. 'Descend we now into this region blind,' Began the Poet with a face all pale; 'I will go first, and do thou come behind.' Marking the wanness on his cheek prevail, I asked, 'How can I, seeing thou hast dread, My wonted comforter when doubts assail?' 'The anguish of the people,' then he said, 'Who are below, has painted on my face 20 Pity,[221] by thee for fear interpreted. Come! The long journey bids us move apace.' Then entered he and made me enter too The topmost circle girding the abyss. Therein, as far as I by listening knew, There was no lamentation save of sighs, Whence throbbed the air eternal through and through. This, sorrow without suffering made arise From infants and from women and from men, Gathered in great and many companies. 30 And the good Master: 'Wouldst thou[222] nothing then Of who those spirits are have me relate? Yet know, ere passing further, although when On earth they sinned not, worth however great Availed them not, they being unbaptized-- Part[223] of the faith thou holdest. If their fate Was to be born ere man was Christianised, God, as behoved, they never could adore: And I myself am with this folk comprised. For such defects--our guilt is nothing more-- 40 We are thus lost, suffering from this alone That, hopeless, we our want of bliss deplore.' Greatly I sorrowed when he made this known, Because I knew that some who did excel In worthiness were to that limbo[224] gone. 'Tell me, O Sir,' I prayed him, 'Master,[225] tell,' --That I of the belief might surety win, Victorious every error to dispel-- 'Did ever any hence to bliss attain By merit of another or his own?' 50 And he, to whom my hidden drift[226] was plain: 'I to this place but lately[227] had come down, When I beheld one hither make descent; A Potentate[228] who wore a victor's crown. The shade of our first sire forth with him went, And his son Abel's, Noah's forth he drew, Moses' who gave the laws, the obedient Patriarch Abram's, and King David's too; And, with his sire and children, Israel, And Rachel, winning whom such toils he knew; 60 And many more, in blessedness to dwell. And I would have thee know, earlier than these No human soul was ever saved from Hell.' While thus he spake our progress did not cease, But we continued through the wood to stray; The wood, I mean, with crowded ghosts for trees. Ere from the summit far upon our way We yet had gone, I saw a flame which glowed, Holding a hemisphere[229] of dark at bay. 'Twas still a little further on our road, 70 Yet not so far but that in part I guessed That honourable people there abode. 'Of art and science Ornament confessed! Who are these honoured in such high degree, And in their lot distinguished from the rest?' He said: 'For them their glorious memory, Still in thy world the subject of renown, Wins grace[230] by Heaven distinguished thus to be.' Meanwhile I heard a voice: 'Be honour shown To the illustrious poet,[231] for his shade 80 Is now returning which a while was gone.' When the voice paused nor further utterance made, Four mighty shades drew near with one accord, In aspect neither sorrowful nor glad. 'Consider that one, armèd with a sword,'[232] Began my worthy Master in my ear, 'Before the three advancing like their lord; For he is Homer, poet with no peer: Horace the satirist is next in line, Ovid comes third, and Lucan in the rear. 90 And 'tis because their claim agrees with mine Upon the name they with one voice did cry, They to their honour[233] in my praise combine.' Thus I beheld their goodly company-- The lords[234] of song in that exalted style Which o'er all others, eagle-like, soars high. Having conferred among themselves a while They turned toward me and salutation made, And, this beholding, did my Master smile.[235] And honour higher still to me was paid, 100 For of their company they made me one; So I the sixth part 'mong such genius played. Thus journeyed we to where the brightness shone, Holding discourse which now 'tis well to hide, As, where I was, to hold it was well done. At length we reached a noble castle's[236] side Which lofty sevenfold walls encompassed round, And it was moated by a sparkling tide. This we traversed as if it were dry ground; I through seven gates did with those sages go; 110 Then in a verdant mead people we found Whose glances were deliberate and slow. Authority was stamped on every face; Seldom they spake, in tuneful voices low. We drew apart to a high open space Upon one side which, luminously serene, Did of them all a perfect view embrace. Thence, opposite, on the enamel green Were shown me mighty spirits; with delight I still am stirred them only to have seen. 120 With many more, Electra was in sight; 'Mong them I Hector and Æneas spied, Cæsar in arms,[237] his eyes, like falcon's, bright. And, opposite, Camilla I descried; Penthesilea too; the Latian King Sat with his child Lavinia by his side. Brutus[238] I saw, who Tarquin forth did fling; Cornelia, Marcia,[239] Julia, and Lucrece. Saladin[240] sat alone. Considering What lay beyond with somewhat lifted eyes, 130 The Master[241] I beheld of those that know, 'Mong such as in philosophy were wise. All gazed on him as if toward him to show Becoming honour; Plato in advance With Socrates: the others stood below. Democritus[242] who set the world on chance; Thales, Diogenes, Empedocles, Zeno, and Anaxagoras met my glance; Heraclitus, and Dioscorides, Wise judge of nature. Tully, Orpheus, were 140 With ethic Seneca and Linus.[243] These, And Ptolemy,[244] too, and Euclid, geometer, Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicen,[245] Averroes,[246] the same who did prepare The Comment, saw I; nor can tell again The names of all I saw; the subject wide So urgent is, time often fails me. Then Into two bands the six of us divide; Me by another way my Leader wise Doth from the calm to air which trembles, guide. 150 I reach a part[247] which all benighted lies. FOOTNOTES: [220] _Thundering sound_: In a state of unconsciousness, Dante, he knows not how, has been conveyed across Acheron, and is awakened by what seems like the thunder-peal following the lightning-flash which made him insensible. He now stands on the brink of Inferno, where the sounds peculiar to each region of it converge and are reverberated from its rim. These sounds are not again to be heard by him except in their proper localities. No sooner does he actually pass into the First Circle than he hears only sighs.--As regards the topography of Inferno, it is enough, as yet, to note that it consists of a cavity extending from the surface to the centre of the earth; narrowing to its base, and with many circular ledges or terraces, of great width in the case of the upper ones, running round its wall--that is, round the sides of the pit. Each terrace or circle is thus less in circumference than the one above it. From one circle to the next there slopes a bank of more or less height and steepness. Down the bank which falls to the comparatively flat ground of the First Circle they are now about to pass.--To put it otherwise, the Inferno is an inverted hollow cone. [221] _Pity_: The pity felt by Virgil has reference only to those in the circle they are about to enter, which is his own. See also _Purg._ iii. 43. [222] _Wouldst thou, etc._: He will not have Dante form a false opinion of the character of those condemned to the circle which is his own. [223] _Part_: _parte_, altered by some editors into _porta_; but though baptism is technically described as the gate of the sacraments, it never is as the gate of the faith. A tenet of Dante's faith was that all the unbaptized are lost. He had no choice in the matter. [224] _Limbo_: Border, or borderland. Dante makes the First Circle consist of the two limbos of Thomas Aquinas: that of unbaptized infants, _limbus puerorum_, and that of the fathers of the old covenant, _limbus sanctorum patrum_. But the second he finds is now inhabited only by the virtuous heathen. [225] _Sir_--_Master_: As a delicate means of expressing sympathy, Dante redoubles his courtesy to Virgil. [226] _Hidden drift_: to find out, at first hand as it were, if the article in the creed is true which relates to the Descent into Hell; and, perhaps, to learn if when Christ descended He delivered none of the virtuous heathen. [227] _Lately_: Virgil died about half a century before the crucifixion. [228] _A Potentate_: The name of Christ is not mentioned in the _Inferno_. [229] _A hemisphere, etc._: An elaborate way of saying that part of the limbo was clearly lit. The flame is symbolical of the light of genius, or of virtue; both in Dante's eyes being modes of worth. [230] _Wins grace, etc._: The thirst for fame was one keenly felt and openly confessed by Dante. See, _e.g._ _De Monarchia_, i. 1. In this he anticipated the humanists of the following century. Here we find that to be famous on earth helps the case of disembodied souls. [231] _Poet_: Throughout the _Comedy_, with the exception of _Parad._ i. 29, and xxv. 8, the term 'poet' is confined to those who wrote in Greek and Latin. In _Purg._ xxi. 85 the name of poet is said to be that 'which is most enduring and honourable.' [232] _A sword_: Because Homer sings of battles. Dante's acquaintance with his works can have been but slight, as they were not then translated into Latin, and Dante knew little or no Greek. [233] _To their honour_: 'And in that they do well:' perhaps as showing themselves free from jealousy. But the remark of Benvenuto of Imola is: 'Poets love and honour one another, and are never envious and quarrelsome like those who cultivate the other arts and sciences.'--I quote with misgiving from Tamburini's untrustworthy Italian translation. Benvenuto lectured on the _Comedy_ in Bologna for some years about 1370. It is greatly to be wished that his commentary, lively and full of side-lights as it is, should be printed in full from the original Latin. [234] _The lords, etc._: Not the company of him--Homer or Virgil--who is lord of the great song, and soars above all others; but the company of the great masters, whose verse, etc. [235] _Did my Master smile_: To see Dante made free of the guild of great poets; or, it may be, to think they are about to discover in him a fellow poet. [236] _A noble castle_: Where the light burns, and in which, as their peculiar seat, the shades of the heathen distinguished for virtue and genius reside. The seven walls are in their number symbolical of the perfect strength of the castle; or, to take it more pedantically, may mean the four moral virtues and the three speculative. The gates will then stand for the seven liberal arts of grammar, rhetoric, etc. The moat may be eloquence, set outside the castle to signify that only as reflected in the eloquent words of inspired men can the outside world get to know wisdom. Over the stream Dante passes easily, as being an adept in learned speech. The castle encloses a spacious mead enamelled with eternal green. [237] _Cæsar in arms, etc._: Suetonius says of Cæsar that he was of fair complexion, but had black and piercing eyes. Brunetto Latini, Dante's teacher, says in his _Tesoro_ (v. 11), of the hawk here mentioned--the _grifagno_--that its eyes 'flame like fire.' [238] _Brutus_: Introduced here that he may not be confounded with the later Brutus, for whom is reserved the lowest place of all in Inferno. [239] _Marcia_: Wife of Cato; mentioned also in _Purg._ i. _Julia_: daughter of Cæsar and wife of Pompey. [240] _Saladin_: Died 1193. To the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries he supplied the ideal of a just Mohammedan ruler. Here are no other such. 'He sits apart, because not of gentle birth,' says Boccaccio; which shows what even a man of genius risks when he becomes a commentator. [241] _The Master_: Aristotle, often spoken of by Dante as the Philosopher, and reverenced by him as the genius to whom the secrets of nature lay most open. [242] _Democritus, etc._: According to whom the world owes its form to a chance arrangement of atoms. [243] _Linus_: Not Livy, into which some have changed it. Linus is mentioned by Virgil along with Orpheus, _Egl._ iv. [244] _Ptolemy_: Greek geographer of the beginning of the second century, and author of the system of the world believed in by Dante, and freely used by him throughout the poem. [245] _Avicenna_: A physician, born in Bokhara, and died at Ispahan, 1037. His _Medical Canon_ was for centuries used as a text-book in Europe. [246] _Averroes_: A Mohammedan philosopher of Cordova, died 1198. In his great Commentary on Aristotle he gives and explains every sentence of that philosopher's works. He was himself ignorant of Greek, and made use of Arabic versions. Out of his Arabic the Commentary was translated into Hebrew, and thence into Latin. The presence of the three Mohammedans in this honourable place greatly puzzles the early commentators. [247] _A part, etc._: He passes into the darkness of the Limbo out of the brightly-lit, fortified enclosure. It is worth remarking, as one reads, how vividly he describes his first impression of a new scene, while when he comes to leave it a word is all he speaks. CANTO V. From the First Circle thus I downward went Into the Second,[248] which girds narrower space, But greater woe compelling loud lament. Minos[249] waits awful there and snarls, the case Examining of all who enter in; And, as he girds him, dooms them to their place. I say, each ill-starred spirit must begin On reaching him its guilt in full to tell; And he, omniscient as concerning sin, Sees to what circle it belongs in Hell; 10 Then round him is his tail as often curled As he would have it stages deep to dwell. And evermore before him stand a world Of shades; and all in turn to judgment come, Confess and hear, and then are downward hurled.[250] 'O thou who comest to the very home Of woe,' when he beheld me Minos cried, Ceasing a while from utterance of doom, 'Enter not rashly nor in all confide; By ease of entering be not led astray.' 20 'Why also[251] growling?' answered him my Guide; 'Seek not his course predestinate to stay; For thus 'tis willed[252] where nothing ever fails Of what is willed. No further speech essay.' And now by me are agonising wails Distinguished plain; now am I come outright Where grievous lamentation me assails. Now had I reached a place devoid of light, Raging as in a tempest howls the sea When with it winds, blown thwart each other, fight. 30 The infernal storm is raging ceaselessly, Sweeping the shades along with it, and them It smites and whirls, nor lets them ever be. Arrived at the precipitous extreme,[253] In shrieks and lamentations they complain, And even the Power Divine itself blaspheme. I understood[254] that to this mode of pain Are doomed the sinners of the carnal kind, Who o'er their reason let their impulse reign. As starlings in the winter-time combined 40 Float on the wing in crowded phalanx wide, So these bad spirits, driven by that wind, Float up and down and veer from side to side; Nor for their comfort any hope they spy Of rest, or even of suffering mollified. And as the cranes[255] in long-drawn company Pursue their flight while uttering their song, So I beheld approach with wailing cry Shades lifted onward by that whirlwind strong. 'Master, what folk are these,'[256] I therefore said, 50 'Who by the murky air are whipped along?' 'She, first of them,' his answer thus was made, 'Of whom thou wouldst a wider knowledge win, O'er many tongues and peoples, empire swayed. So ruined was she by licentious sin That she decreed lust should be uncontrolled, To ease the shame that she herself was in. She is Semiramis, of whom 'tis told She followed Ninus, and his wife had been. Hers were the realms now by the Sultan ruled. 60 The next[257] is she who, amorous and self-slain, Unto Sichæus' dust did faithless show: Then lustful Cleopatra.' Next was seen Helen, for whom so many years in woe Ran out; and I the great Achilles knew, Who at the last[258] encountered love for foe. Paris I saw and Tristram.[259] In review A thousand shades and more, he one by one Pointed and named, whom love from life withdrew. And after I had heard my Teacher run 70 O'er many a dame of yore and many a knight, I, lost in pity, was wellnigh undone. Then I: 'O Poet, if I only might Speak with the two that as companions hie, And on the wind appear to be so light!'[260] And he to me: 'When they shall come more nigh Them shalt thou mark, and by the love shalt pray Which leads them onward, and they will comply.' Soon as the wind bends them to where we stay I lift my voice: 'O wearied souls and worn! 80 Come speak with us if none[261] the boon gainsay.' Then even as doves,[262] urged by desire, return On outspread wings and firm to their sweet nest As through the air by mere volition borne, From Dido's[263] band those spirits issuing pressed Towards where we were, athwart the air malign; My passionate prayer such influence possessed. 'O living creature,[264] gracious and benign, Us visiting in this obscurèd air, Who did the earth with blood incarnadine; 90 If in the favour of the King we were Who rules the world, we for thy peace[265] would pray, Since our misfortunes thy compassion stir. Whate'er now pleases thee to hear or say We listen to, or tell, at your demand;[266] While yet the wind, as now, doth silent stay. My native city[267] lies upon the strand Where to the sea descends the river Po For peace, with all his tributary band. Love, in a generous heart set soon aglow, 100 Seized him for the fair form was mine above; And still it irks me to have lost it so.[268] Love, which absolves[269] no one beloved from love, So strong a passion for him in me wrought That, as thou seest, I still its mastery prove. Love led us where we in one death were caught. For him who slew us waits Caïna[270] now.' Unto our ears these words from them were brought. When I had heard these troubled souls, my brow I downward bent, and long while musing stayed, 110 Until the Poet asked: 'What thinkest thou?' And when I answered him, 'Alas!' I said, 'Sweet thoughts how many, and what strong desire, These to their sad catastrophe betrayed!' Then, turned once more to them, I to inquire Began: 'Francesca, these thine agonies Me with compassion unto tears inspire. But tell me, at the season of sweet sighs What sign made love, and what the means he chose To strip your dubious longings of disguise?' 120 And she to me: 'The bitterest of woes Is to remember in the midst of pain A happy past; as well thy teacher[271] knows. Yet none the less, and since thou art so fain The first occasion of our love to hear, Like one I speak that cannot tears restrain. As we for pastime one day reading were How Lancelot[272] by love was fettered fast-- All by ourselves and without any fear-- Moved by the tale our eyes we often cast 130 On one another, and our colour fled; But one word was it, vanquished us at last. When how the smile, long wearied for, we read Was kissed by him who loved like none before, This one, who henceforth never leaves me, laid A kiss on my mouth, trembling the while all o'er. The book was Galahad,[273] and he as well Who wrote the book. That day we read no more.' And while one shade continued thus to tell, The other wept so bitterly, I swooned 140 Away for pity, and as dead I fell: Yea, as a corpse falls, fell I on the ground. FOOTNOTES: [248] _The Second_: The Second Circle of the Inferno, and the first of punishment. The lower the circle, the more rigorous the penalty endured in it. Here is punished carnal sin. [249] _Minos_: Son of Jupiter and King of Crete, so severely just as to be made after death one of the judges of the under world. He is degraded by Dante, as many other noble persons of the old mythology are by him, into a demon. Unlike the fallen angels of Milton, Dante's devils have no interest of their own. Their only function is to help in working out human destinies. [250] _Downward hurled_: Each falls to his proper place without lingering by the way. All through Inferno there is an absence of direct Divine interposition. It is ruled, as it were, by a course of nature. The sinners, compelled by a fatal impulse, advance to hear their doom, just as they fall inevitably one by one into Charon's boat. Minos by a sort of devilish instinct sentences each sinner to his appropriate punishment. In _Inf._ xxvii. 127 we find the words in which Minos utters his judgment. In _Inf._ xxi. 29 a devil bears the sinner to his own place. [251] _Why also, etc._: Like Charon. If Minos represents conscience, as some would have it, Dante is here again assailed by misgivings as to his enterprise, and is quieted by reason in the person of Virgil. [252] _Thus 'tis willed, etc._: These two lines are the same as those to Charon, _Inf._ iii. 95, 96. [253] _Precipitous extreme_: Opinions vary as to what is meant by _ruina_. As Dante is certainly still on the outer edge of the Second Circle or terrace, and while standing there hears distinctly the words the spirits say when they reach the _ruina_, it most likely denotes the steep slope falling from the First to the Second Circle. The spirits, driven against the wall which hems them in, burst into sharp lamentations against their irremediable fate. [254] _I understood, etc._: From the nature of the punishment, which, like all the others invented by Dante, bears some relation to the sin to which it is assigned. They who on earth failed to exercise self-restraint are beaten hither and thither by every wind that blows; and, as once they were blinded by passion, so now they see nothing plainly in that dim and obscure place. That Dante should assign the least grievous punishment of all to this sin throws light upon his views of life. In his eyes it had more than any other the excuse of natural bent, and had least of malice. Here, it must be remarked, are no seducers. For them a lower depth is reserved (_Inf._ xviii. See also _Purg._ xxvii. 15). [255] _The cranes_: 'The cranes are a kind of bird that go in a troop, as cavaliers go to battle, following one another in single file. And one of them goes always in front as their gonfalonier, guiding and leading them with its voice' (Brunetto Latini, _Tesoro_, v. 27). [256] _What folk are these_: The general crowd of sinners guilty of unlawful love are described as being close packed like starlings. The other troop, who go in single file like cranes, are those regarding whom Dante specially inquires; and they prove to be the nobler sort of sinners--lovers with something tragic or pathetic in their fate. [257] _The next_: Dido, perhaps not named by Virgil because to him she owed her fame. For love of Æneas she broke the vow of perpetual chastity made on the tomb of her husband. [258] _At the last, etc._: Achilles, when about to espouse Polyxena, and when off his guard, was slain. [259] _Paris ... and Tristram_: Paris of Troy, and the Tristram of King Arthur's Table. [260] _So light_: Denoting the violence of the passion to which they had succumbed. [261] _If none_: If no Superior Power. [262] _Doves_: The motion of the tempest-driven shades is compared to the flight of birds--starlings, cranes, and doves. This last simile prepares us for the tenderness of Francesca's tale. [263] _Dido_: Has been already indicated, and is now named. This association of the two lovers with Virgil's Dido is a further delicate touch to engage our sympathy; for her love, though illicit, was the infirmity of a noble heart. [264] _Living creature_: 'Animal.' No shade, but an animated body. [265] _Thy peace_: Peace from all the doubts that assail him, and which have compelled him to the journey: peace, it may be, from temptation to sin cognate to her own. Even in the gloom of Inferno her great goodheartedness is left her--a consolation, if not a grace. [266] _Your demand_: By a refinement of courtesy, Francesca, though addressing only Dante, includes Virgil in her profession of willingness to tell all they care to hear. But as almost always, he remains silent. It is not for his good the journey is being made. [267] _Native city_: Ravenna. The speaker is Francesca, daughter of Guido of Polenta, lord of Ravenna. About the year 1275 she was married to Gianciotto (Deformed John) Malatesta, son of the lord of Rimini; the marriage, like most of that time in the class to which she belonged, being one of political convenience. She allowed her affections to settle on Paolo, her husband's handsome brother; and Gianciotto's suspicions having been aroused, he surprised the lovers and slew them on the spot. This happened at Pesaro. The association of Francesca's name with Rimini is merely accidental. The date of her death is not known. Dante can never have set eyes on Francesca; but at the battle of Campaldino in 1289, where he was present, a troop of cavaliers from Pistoia fought on the Florentine side under the command of her brother Bernardino; and in the following year, Dante being then twenty-five years of age, her father, Guido, was Podesta in Florence. The Guido of Polenta, lord of Ravenna, whom Dante had for his last and most generous patron, was grandson of that elder Guido, and nephew of Francesca. [268] _To have lost it so_: A husband's right and duty were too well defined in the prevalent social code for her to complain that Gianciotto avenged himself. What she does resent is that she was left no breathing-space for repentance and farewells. [269] _Which absolves, etc._: Which compels whoever is beloved to love in return. Here is the key to Dante's comparatively lenient estimate of the guilt of Francesca's sin. See line 39, and _Inf._ xi. 83. The Church allowed no distinctions with regard to the lost. Dante, for his own purposes, invents a scale of guilt; and in settling the degrees of it he is greatly influenced by human feeling--sometimes by private likes and dislikes. The vestibule of the caitiffs, _e.g._, is his own creation. [270] _Caïna_: The Division of the Ninth and lowest Circle, assigned to those treacherous to their kindred (_Inf._ xxxii. 58). Her husband was still living in 1300.--May not the words of this line be spoken by Paolo? It is as a fratricide even more than as the slayer of his wife that Gianciotto is to find his place in Caïna. The words are more in keeping with the masculine than the feminine character. They certainly jar somewhat with the gentler censure of line 102. And, immediately after, Dante speaks of what the 'souls' have said. [271] _Thy teacher_: Boethius, one of Dante's favourite authors (_Convito_ ii. 13), says in his _De Consol. Phil._, 'The greatest misery in adverse fortune is once to have been happy.' But, granting that Dante found the idea in Boethius, it is clearly Virgil that Francesca means. She sees that Dante's guide is a shade, and gathers from his grave passionless aspect that he is one condemned for ever to look back with futile regret upon his happier past. [272] _Lancelot_: King Arthur's famous knight, who was too bashful to make his love for Queen Guinivere known to her. Galahad, holding the secret of both, persuaded the Queen to make the first declaration of love at a meeting he arranged for between them. Her smile, or laugh, as she 'took Lancelot by the chin and kissed him,' assured her lover of his conquest. The Arthurian Romances were the favourite reading of the Italian nobles of Dante's time. [273] _Galahad_: From the part played by Galahad, or Galeotto, in the tale of Lancelot, his name grew to be Italian for Pander. The book, says Francesca, was that which tells of Galahad; and the author of it proved a very Galahad to us. The early editions of the _Decameron_ bear the second title of 'The Prince Galeotto.' CANTO VI. When I regained my senses, which had fled At my compassion for the kindred two, Which for pure sorrow quite had turned my head, New torments and a crowd of sufferers new I see around me as I move again,[274] Where'er I turn, where'er I bend my view. In the Third Circle am I of the rain Which, heavy, cold, eternal, big with woe, Doth always of one kind and force remain. Large hail and turbid water, mixed with snow, 10 Keep pouring down athwart the murky air; And from the ground they fall on, stenches grow. The savage Cerberus,[275] a monster drear, Howls from his threefold throat with canine cries Above the people who are whelmèd there. Oily and black his beard, and red his eyes, His belly huge: claws from his fingers sprout. The shades he flays, hooks, rends in cruel wise. Beat by the rain these, dog-like, yelp and shout, And shield themselves in turn with either side; 20 And oft[276] the wretched sinners turn about. When we by Cerberus, great worm,[277] were spied, He oped his mouths and all his fangs he showed, While not a limb did motionless abide. My Leader having spread his hands abroad, Filled both his fists with earth ta'en from the ground, And down the ravening gullets flung the load. Then, as sharp set with hunger barks the hound, But is appeased when at his meat he gnaws, And, worrying it, forgets all else around; 30 So with those filthy faces there it was Of the fiend Cerberus, who deafs the crowd Of souls till they from hearing fain would pause. We, travelling o'er the spirits who lay cowed And sorely by the grievous showers harassed, Upon their semblances[278] of bodies trod. Prone on the ground the whole of them were cast, Save one of them who sat upright with speed When he beheld that near to him we passed. 'O thou who art through this Inferno led,[279] 40 Me if thou canst,' he asked me, 'recognise; For ere I was dismantled thou wast made.' And I to him: 'Thy present tortured guise Perchance hath blurred my memory of thy face, Until it seems I ne'er on thee set eyes. But tell me who thou art, within this place So cruel set, exposed to such a pain, Than which, if greater, none has more disgrace.' And he: 'Thy city, swelling with the bane Of envy till the sack is running o'er, 50 Me in the life serene did once contain. As Ciacco[280] me your citizens named of yore; And for the damning sin of gluttony I, as thou seest, am beaten by this shower. No solitary woful soul am I, For all of these endure the selfsame doom For the same fault.' Here ended his reply. I answered him, 'O Ciacco, with such gloom Thy misery weighs me, I to weep am prone; But, if thou canst, declare to what shall come 60 The citizens[281] of the divided town. Holds it one just man? And declare the cause Why 'tis of discord such a victim grown.' Then he to me: 'After[282] contentious pause Blood will be spilt; the boorish party[283] then Will chase the others forth with grievous loss. The former it behoves to fall again Within three suns, the others to ascend, Holpen[284] by him whose wiles ere now are plain. Long time, with heads held high, they'll make to bend The other party under burdens dire, 71 Howe'er themselves in tears and rage they spend. There are two just[285] men, at whom none inquire. Envy, and pride, and avarice, even these Are the three sparks have set all hearts on fire.' With this the tearful sound he made to cease: And I to him, 'Yet would I have thee tell-- And of thy speech do thou the gift increase-- Tegghiaio[286] and Farinata, honourable, James Rusticucci,[287] Mosca, Arrigo, 80 With all the rest so studious to excel In good; where are they? Help me this to know; Great hunger for the news hath seizèd me; Delights them Heaven, or tortures Hell below?' He said: 'Among the blackest souls they be; Them to the bottom weighs another sin. Shouldst thou so far descend, thou mayst them see. But when[288] the sweet world thou again dost win, I pray thee bring me among men to mind; No more I tell, nor new reply begin.' 90 Then his straightforward eyes askance declined; He looked at me a moment ere his head He bowed; then fell flat 'mong the other blind. 'Henceforth he waketh not,' my Leader said, 'Till he shall hear the angel's trumpet sound, Ushering the hostile Judge. By every shade Its dismal sepulchre shall then be found, Its flesh and ancient form it shall resume, And list[289] what echoes in eternal round.' So passed we where the shades and rainy spume 100 Made filthy mixture, with steps taken slow; Touching a little on the world to come.[290] Wherefore I said: 'Master, shall torments grow After the awful sentence hath been heard, Or lesser prove and not so fiercely glow?' 'Repair unto thy Science,'[291] was his word; 'Which tells, as things approach a perfect state To keener joy or suffering they are stirred. Therefore although this people cursed by fate Ne'er find perfection in its full extent, 110 To it they then shall more approximate Than now.'[292] Our course we round the circle bent, Still holding speech, of which I nothing say, Until we came where down the pathway went: There found we Plutus, the great enemy. FOOTNOTES: [274] _As I move again_: In his swoon he has been conveyed from the Second Circle down to the Third. [275] _Cerberus_: In the Greek mythology Cerberus is the watch-dog of the under world. By Dante he is converted into a demon, and with his three throats, canine voracity, and ugly inflamed bulk, is appropriately set to guard the entrance to the circle of the gluttonous and wine-bibbers. [276] _And oft, etc._: On entering the circle the shades are seized and torn by Cerberus; once over-nice in how they fed, they are now treated as if they were food for dogs. But their enduring pain is to be subjected to every kind of physical discomfort. Their senses of hearing, touch, and smell are assailed by the opposite of what they were most used to enjoy at their luxurious feasts. [277] _Great worm_: Though human in a monstrous form, Cerberus is so called as being a disgusting brute. [278] _Semblances, etc._: 'Emptiness which seems to be a person.' To this conception of the shades as only seeming to have bodies, Dante has difficulty in remaining true. For instance, at line 101 they mix with the sleet to make a sludgy mass; and cannot therefore be impalpable. [279] Ciacco at once perceives by the weight of Dante's tread that he is a living man. [280] _Ciacco_: The name or nickname of a Florentine wit, and, in his day, a great diner-out. Boccaccio, in his commentary, says that, though poor, Ciacco associated with men of birth and wealth, especially such as ate and drank delicately. In the _Decameron_, ix. 8, he is introduced as being on such terms with the great Corso Donati as to be able to propose himself to dinner with him. Clearly he was not a bad fellow, and his pitiful case, perhaps contrasted with the high spirits and jovial surroundings in which he was last met by Dante, almost, though not quite, win a tear from the stern pilgrim. [281] _The citizens, etc._: Dante eagerly confers on Florentine politics with the first Florentine he encounters in Inferno. [282] _After, etc._: In the following nine lines the party history of Florence for two years after the period of the poem (March 1300) is roughly indicated. The city was divided into two factions--the Whites, led by the great merchant Vieri dei Cerchi, and the Blacks, led by Corso Donati, a poor and turbulent noble. At the close of 1300 there was a bloody encounter between the more violent members of the two parties. In May 1301 the Blacks were banished. In the autumn of that year they returned in triumph to the city in the train of Charles of Valois, and got the Whites banished in April 1302, within three years, that is, of the poet's talk with Ciacco. Dante himself was associated with the Whites, but not as a violent partisan; for though he was a strong politician no party quite answered his views. From the middle of June till the middle of August 1300 he was one of the Priors. In the course of 1301 he is believed to have gone on an embassy to Rome to persuade the Pope to abstain from meddling in Florentine affairs. He never entered Florence again, being condemned virtually to banishment in January 1302. [283] _The boorish party_: _la parte selvaggia_. The Whites; but what is exactly meant by _selvaggia_ is not clear. Literally it is 'woodland,' and some say it refers to the Cerchi having originally come from a well-wooded district; which is absurd. Nor, taking the word in its secondary meaning of savage, does it apply better to one party than another--not so well, perhaps, to the Whites as to the Blacks. Villani also terms the Cerchi _salvatichi_ (viii. 39), and in a connection where it may mean rude, ill-mannered. I take it that Dante here indulges in a gibe at the party to which he once belonged, but which, ere he began the _Comedy_, he had quite broken with. In _Parad._ xvii. 62 he terms the members of it 'wicked and stupid.' The sneer in the text would come well enough from the witty and soft-living Ciacco. [284] _Holpen, etc._: Pope Boniface, already intriguing to gain the preponderance in Florence, which for a time he enjoyed, with the greedy and faithless Charles of Valois for his agent. [285] _Two just_: Dante and another, unknown. He thus distinctly puts from himself any blame for the evil turn things had taken in Florence. How thoroughly he had broken with his party ere he wrote this is proved by his exclusion of the irresolute but respectable Vieri dei Cerchi from the number of the just men. He, in Dante's judgment, was only too much listened to.--It will be borne in mind that, at the time assigned to the action of the _Comedy_, Dante was still resident in Florence. [286] _Tegghiaio_: See _Inf._ xvi. 42. _Farinata_: _Inf._ x. 32. [287] _Rusticucci_: _Inf._ xvi. 44. _Mosca_: _Inf._ xxviii. 106. _Arrigo_: Cannot be identified. All these distinguished Florentines we may assume to have been hospitable patrons of Ciacco's. [288] _But when, etc._: In the Inferno many such prayers are addressed to Dante. The shades in Purgatory ask to have their friends on earth stirred to offer up petitions for their speedy purification and deliverance; but the only alleviation possible for the doomed spirits is to know that they are not yet forgotten up in the 'sweet world.' A double artistic purpose is served by representing them as feeling thus. It relieves the mind to think that in such misery there is any source of comfort at all. And by making them be still interested on their own account in the thoughts of men, the eager colloquies in which they engage with Dante on such unequal terms gain in verisimilitude. [289] _And list, etc._: The final sentence against them is to echo, in its results, through all eternity. [290] _The world to come_: The life after doomsday. [291] _Thy Science_: To Aristotle. In the _Convito_, iv. 16, he quotes 'the Philosopher' as teaching that 'everything is then at its full perfection when it thoroughly fulfils its special functions.' [292] _Than now_: Augustine says that 'after the resurrection of the flesh the joys of the blessed and the sufferings of the wicked will be enhanced.' And, according to Thomas Aquinas, 'the soul, without the body, is wanting in the perfection designed for it by Nature.' CANTO VII. Pape[293] Satan! Pape Satan! Aleppe! Plutus[294] began in accents rough and hard: And that mild Sage, all-knowing, said to me, For my encouragement: 'Pay no regard Unto thy fear; whatever power he sways Thy passage down this cliff shall not be barred.' Then turning round to that inflamèd face He bade: 'Accursed wolf,[295] at peace remain; And, pent within thee, let thy fury blaze. Down to the pit we journey not in vain: 10 So rule they where by Michael in Heaven's height On the adulterous pride[296] was vengeance ta'en.' Then as the bellied sails, by wind swelled tight, Suddenly drag whenever snaps the mast; Such, falling to the ground, the monster's plight. To the Fourth Cavern so we downward passed, Winning new reaches of the doleful shore Where all the vileness of the world is cast. Justice of God! which pilest more and more Pain as I saw, and travail manifold! 20 Why will we sin, to be thus wasted sore? As at Charybdis waves are forward rolled To break on other billows midway met, The people here a counterdance must hold. A greater crowd than I had seen as yet, With piercing yells advanced on either track, Rolling great stones to which their chests were set. They crashed together, and then each turned back Upon the way he came, while shouts arise, 'Why clutch it so?' and 'Why to hold it slack?' 30 In the dark circle wheeled they on this wise From either hand to the opposing part, Where evermore they raised insulting cries. Thither arrived, each, turning, made fresh start Through the half circle[297] a new joust to run; And I, stung almost to the very heart, Said, 'O my Master, wilt thou make it known Who the folk are? Were these all clerks[298] who go Before us on the left, with shaven crown?' And he replied: 'All of them squinted so 40 In mental vision while in life they were, They nothing spent by rule. And this they show, And with their yelping voices make appear When half-way round the circle they have sped, And sins opposing them asunder tear. Each wanting thatch of hair upon his head Was once a clerk, or pope, or cardinal, In whom abound the ripest growths of greed.' And I: 'O Master, surely among all Of these I ought[299] some few to recognise, 50 Who by such filthy sins were held in thrall.' And he to me: 'Vain thoughts within thee rise; Their witless life, which made them vile, now mocks-- Dimming[300] their faces still--all searching eyes. Eternally they meet with hostile shocks; These rising from the tomb at last shall stand With tight clenched fists, and those with ruined locks.[301] Squandering or hoarding, they the happy land[302] Have lost, and now are marshalled for this fray; Which to describe doth no fine words demand. 60 Know hence, my Son, how fleeting is the play Of goods at the dispose of Fortune thrown, And which mankind to such fierce strife betray. Not all the gold which is beneath the moon Could purchase peace, nor all that ever was, To but one soul of these by toil undone.' 'Master,' I said, 'tell thou, ere making pause, Who Fortune is of whom thou speak'st askance, Who holds all worldly riches in her claws.'[303] 'O foolish creatures, lost in ignorance!' 70 He answer made. 'Now see that the reply Thou store, which I concerning her advance. He who in knowledge is exalted high, Framing[304] all Heavens gave such as should them guide, That so each part might shine to all; whereby Is equal light diffused on every side: And likewise to one guide and governor, Of worldly splendours did control confide, That she in turns should different peoples dower 79 With this vain good; from blood should make it pass To blood, in spite of human wit. Hence, power, Some races failing,[305] other some amass, According to her absolute decree Which hidden lurks, like serpent in the grass. Vain 'gainst her foresight yours must ever be. She makes provision, judges, holds her reign, As doth his power supreme each deity. Her permutations can no truce sustain; Necessity[306] compels her to be swift, So swift they follow who their turn must gain. 90 And this is she whom they so often[307] lift Upon the cross, who ought to yield her praise; And blame on her and scorn unjustly shift. But she is blest nor hears what any says, With other primal creatures turns her sphere, Jocund and glad, rejoicing in her ways. To greater woe now let us downward steer. The stars[308] which rose when I began to guide Are falling now, nor may we linger here.' We crossed the circle to the other side, 100 Arriving where a boiling fountain fell Into a brooklet by its streams supplied. In depth of hue the flood did perse[309] excel, And we, with this dim stream to lead us on, Descended by a pathway terrible. A marsh which by the name of Styx is known, Fed by this gloomy brook, lies at the base Of threatening cliffs hewn out of cold grey stone. And I, intent on study of the place,[310] Saw people in that ditch, mud-smeared. In it 110 All naked stood with anger-clouded face. Nor with their fists alone each fiercely hit The other, but with feet and chest and head, And with their teeth to shreds each other bit. 'Son, now behold,' the worthy Master said, 'The souls of those whom anger made a prize; And, further, I would have thee certified That 'neath the water people utter sighs, And make the bubbles to the surface come; As thou mayst see by casting round thine eyes. 120 Fixed in the mud they say: "We lived in gloom[311] In the sweet air made jocund by the day, Nursing within us melancholy fume. In this black mud we now our gloom display." This hymn with gurgling throats they strive to sound, Which they in speech unbroken fail to say.' And thus about the loathsome pool we wound For a wide arc, between the dry and soft, With eyes on those who gulp the filth, turned round. At last we reached a tower that soared aloft. 130 FOOTNOTES: [293] _Pape, etc._: These words have exercised the ingenuity of many scholars, who on the whole lean to the opinion that they contain an appeal to Satan against the invasion of his domain. Virgil seems to have understood them, but the text leaves it doubtful whether Dante himself did. Later on, but there with an obvious purpose, we find a line of pure gibberish (_Inf._ xxxi. 67). [294] _Plutus_: The god of riches; degraded here into a demon. He guards the Fourth Circle, which is that of the misers and spendthrifts. [295] _Wolf_: Frequently used by Dante as symbolical of greed. [296] _Pride_: Which in its way was a kind of greed--that of dominion. Similarly, the avarice represented by the wolf of Canto i. was seen to be the lust of aggrandisement. Virgil here answers Plutus's (supposed) appeal to Satan by referring to the higher Power, under whose protection he and his companion come. [297] _The half circle_: This Fourth Circle is divided half-way round between the misers and spendthrifts, and the two bands at set periods clash against one another in their vain effort to pass into the section belonging to the opposite party. Their condition is emblematical of their sins while in life. They were one-sided in their use of wealth; so here they can never complete the circle. The monotony of their employment and of their cries represents their subjection to one idea, and, as in life, so now, their displeasure is excited by nothing so much as by coming into contact with the failing opposite to their own. Yet they are set in the same circle because the sin of both arose from inordinate desire of wealth, the miser craving it to hoard, and the spendthrift to spend. In Purgatory also they are placed together (see _Purg._ xxii. 40). So, on Dante's scheme, liberality is allied to and dependent on a wise and reasonable frugality.--There is no hint of the enormous length of the course run by these shades. Far lower down, when the circles of the Inferno have greatly narrowed, the circuit is twenty-two miles (_Inf._ xxix. 9). [298] _Clerks_: Churchmen. The tonsure is the sign that a man is of ecclesiastical condition. Many took the tonsure who never became priests. [299] _I ought, etc._: Dante is astonished that he can pick out no greedy priest or friar of his acquaintance, when he had known so many. [300] _Dimming, etc._: Their original disposition is by this time smothered by the predominance of greed. Dante treats these sinners with a special contemptuous bitterness. Scores of times since he became dependent on the generosity of others he must have watched how at a bare hint the faces of miser and spendthrift fell, while their eyes travelled vaguely beyond him, and their voices grew cold. [301] _Ruined locks_: 'A spendthrift will spend his very hair,' says an Italian proverb. [302] _The happy land_: Heaven. [303] _Her claws_: Dante speaks of Fortune as if she were a brutal and somewhat malicious power. In Virgil's answer there is a refutation of the opinion of Fortune given by Dante himself, in the _Convito_ (iv. 11). After describing three ways in which the goods of Fortune come to men he says: 'In each of these three ways her injustice is manifest.' This part of the _Convito_ Fraticelli seems almost to prove was written in 1297. [304] _Framing, etc._: According to the scholastic theory of the world, each of the nine heavens was directed in its motion by intelligences, called angels by the vulgar, and by the heathen, gods (_Convito_ ii. 5). As these spheres and the influences they exercise on human affairs are under the guidance of divinely-appointed ministers, so, Virgil says, is the distribution of worldly wealth ruled by Providence through Fortune. [305] _Some races failing_: It was long believed, nor is the belief quite obsolete, that one community can gain only at the expense of another. Sir Thomas Browne says: 'All cannot be happy at once; for because the glory of one state depends upon the ruin of another, there is a revolution and vicissitude of their greatness, and all must obey the swing of that wheel, not moved by intelligences, but by the hand of God, whereby all states arise to their zeniths and vertical points according to their predestinated periods.'--_Rel. Med._ i. 17. [306] _Necessity, etc._: Suggested, perhaps, by Horace's _Te semper anteit sæva necessitas_ (_Od._ i. 35). The question of how men can be free in the face of necessity, here associated with Fortune, more than once emerges in the _Comedy_. Dante's belief on the subject was substantially that of his favourite author Boethius, who holds that ultimately 'it is Providence that turns the wheel of all things;' and who says, that 'if you spread your sails to the wind you will be carried, not where you would, but whither you are driven by the gale: if you choose to commit yourself to Fortune, you must endure the manners of your mistress.' [307] _Whom they so often, etc._: Treat with contumely. [308] _The stars, etc._: It is now past midnight, and towards the morning of Saturday, the 26th of March 1300. Only a few hours have been employed as yet upon the journey. [309] _Perse_: 'Perse is a colour between purple and black, but the black predominates' (_Conv._ iv. 20). The hue of the waters of Styx agrees with the gloomy temper of the sinners plunged in them. [310] _The place_: They are now in the Fifth Circle, where the wrathful are punished. [311] _In gloom_: These submerged spirits are, according to the older commentators, the slothful--those guilty of the sin of slackness in the pursuit of good, as, _e.g._ neglect of the means of grace. This is, theologically speaking, the sin directly opposed to the active grace of charity. By more modern critics it has been ingeniously sought to find in this circle a place not only for the slothful but for the proud and envious as well. To each of these classes of sinners--such of them as have repented in this life--a terrace of Purgatory is assigned, and at first sight it does seem natural to expect that the impenitent among them should be found in Inferno. But, while in Purgatory souls purge themselves of every kind of mortal sin, Inferno, as Dante conceived of it, contains only such sinners as have been guilty of wicked acts. Drift and bent of heart and mind are taken no account of. The evil seed must have borne a harvest, and the guilt of every victim of Justice must be plain and open. Now, pride and envy are sins indeed, but sins that a man may keep to himself. If they have betrayed the subject of them into the commission of crimes, in those crimes they are punished lower down, as is indicated at xii. 49. And so we find that Lucifer is condemned as a traitor, though his treachery sprang from envy: the greater guilt includes the less. For sluggishness in the pursuit of good the vestibule of the caitiffs seems the appropriate place.--There are two kinds of wrath. One is vehement, and declares itself in violent acts; the other does not blaze out, but is grudging and adverse to all social good--the wrath that is nursed. One as much as the other affects behaviour. So in this circle, as in the preceding, we have represented the two excesses of one sin.--Dante's theory of sins is ably treated of in Witte's _Dante-Forschungen_, vol. ii. p. 121. CANTO VIII. I say, continuing,[312] that long before To its foundations we approachèd nigh Our eyes went travelling to the top of the tower; For, hung out there, two flames[313] we could espy. Then at such distance, scarce our eyesight made It clearly out, another gave reply. And, to the Sea of Knowledge turned, I said: 'What meaneth this? and what reply would yield That other light, and who have it displayed?' 'Thou shouldst upon the impure watery field,' 10 He said, 'already what approaches know, But that the fen-fog holds it still concealed.' Never was arrow yet from sharp-drawn bow Urged through the air upon a swifter flight Than what I saw a tiny vessel show, Across the water shooting into sight; A single pilot served it for a crew, Who shouted: 'Art thou come, thou guilty sprite?'[314] 'O Phlegyas, Phlegyas,[315] this thy loud halloo! For once,' my Lord said, 'idle is and vain. 20 Thou hast us only till the mud we're through.' And, as one cheated inly smarts with pain When the deceit wrought on him is betrayed, His gathering ire could Phlegyas scarce contain. Into the bark my Leader stepped, and made Me take my place beside him; nor a jot, Till I had entered, was it downward weighed. Soon as my Guide and I were in the boat, To cleave the flood began the ancient prow, Deeper[316] than 'tis with others wont to float. 30 Then, as the stagnant ditch we glided through, One smeared with filth in front of me arose And said: 'Thus coming ere thy period,[317] who Art thou?' And I: 'As one who forthwith goes I come; but thou defiled, how name they thee?' 'I am but one who weeps,'[318] he said. 'With woes,' I answered him, 'with tears and misery, Accursèd soul, remain; for thou art known Unto me now, all filthy though thou be.' Then both his hands were on the vessel thrown; 40 But him my wary Master backward heaved, Saying: 'Do thou 'mong the other dogs be gone!' Then to my neck with both his arms he cleaved, And kissed my face, and, 'Soul disdainful,'[319] said, 'O blessed she in whom thou wast conceived! He in the world great haughtiness displayed. No deeds of worth his memory adorn; And therefore rages here his sinful shade. And many are there by whom crowns are worn On earth, shall wallow here like swine in mire, 50 Leaving behind them names o'erwhelmed[320] in scorn.' And I: 'O Master, I have great desire To see him well soused in this filthy tide, Ere from the lake we finally retire.' And he: 'Or ever shall have been descried The shore by thee, thy longing shall be met; For such a wish were justly gratified.' A little after in such fierce onset The miry people down upon him bore, I praise and bless God for it even yet. 60 'Philip Argenti![321] at him!' was the roar; And then that furious spirit Florentine Turned with his teeth upon himself and tore. Here was he left, nor wins more words of mine. Now in my ears a lamentation rung, Whence I to search what lies ahead begin. And the good Master told me: 'Son, ere long We to the city called of Dis[322] draw near, Where in great armies cruel burghers[323] throng.' And I: 'Already, Master, I appear 70 Mosques[324] in the valley to distinguish well, Vermilion, as if they from furnace were Fresh come.' And he: 'Fires everlasting dwell Within them, whence appear they glowing hot, As thou discernest in this lower hell.' We to the moat profound at length were brought, Which girds that city all disconsolate; The walls around it seemed of iron wrought. Not without fetching first a compass great, We came to where with angry cry at last: 80 'Get out,' the boatman yelled; 'behold the gate!'[325] More than a thousand, who from Heaven[326] were cast, I saw above the gates, who furiously Demanded: 'Who, ere death on him has passed, Holds through the region of the dead his way?' And my wise Master made to them a sign That he had something secretly to say. Then ceased they somewhat from their great disdain, And said: 'Come thou, but let that one be gone Who thus presumptuous enters on this reign. 90 Let him retrace his madcap way alone, If he but can; thou meanwhile lingering here, Through such dark regions who hast led him down.' Judge, reader, if I was not filled with fear, Hearing the words of this accursèd threat; For of return my hopes extinguished were. 'Beloved Guide, who more than seven times[327] set Me in security, and safely brought Through frightful dangers in my progress met, Leave me not thus undone;' I him besought: 100 'If further progress be to us denied, Let us retreat together, tarrying not.' The Lord who led me thither then replied: 'Fear not: by One so great has been assigned Our passage, vainly were all hindrance tried. Await me here, and let thy fainting mind Be comforted and with good hope be fed, Not to be left in this low world behind.' Thus goes he, thus am I abandonèd By my sweet Father. I in doubt remain, 110 With Yes and No[328] contending in my head. I could not hear what speech he did maintain, But no long time conferred he in that place, Till, to be first, all inward raced again. And then the gates were closed in my Lord's face By these our enemies; outside stood he; Then backward turned to me with lingering pace, With downcast eyes, and all the bravery Stripped from his brows; and he exclaimed with sighs; 'Who dare[329] deny the doleful seats to me!' 120 And then he said: 'Although my wrath arise, Fear not, for I to victory will pursue, Howe'er within they plot, the enterprise. This arrogance of theirs is nothing new; They showed it[330] once at a less secret door Which stands unbolted since. Thou didst it view, And saw the dark-writ legend which it bore. Thence, even now, is one who hastens down Through all the circles, guideless, to this shore, And he shall win us entrance to the town.' 130 FOOTNOTES: [312] _Continuing_: The account of the Fifth Circle, begun in the preceding Canto, is continued in this. It is impossible to adopt Boccaccio's story of how the first seven Cantos were found among a heap of other papers, years after Dante's exile began; and that 'continuing' marks the resumption of his work. The word most probably suggested the invention of the incident, or at least led to the identification of some manuscript that may have been sent to Dante, with the opening pages of the _Comedy_. If the tale were true, not only must Ciacco's prophecy (_Inf._ vi.) have been interpolated, but we should be obliged to hold that Dante began the poem while he was a prosperous citizen.--Boccaccio himself in his Comment on the _Comedy_ points out the difficulty of reconciling the story with Ciacco's prophecy. [313] _Two flames_: Denoting the number of passengers who are to be conveyed across the Stygian pool. It is a signal for the ferryman, and is answered by a light hung out on the battlements of the city of Dis. [314] _Guilty sprite_: Only one is addressed; whether Virgil or Dante is not clear. [315] _Phlegyas_: Who burnt the temple of Apollo at Delphi in revenge for the violation of his daughter by the god. [316] _Deeper, etc._: Because used to carry only shades. [317] _Ere thy period_: The curiosity of the shade is excited by the sinking of the boat in the water. He assumes that Dante will one day be condemned to Inferno. Neither Francesca nor Ciacco made a like mistake. [318] _One who weeps_: He is ashamed to tell his name, and hopes in his vile disguise to remain unknown by Dante, whose Florentine speech and dress, and perhaps whose features, he has now recognised. [319] _Soul disdainful_: Dante has been found guilty of here glorying in the same sin which he so severely reprobates in others. But, without question, of set purpose he here contrasts righteous indignation with the ignoble rage punished in this circle. With his quick temper and zeal so often kindling into flame, he may have felt a special personal need of emphasising the distinction. [320] _Names o'erwhelmed, etc._: 'Horrible reproaches.' [321] _Philip Argenti_: A Florentine gentleman related to the great family of the Adimari, and a contemporary of Dante's. Boccaccio in his commentary describes him as a cavalier, very rich, and so ostentatious that he once shod his horse with silver, whence his surname. In the _Decameron_ (ix. 8) he is introduced as violently assaulting--tearing out his hair and dragging him in the mire--the victim of a practical joke played by the Ciacco of Canto vi. Some, without reason, suppose that Dante shows such severity to him because he was a Black, and so a political opponent of his own. [322] _Dis_: A name of Pluto, the god of the infernal regions. [323] _Burghers_: The city of Dis composes the Sixth Circle, and, as immediately appears, is populated by demons. The sinners punished in it are not mentioned at all in this Canto, and it seems more reasonable to apply _burghers_ to the demons than to the shades. They are called _gravi_, generally taken to mean sore burdened, and the description is then applicable to the shades; but _grave_ also bears the sense of cruel, and may describe the fierceness of the devils. Though the city is inhabited by the subjects of Dis, he is found as Lucifer at the very bottom of the pit. By some critics the whole of the lower Inferno, all that lies beyond this point, is regarded as being the city of Dis. But it is the Sixth Circle, with its minarets, that is the city; its walls, however, serving as bulwarks for all the lower Inferno. The shape of the city is, of course, that of a circular belt. Here it may be noted that the Fifth and Sixth Circles are on the same level; the water of Styx, which as a marsh covers the Fifth, is gathered into a moat to surround the walls of the Sixth. [324] _Mosques_: The feature of an Infidel city that first struck crusader and pilgrim. [325] _The gate_: They have floated across the stagnant marsh into the deeper waters of the moat, and up to the gate where Phlegyas is used to land his passengers. It may be a question whether his services are required for all who are doomed to the lower Inferno, or only for those bound to the city. [326] _From Heaven_: 'Rained from Heaven.' Fallen angels. [327] _Seven times_: Given as a round number. [328] _Yes and No_: He will return--He will not return. The demons have said that Virgil shall remain, and he has promised Dante not to desert him. [329] _Who dare, etc._: Virgil knows the hindrance is only temporary, but wonders what superior devilish power can have incited the demons to deny him entrance. The incident displays the fallen angels as being still rebellious, and is at the same time skilfully conceived to mark a pause before Dante enters on the lower Inferno. [330] _They showed it, etc._: At the gate of Inferno, on the occasion of Christ's descent to Limbo. The reference is to the words in the Missal service for Easter Eve: 'This is the night in which, having burst the bonds of death, Christ victoriously ascended from Hell.' CANTO IX. The hue which cowardice on my face did paint When I beheld my guide return again, Put his new colour[331] quicker 'neath restraint. Like one who listens did he fixed remain; For far to penetrate the air like night, And heavy mist, the eye was bent in vain. 'Yet surely we must vanquish in the fight;' Thus he, 'unless[332]--but with such proffered aid-- O how I weary till he come in sight!' Well I remarked how he transition made, 10 Covering his opening words with those behind, Which contradicted what at first he said. Nath'less his speech with terror charged my mind, For, haply, to the word which broken fell Worse meaning than he purposed, I assigned. Down to this bottom[333] of the dismal shell Comes ever any from the First Degree,[334] Where all their pain is, stripped of hope to dwell? To this my question thus responded he: 'Seldom it haps to any to pursue 20 The journey now embarked upon by me. Yet I ere this descended, it is true, Beneath a spell of dire Erichtho's[335] laid, Who could the corpse with soul inform anew. Short while my flesh of me was empty made When she required me to o'erpass that wall, From Judas' circle[336] to abstract a shade. That is the deepest, darkest place of all, And furthest from the heaven[337] which moves the skies; I know the way; fear nought that can befall. 30 These fens[338] from which vile exhalations rise The doleful city all around invest, Which now we reach not save in angry wise.' Of more he spake nought in my mind doth rest, For, with mine eyes, my every thought had been Fixed on the lofty tower with flaming crest, Where, in a moment and upright, were seen Three hellish furies, all with blood defaced, And woman-like in members and in mien. Hydras of brilliant green begirt their waist; 40 Snakes and cerastes for their tresses grew, And these were round their dreadful temples braced. That they the drudges were, full well he knew, Of her who is the queen of endless woes, And said to me: 'The fierce Erynnyes[339] view! Herself upon the left Megæra shows; That is Alecto weeping on the right; Tisiphone's between.' Here made he close. Each with her nails her breast tore, and did smite Herself with open palms. They screamed in tone 50 So fierce, I to the Poet clove for fright. 'Medusa,[340] come, that we may make him stone!' All shouted as they downward gazed; 'Alack! Theseus[341] escaped us when he ventured down.' 'Keep thine eyes closed and turn to them thy back, For if the Gorgon chance to be displayed And thou shouldst look, farewell the upward track!' Thus spake the Master, and himself he swayed Me round about; nor put he trust in mine But his own hands upon mine eyelids laid. 60 O ye with judgment gifted to divine Look closely now, and mark what hidden lore Lies 'neath the veil of my mysterious line![342] Across the turbid waters came a roar And crash of sound, which big with fear arose: Because of it fell trembling either shore. The fashion of it was as when there blows A blast by cross heats made to rage amain, Which smites the forest and without repose The shattered branches sweeps in hurricane; 70 In clouds of dust, majestic, onward flies, Wild beasts and herdsmen driving o'er the plain. 'Sharpen thy gaze,' he bade--and freed mine eyes-- 'Across the foam-flecked immemorial lake, Where sourest vapour most unbroken lies.' And as the frogs before the hostile snake Together of the water get them clear, And on the dry ground, huddling, shelter take; More than a thousand ruined souls in fear Beheld I flee from one who, dry of feet, 80 Was by the Stygian ferry drawing near. Waving his left hand he the vapour beat Swiftly from 'fore his face, nor seemed he spent Save with fatigue at having this to meet. Well I opined that he from Heaven[343] was sent, And to my Master turned. His gesture taught I should be dumb and in obeisance bent. Ah me, how with disdain appeared he fraught! He reached the gate, which, touching with a rod,[344] He oped with ease, for it resisted not. 90 'People despised and banished far from God,' Upon the awful threshold then he spoke, 'How holds in you such insolence abode? Why kick against that will which never broke Short of its end, if ever it begin, And often for you fiercer torments woke? Butting 'gainst fate, what can ye hope to win? Your Cerberus,[345] as is to you well known, Still bears for this a well-peeled throat and chin.' Then by the passage foul he back was gone, 100 Nor spake to us, but like a man was he By other cares[346] absorbed and driven on Than that of those who may around him be. And we, confiding in the sacred word, Moved toward the town in all security. We entered without hindrance, and I, spurred By my desire the character to know And style of place such strong defences gird, Entering, begin mine eyes around to throw, And see on every hand a vast champaign, 110 The teeming seat of torments and of woe. And as at Arles[347] where Rhone spreads o'er the plain, Or Pola,[348] hard upon Quarnaro sound Which bathes the boundaries Italian, The sepulchres uneven make the ground; So here on every side, but far more dire And grievous was the fashion of them found. For scattered 'mid the tombs blazed many a fire, Because of which these with such fervour burned No arts which work in iron more require. 120 All of the lids were lifted. I discerned By keen laments which from the tombs arose That sad and suffering ones were there inurned. I said: 'O Master, tell me who are those Buried within the tombs, of whom the sighs Come to our ears thus eloquent of woes?' And he to me: 'The lords of heresies[349] With followers of all sects, a greater band Than thou wouldst think, these sepulchres comprise. To lodge them like to like the tombs are planned. 130 The sepulchres have more or less of heat.'[350] Then passed we, turning to the dexter hand,[351] 'Tween torments and the lofty parapet. FOOTNOTES: [331] _New colour_: Both have changed colour, Virgil in anger and Dante in fear. [332] _Unless_: To conceal his misgiving from Dante, Virgil refrains from expressing all his thought. The 'unless' may refer to what the lying demons had told him or threatened him with; the 'proffered aid,' to that involved in Beatrice's request. [333] _This bottom_: The lower depths of Inferno. How much still lies below him is unknown to Dante. [334] _First Degree_: The limbo where Virgil resides. Dante by an indirect question, seeks to learn how much experience of Inferno is possessed by his guide. [335] _Erichtho_: A Thessalian sorceress, of whom Lucan (_Pharsalia_ vi.) tells that she evoked a shade to predict to Sextus Pompey the result of the war between his father and Cæsar. This happened thirty years before the death of Virgil. [336] _Judas' circle_: The Judecca, or very lowest point of the Inferno. Virgil's death preceded that of Judas by fifty years. He gives no hint of whose the shade was that he went down to fetch; but Lucan's tale was probably in Dante's mind. In the Middle Ages the memory of Virgil was revered as that of a great sorcerer, especially in the neighbourhood of Naples. [337] _The heaven, etc._: The _Primum Mobile_; but used here for the highest heaven. See _Inf._ ii. 83, _note_. [338] _These fens, etc._: Virgil knows the locality. They have no choice, but must remain where they are, for the same moat and wall gird the city all around. [339] _Erynnyes_: The Furies. The Queen of whom they are handmaids is Proserpine, carried off by Dis, or Pluto, to the under world. [340] _Medusa_: One of the Gorgons. Whoever looked on the head of Medusa was turned into stone. [341] _Theseus_: Who descended into the infernal regions to rescue Proserpine, and escaped by the help of Hercules. [342] _Mysterious line_: 'Strange verses:' That the verses are called strange, as Boccaccio and others of the older commentators say, because treating of such a subject in the vulgar tongue for the first time, and in rhyme, is difficult to believe. Rather they are strange because of the meaning they convey. What that is, Dante warns the reader of superior intellect to pause and consider. It has been noted (_Inf._ ii. 28) how he uses the characters of the old mythology as if believing in their real existence. But this is for his poetical ends. Here he bids us look below the surface and seek for the truth hidden under the strange disguise.--The opposition to their progress offered by the powers of Hell perplexes even Virgil, while Dante is reduced to a state of absolute terror, and is afflicted with still sharper misgivings than he had at the first as to the issue of his adventure. By an indirect question he seeks to learn how much Virgil really knows of the economy of the lower world; but he cannot so much as listen to all of his Master's reassuring answer, terrified as he is by the sudden appearance of the Furies upon the tower, which rises out of the city of unbelief. These symbolise the trouble of his conscience, and, assailing him with threats, shake his already trembling faith in the Divine government. How, in the face of such foes, is he to find the peace and liberty of soul of which he is in search? That this is the city of unbelief he has not yet been told, and without knowing it he is standing under the very walls of Doubting Castle. And now, if he chance to let his eyes rest on the Gorgon's head, his soul will be petrified by despair; like the denizens of Hell, he will lose the 'good of the intellect,' and will pass into a state from which Virgil--or reason--will be powerless to deliver him. But Virgil takes him in time, and makes him avert his eyes; which may signify that the only safe course for men is to turn their backs on the deep and insoluble problem of how the reality of the Divine government can be reconciled with the apparent triumph of evil. [343] _From Heaven_: The messenger comes from Heaven, and his words are holy. Against the obvious interpretation, that he is a good angel, there lies the objection that no other such is met with in Inferno, and also that it is spoken of as a new sight for him when Dante first meets with one in Purgatory. But the obstruction now to be overcome is worthy of angelic interference; and Dante can hardly be said to meet the messenger, who does not even glance in his direction. The commentators have made this angel mean all kind of outlandish things. [344] _A rod_: A piece of the angelic outfit, derived from the _caduceus_ of Mercury. [345] _Cerberus_: Hercules, when Cerberus opposed his entrance to the infernal regions, fastened a chain round his neck and dragged him to the gate. The angel's speech answers Dante's doubts as to the limits of diabolical power. [346] _By other cares, etc._: It is not in Inferno that Dante is to hold converse with celestial intelligences. The angel, like Beatrice when she sought Virgil in Limbo, is all on fire to return to his own place. [347] _Arles_: The Alyscampo (Elysian Fields) at Arles was an enormous cemetery, of which ruins still exist. It had a circumference of about six miles, and contained numerous sarcophagi dating from Roman times. [348] _Pola_: In Istria, near the Gulf of Quarnaro, said to have contained many ancient tombs. [349] _Lords of heresies_: 'Heresiarchs.' Dante now learns for the first time that Dis is the city of unbelief. Each class of heretics has its own great sepulchre. [350] _More or less of heat_: According to the heinousness of the heresy punished in each. It was natural to associate heretics and punishment by fire in days when Dominican monks ruled the roast. [351] _Dexter hand_: As they move across the circles, and down from one to the other, their course is usually to the left hand. Here for some reason Virgil turns to the right, so as to have the tombs on the left as he advances. It may be that a special proof of his knowledge of the locality is introduced when most needed--after the repulse by the demons--to strengthen Dante's confidence in him as a guide; or, as some subtly think, they being now about to enter the abode of heresy, the movement to the right signifies the importance of the first step in forming opinion. The only other occasion on which their course is taken to the right hand is at _Inf._ xvii. 31. CANTO X. And now advance we by a narrow track Between the torments and the ramparts high, My Master first, and I behind his back. 'O mighty Virtue,[352] at whose will am I Wheeled through these impious circles,' then I said, 'Speak, and in full my longing satisfy. The people who within the tombs are laid, May they be seen? The coverings are all thrown Open, nor is there[353] any guard displayed.' And he to me: 'All shall be fastened down 10 When hither from Jehoshaphat[354] they come Again in bodies which were once their own. All here with Epicurus[355] find their tomb Who are his followers, and by whom 'tis held That the soul shares the body's mortal doom. Things here discovered then shall answer yield, And quickly, to thy question asked of me; As well as[356] to the wish thou hast concealed.' And I: 'Good Leader, if I hide from thee My heart, it is that I may little say; 20 Nor only now[357] learned I thus dumb to be.' 'O Tuscan, who, still living, mak'st thy way, Modest of speech, through the abode of flame, Be pleased[358] a little in this place to stay. The accents of thy language thee proclaim To be a native of that state renowned Which I, perchance, wronged somewhat.' Sudden came These words from out a tomb which there was found 'Mongst others; whereon I, compelled by fright, A little toward my Leader shifted ground. 30 And he: 'Turn round, what ails thee? Lo! upright Beginneth Farinata[359] to arise; All of him 'bove the girdle comes in sight.' On him already had I fixed mine eyes. Towering erect with lifted front and chest, He seemed Inferno greatly to despise. And toward him I among the tombs was pressed By my Guide's nimble and courageous hand, While he, 'Choose well thy language,' gave behest. Beneath his tomb when I had ta'en my stand 40 Regarding me a moment, 'Of what house Art thou?' as if in scorn, he made demand. To show myself obedient, anxious, I nothing hid, but told my ancestors; And, listening, he gently raised his brows.[360] 'Fiercely to me they proved themselves adverse, And to my sires and party,' then he said; 'Because of which I did them twice disperse.'[361] I answered him: 'And what although they fled! Twice from all quarters they returned with might, 50 An art not mastered yet by these you[362] led.' Beside him then there issued into sight Another shade, uncovered to the chin, Propped on his knees, if I surmised aright. He peered around as if he fain would win Knowledge if any other was with me; And then, his hope all spent, did thus begin, Weeping: 'By dint of genius if it be Thou visit'st this dark prison, where my son? And wherefore not found in thy company?' 60 And I to him: 'I come not here alone: He waiting yonder guides me: but disdain Of him perchance was by your Guido[363] shown.' The words he used, and manner of his pain, Revealed his name to me beyond surmise; Hence was I able thus to answer plain. Then cried he, and at once upright did rise, 'How saidst thou--was? Breathes he not then the air? The pleasant light no longer smites his eyes?' When he of hesitation was aware 70 Displayed by me in forming my reply, He fell supine, no more to reappear. But the magnanimous, at whose bidding I Had halted there, the same expression wore, Nor budged a jot, nor turned his neck awry. 'And if'--resumed he where he paused before-- 'They be indeed but slow that art to learn, Than this my bed, to hear it pains me more. But ere the fiftieth time anew shall burn The lady's[364] face who reigneth here below, 80 Of that sore art thou shalt experience earn. And as to the sweet world again thou'dst go, Tell me, why is that people so without Ruth for my race,[365] as all their statutes show?' And I to him: 'The slaughter and the rout Which made the Arbia[366] to run with red, Cause in our fane[367] such prayers to be poured out.' Whereon he heaved a sigh and shook his head: 'There I was not alone, nor to embrace That cause was I, without good reason, led. 90 But there I was alone, when from her place All granted Florence should be swept away. 'Twas I[368] defended her with open face.' 'So may your seed find peace some better day,' I urged him, 'as this knot you shall untie In which my judgment doth entangled stay. If I hear rightly, ye, it seems, descry Beforehand what time brings, and yet ye seem 'Neath other laws[369] as touching what is nigh.' 'Like those who see best what is far from them, 100 We see things,' said he, 'which afar remain; Thus much enlightened by the Guide Supreme. To know them present or approaching, vain Are all our powers; and save what they relate Who hither come, of earth no news we gain. Hence mayst thou gather in how dead a state Shall all our knowledge from that time be thrown When of the future shall be closed the gate.' Then, for my fault as if repentant grown, I said: 'Report to him who fell supine, 110 That still among the living breathes his son. And if I, dumb, seemed answer to decline, Tell him it was that I upon the knot Was pondering then, you helped me to untwine.' Me now my Master called, whence I besought With more than former sharpness of the shade, To tell me what companions he had got. He answered me: 'Some thousand here are laid With me; 'mong these the Second Frederick,[370] The Cardinal[371] too; of others nought be said.' 120 Then was he hid; and towards the Bard antique I turned my steps, revolving in my brain The ominous words[372] which I had heard him speak. He moved, and as we onward went again Demanded of me: 'Wherefore thus amazed?' And to his question I made answer plain. 'Within thy mind let there be surely placed,' The Sage bade, 'what 'gainst thee thou heardest say. Now mark me well' (his finger here he raised), 'When thou shalt stand within her gentle ray 130 Whose beauteous eye sees all, she will make known The stages[373] of thy journey on life's way.' Turning his feet, he to the left moved on; Leaving the wall, we to the middle[374] went Upon a path that to a vale strikes down, Which even to us above its foulness sent. FOOTNOTES: [352] _Virtue_: Virgil is here addressed by a new title, which, with the words of deep respect that follow, marks the full restoration of Dante's confidence in him as his guide. [353] _Nor is there, etc._: The gate was found to be strictly guarded, but not so are the tombs. [354] _Jehoshaphat_: 'I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Jehoshaphat' (Joel iii. 2). [355] _Epicurus_: The unbelief in a future life, or rather the indifference to everything but the calls of ambition and worldly pleasure, common among the nobles of Dante's age and that preceding it, went by the name of Epicureanism. It is the most radical of heresies, because adverse to the first principles of all religions. Dante, in his treatment of heresy, dwells more on what affects conduct as does the denial of the Divine government--than on intellectual divergence from orthodox belief. [356] _As well as, etc._: The question is: 'May they be seen?' The wish is a desire to speak with them. [357] _Nor only now, etc._: Virgil has on previous occasions imposed silence on Dante, as, for instance, at _Inf._ iii. 51. [358] _Be pleased, etc._: From one of the sepulchres, to be imagined as a huge sarcophagus, come words similar to the _Siste Viator!_ common on Roman tombs. [359] _Farinata_: Of the great Florentine family of the Uberti, and, in the generation before Dante, leader of the Ghibeline or Imperialist party in Florence. His memory long survived among his fellow-townsmen as that of the typical noble, rough-mannered, unscrupulous, and arrogant; but yet, for one good action that he did, he at the same time ranked in the popular estimation as a patriot and a hero. Boccaccio, misled perhaps by the mention of Epicurus, says that he loved rich and delicate fare. It is because all his thoughts were worldly that he is condemned to the city of unbelief. Dante has already (_Inf._ vi. 79) inquired regarding his fate. He died in 1264. [360] _His brows_: When Dante tells he is of the Alighieri, a Guelf family, Farinata shows some slight displeasure. Or, as a modern Florentine critic interprets the gesture, he has to think a moment before he can remember on which side the Alighieri ranged themselves--they being of the small gentry, while he was a great noble, But this gloss requires Dante to have been more free from pride of family than he really was. [361] _Twice disperse_: The Alighieri shared in the exile of the Guelfs in 1248 and 1260. [362] _You_: See also line 95. Dante never uses the plural form to a single person except when desirous of showing social as distinguished from, or over and above, moral respect. [363] _Guido_: Farinata's companion in the tomb is Cavalcante Cavalcanti, who, although a Guelf, was tainted with the more specially Ghibeline error of Epicureanism. When in order to allay party rancour some of the Guelf and Ghibeline families were forced to intermarry, his son Guido took a daughter of Farinata's to wife. This was in 1267, so that Guido was much older than Dante. Yet they were very intimate, and, intellectually, had much in common. With him Dante exchanged poems of occasion, and he terms him more than once in the _Vita Nuova_ his chief friend. The disdain of Virgil need not mean more than is on the surface. Guido died in 1301. He is the hero of the _Decameron_, vi. 9. [364] _The Lady_: Proserpine; _i.e._ the moon. Ere fifty months from March 1300 were past, Dante was to see the failure of more than one attempt made by the exiles, of whom he was one, to gain entrance to Florence. The great attempt was in the beginning of 1304. [365] _Ruth for my race_: When the Ghibeline power was finally broken in Florence the Uberti were always specially excluded from any amnesty. There is mention of the political execution of at least one descendant of Farinata's. His son when being led to the scaffold said, 'So we pay our fathers' debts!'--It has been so long common to describe Dante as a Ghibeline, though no careful writer does it now, that it may be worth while here to remark that Ghibelinism, as Farinata understood it, was practically extinct in Florence ere Dante entered political life. [366] _The Arbia_: At Montaperti, on the Arbia, a few miles from Siena, was fought in 1260 a great battle between the Guelf Florence and her allies on the one hand, and on the other the Ghibelines of Florence, then in exile, under Farinata; the Sienese and Tuscan Ghibelines in general; and some hundreds of men-at-arms lent by Manfred. Notwithstanding the gallant behaviour of the Florentine burghers, the Guelf defeat was overwhelming, and not only did the Arbia run red with Florentine blood--in a figure--but the battle of Montaperti ruined for a time the cause of popular liberty and general improvement in Florence. [367] _Our fane_: The Parliament of the people used to meet in Santa Reparata, the cathedral; and it is possible that the maintenance of the Uberti disabilities was there more than once confirmed by the general body of the citizens. The use of the word is in any case accounted for by the frequency of political conferences in churches. And the temple having been introduced, edicts are converted into 'prayers.' [368] _'Twas I, etc._: Some little time after the victory of Montaperti there was a great Ghibeline gathering from various cities at Empoli, when it was proposed, with general approval, to level Florence with the ground in revenge for the obstinate Guelfism of the population. Farinata roughly declared that as long as he lived and had a sword he would defend his native place, and in the face of this protest the resolution was departed from. It is difficult to understand how of all the Florentine nobles, whose wealth consisted largely in house property, Farinata should have stood alone in protesting against the ruin of the city. But so it seems to have been; and in this great passage Farinata is repaid for his service, in despite of Inferno. [369] _Other laws_: Ciacco, in Canto vi., prophesied what was to happen in Florence, and Farinata has just told him that four years later than now he will have failed in an attempt to return from exile: yet Farinata does not know if his family is still being persecuted, and Cavalcanti fears that his son Guido is already numbered with the dead. Farinata replies that like the longsighted the shades can only see what is some distance off, and are ignorant of what is going on, or about to happen; which seems to imply that they forget what they once foresaw. Guido was to die within a few months, and the event was too close at hand to come within the range of his father's vision. [370] _The Second Frederick_: The Emperor of that name who reigned from 1220 to 1250, and waged a life-long war with the Popes for supremacy in Italy. It is not however for his enmity with Rome that he is placed in the Sixth Circle, but for his Epicureanism--as Dante understood it. From his Sicilian court a spirit of free inquiry spread through the Peninsula. With men of the stamp of Farinata it would be converted into a crude materialism. [371] _The Cardinal_: Ottaviano, of the powerful Tuscan family of the Ubaldini, a man of great political activity, and known in Tuscany as 'The Cardinal.' His sympathies were not with the Roman Court. The news of Montaperti filled him with delight, and later, when the Tuscan Ghibelines refused him money he had asked for, he burst out with 'And yet I have lost my soul for the Ghibelines--if I have a soul.' He died not earlier than 1273. After these illustrious names Farinata scorns to mention meaner ones. [372] _Ominous words_: Those in which Farinata foretold Dante's exile. [373] _The stages, etc._: It is Cacciaguida, his ancestor, who in Paradise instructs Dante in what his future life is to be--one of poverty and exile (_Parad._ xvii.). This is, however, done at the request of Beatrice. [374] _To the middle_: Turning to the left they cut across the circle till they reach the inner boundary of the city of tombs. Here there is no wall. CANTO XI. We at the margin of a lofty steep Made of great shattered stones in circle bent, Arrived where worser torments crowd the deep. So horrible a stench and violent Was upward wafted from the vast abyss,[375] Behind the cover we for shelter went Of a great tomb where I saw written this: 'Pope Anastasius[376] is within me thrust, Whom the straight way Photinus made to miss.' 'Now on our course a while we linger must,' 10 The Master said, 'be but our sense resigned A little to it, and the filthy gust We shall not heed.' Then I: 'Do thou but find Some compensation lest our time should run Wasted.' And he: 'Behold, 'twas in my mind. Girt by the rocks before us, O my son, Lie three small circles,'[377] he began to tell, 'Graded like those with which thou now hast done, All of them filled with spirits miserable. That sight[378] of them may thee henceforth suffice. 20 Hear how and wherefore in these groups they dwell. Whate'er in Heaven's abhorred as wickedness Has injury[379] for its end; in others' bane By fraud resulting or in violent wise. Since fraud to man alone[380] doth appertain, God hates it most; and hence the fraudulent band, Set lowest down, endure a fiercer pain. Of the violent is the circle next at hand To us; and since three ways is violence shown, 'Tis in three several circuits built and planned. 30 To God, ourselves, or neighbours may be done Violence, or on the things by them possessed; As reasoning clear shall unto thee make known. Our neighbour may by violence be distressed With grievous wounds, or slain; his goods and lands By havoc, fire, and plunder be oppressed. Hence those who wound and slay with violent hands, Robbers, and spoilers, in the nearest round Are all tormented in their various bands. Violent against himself may man be found, 40 And 'gainst his goods; therefore without avail They in the next are in repentance drowned Who on themselves loss of your world entail, Who gamble[381] and their substance madly spend, And who when called to joy lament and wail. And even to God may violence extend By heart denial and by blasphemy, Scorning what nature doth in bounty lend. Sodom and Cahors[382] hence are doomed to lie Within the narrowest circlet surely sealed; 50 And such as God within their hearts defy. Fraud,[383] 'gainst whose bite no conscience findeth shield, A man may use with one who in him lays Trust, or with those who no such credence yield. Beneath this latter kind of it decays The bond of love which out of nature grew; Hence, in the second circle[384] herd the race To feigning given and flattery, who pursue Magic, false coining, theft, and simony, Pimps, barrators, and suchlike residue. 60 The other form of fraud makes nullity Of natural bonds; and, what is more than those, The special trust whence men on men rely. Hence in the place whereon all things repose, The narrowest circle and the seat of Dis,[385] Each traitor's gulfed in everlasting woes.' 'Thy explanation, Master, as to this Is clear,' I said, 'and thou hast plainly told Who are the people stowed in the abyss. But tell why those the muddy marshes hold, 70 The tempest-driven, those beaten by the rain, And such as, meeting, virulently scold, Are not within the crimson city ta'en For punishment, if hateful unto God; And, if not hateful, wherefore doomed to pain?' And he to me: 'Why wander thus abroad, More than is wont, thy wits? or how engrossed Is now thy mind, and on what things bestowed? Hast thou the memory of the passage lost In which thy Ethics[386] for their subject treat 80 Of the three moods by Heaven abhorred the most-- Malice and bestiality complete; And how, compared with these, incontinence Offends God less, and lesser blame doth meet? If of this doctrine thou extract the sense, And call to memory what people are Above, outside, in endless penitence, Why from these guilty they are sundered far Thou shalt discern, and why on them alight The strokes of justice in less angry war.' 90 'O Sun that clearest every troubled sight, So charmed am I by thy resolving speech, Doubt yields me joy no less than knowing right. Therefore, I pray, a little backward reach,' I asked, 'to where thou say'st that usury Sins 'gainst God's bounty; and this mystery teach.' He said: 'Who gives ear to Philosophy Is taught by her, nor in one place alone, What nature in her course is governed by, Even Mind Divine, and art which thence hath grown; 100 And if thy Physics[387] thou wilt search within, Thou'lt find ere many leaves are open thrown, This art by yours, far as your art can win, Is followed close--the teacher by the taught; As grandchild then to God your art is kin. And from these two--do thou recall to thought How Genesis[388] begins--should come supplies Of food for man, and other wealth be sought. And, since another plan the usurer plies, Nature and nature's child have his disdain;[389] 110 Because on other ground his hope relies. But come,[390] for to advance I now am fain: The Fishes[391] over the horizon line Quiver; o'er Caurus now stands all the Wain; And further yonder does the cliff decline.' FOOTNOTES: [375] _Vast abyss_: They are now at the inner side of the Sixth Circle, and upon the verge of the rocky steep which slopes down from it into the Seventh. All the lower Hell lies beneath them, and it is from that rather than from the next circle in particular that the stench arises, symbolical of the foulness of the sins which are punished there. The noisome smells which make part of the horror of Inferno are after this sometimes mentioned, but never dwelt upon (_Inf._ xviii. 106, and xxix. 50). [376] _Pope Anastasius_: The second of the name, elected Pope in 496. Photinus, bishop of Sirenium, was infected with the Sabellian heresy, but he was deposed more than a century before the time of Anastasius. Dante follows some obscure legend in charging Anastasius with heresy. The important point is that the one heretic, in the sense usually attached to the term, named as being in the city of unbelief, is a Pope. [377] _Three small circles_: The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth; small in circumference compared with those above. The pilgrims are now deep in the hollow cone. [378] _That sight, etc._: After hearing the following explanation Dante no longer asks to what classes the sinners met with belong, but only as to the guilt of individual shades. [379] _Injury_: They have left above them the circles of those whose sin consists in the exaggeration or misdirection of a wholesome natural instinct. Below them lie the circles filled with such as have been guilty of malicious wickedness. This manifests itself in two ways: by violence or by fraud. After first mentioning in a general way that the fraudulent are set lowest in Inferno, Virgil proceeds to define violence, and to tell how the violent occupy the circle immediately beneath them--the Seventh. For division of the maliciously wicked into two classes Dante is supposed to be indebted to Cicero: 'Injury may be wrought by force or by fraud.... Both are unnatural for man, but fraud is the more hateful.'--_De Officiis_, i. 13. It is remarkable that Virgil says nothing of those in the Sixth Circle in this account of the classes of sinners. [380] _To man alone, etc._: Fraud involves the corrupt use of the powers that distinguish us from the brutes. [381] _Who gamble, etc._: A different sin from the lavish spending punished in the Fourth Circle (_Inf._ vii.). The distinction is that between thriftlessness and the prodigality which, stripping a man of the means of living, disgusts him with life, as described in the following line. It is from among prodigals that the ranks of suicides are greatly filled, and here they are appropriately placed together. It may seem strange that in his classification of guilt Dante should rank violence to one's self as a more heinous sin than that committed against one's neighbour. He may have in view the fact that none harm their neighbours so much as they who are oblivious of their own true interest. [382] _Sodom and Cahors_: Sins against nature are reckoned sins against God, as explained lower down in this Canto. Cahors in Languedoc had in the Middle Ages the reputation of being a nest of usurers. These in old English Chronicles are termed Caorsins. With the sins of Sodom and Cahors are ranked the denial of God and blasphemy against Him--deeper sins than the erroneous conceptions of the Divine nature and government punished in the Sixth Circle. The three concentric rings composing the Seventh Circle are all on the same level, as we shall find. [383] _Fraud, etc._: Fraud is of such a nature that conscience never fails to give due warning against the sin. This is an aggravation of the guilt of it. [384] _The second circle_: The second now beneath them; that is, the Eighth. [385] _Seat of Dis_: The Ninth and last Circle. [386] _Thy Ethics_: The Ethics of Aristotle, in which it is said: 'With regard to manners, these three things are to be eschewed: incontinence, vice, and bestiality.' Aristotle holds incontinence to consist in the immoderate indulgence of propensities which under right guidance are adapted to promote lawful pleasure. It is, generally speaking, the sin of which those about whom Dante has inquired were guilty.--It has been ingeniously sought by Philalethes (_Gött. Com._) to show that Virgil's disquisition is founded on this threefold classification of Aristotle's--violence being taken to be the same as bestiality, and malice as vice. But the reference to Aristotle is made with the limited purpose of justifying the lenient treatment of incontinence; in the same way as a few lines further on Genesis is referred to in support of the harsh treatment of usury. [387] _Physics_: The Physics of Aristotle, in which it is said: 'Art imitates nature.' Art includes handicrafts. [388] _Genesis_: 'And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden to dress it and to keep it.' 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.' [389] _His disdain_: The usurer seeks to get wealth independently of honest labour or reliance on the processes of nature. This far-fetched argument against usury closes one of the most arid passages of the _Comedy_. The shortness of the Canto almost suggests that Dante had himself got weary of it. [390] _But come, etc._: They have been all this time resting behind the lid of the tomb. [391] _The Fishes, etc._: The sun being now in Aries the stars of Pisces begin to rise about a couple of hours before sunrise. The Great Bear lies above Caurus, the quarter of the N.N.W. wind. It seems impossible to harmonise the astronomical indications scattered throughout the _Comedy_, there being traces of Dante's having sometimes used details belonging rather to the day on which Good Friday fell in 1300, the 8th of April, than to the (supposed) true anniversary of the crucifixion. That this, the 25th of March, is the day he intended to conform to appears from _Inf._ xxi. 112.--The time is now near dawn on the Saturday morning. It is almost needless to say that Virgil speaks of the stars as he knows they are placed, but without seeing them. By what light they see in Inferno is nowhere explained. We have been told that it was dark as night (_Inf._ iv. 10, v. 28). CANTO XII. The place of our descent[392] before us lay Precipitous, and there was something more From sight of which all eyes had turned away. As at the ruin which upon the shore Of Adige[393] fell upon this side of Trent-- Through earthquake or by slip of what before Upheld it--from the summit whence it went Far as the plain, the shattered rocks supply Some sort of foothold to who makes descent; Such was the passage down the precipice high. 10 And on the riven gully's very brow Lay spread at large the Cretan Infamy[394] Which was conceived in the pretended cow. Us when he saw, he bit himself for rage Like one whose anger gnaws him through and through. 'Perhaps thou deemest,' called to him the Sage, 'This is the Duke of Athens[395] drawing nigh, Who war to the death with thee on earth did wage. Begone, thou brute, for this one passing by Untutored by thy sister has thee found, 20 And only comes thy sufferings to spy,' And as the bull which snaps what held it bound On being smitten by the fatal blow, Halts in its course, and reels upon the ground, The Minotaur I saw reel to and fro; And he, the alert, cried: 'To the passage haste; While yet he chafes 'twere well thou down shouldst go.' So we descended by the slippery waste[396] Of shivered stones which many a time gave way 'Neath the new weight[397] my feet upon them placed. 30 I musing went; and he began to say: 'Perchance this ruined slope thou thinkest on, Watched by the brute rage I did now allay. But I would have thee know, when I came down The former time[398] into this lower Hell, The cliff had not this ruin undergone. It was not long, if I distinguish well, Ere He appeared who wrenched great prey from Dis[399] From out the upmost circle. Trembling fell Through all its parts the nauseous abyss 40 With such a violence, the world, I thought, Was stirred by love; for, as they say, by this She back to Chaos[400] has been often brought. And then it was this ancient rampart strong Was shattered here and at another spot.[401] But toward the valley look. We come ere long Down to the river of blood[402] where boiling lie All who by violence work others wrong.' O insane rage! O blind cupidity! By which in our brief life we are so spurred, 50 Ere downward plunged in evil case for aye! An ample ditch I now beheld engird And sweep in circle all around the plain, As from my Escort I had lately heard. Between this and the rock in single train Centaurs[403] were running who were armed with bows, As if they hunted on the earth again. Observing us descend they all stood close, Save three of them who parted from the band With bow, and arrows they in coming chose. 60 'What torment,' from afar one made demand, 'Come ye to share, who now descend the hill? I shoot unless ye answer whence ye stand.' My Master said: 'We yield no answer till We come to Chiron[404] standing at thy side; But thy quick temper always served thee ill.' Then touching me: ''Tis Nessus;[405] he who died With love for beauteous Dejanire possessed, And who himself his own vendetta plied. He in the middle, staring on his breast, 70 Is mighty Chiron, who Achilles bred; And next the wrathful Pholus. They invest The fosse and in their thousands round it tread, Shooting whoever from the blood shall lift, More than his crime allows, his guilty head.' As we moved nearer to those creatures swift Chiron drew forth a shaft and dressed his beard Back on his jaws, using the arrow's cleft. And when his ample mouth of hair was cleared, He said to his companions: 'Have ye seen 80 The things the second touches straight are stirred, As they by feet of shades could ne'er have been?' And my good Guide, who to his breast had gone-- The part where join the natures,[406] 'Well I ween He lives,' made answer; 'and if, thus alone, He seeks the valley dim 'neath my control, Necessity, not pleasure, leads him on. One came from where the alleluiahs roll, Who charged me with this office strange and new: No robber he, nor mine a felon soul. 90 But, by that Power which makes me to pursue The rugged journey whereupon I fare, Accord us one of thine to keep in view, That he may show where lies the ford, and bear This other on his back to yonder strand; No spirit he, that he should cleave the air.' Wheeled to the right then Chiron gave command To Nessus: 'Turn, and lead them, and take tent They be not touched by any other band.'[407] We with our trusty Escort forward went, 100 Threading the margin of the boiling blood Where they who seethed were raising loud lament. People I saw up to the chin imbrued, 'These all are tyrants,' the great Centaur said, 'Who blood and plunder for their trade pursued. Here for their pitiless deeds tears now are shed By Alexander,[408] and Dionysius fell, Through whom in Sicily dolorous years were led. The forehead with black hair so terrible Is Ezzelino;[409] that one blond of hue, 110 Obizzo[410] d'Este, whom, as rumours tell, His stepson murdered, and report speaks true.' I to the Poet turned, who gave command: 'Regard thou chiefly him. I follow you.' Ere long the Centaur halted on the strand, Close to a people who, far as the throat, Forth of that bulicamë[411] seemed to stand. Thence a lone shade to us he pointed out Saying: 'In God's house[412] ran he weapon through The heart which still on Thames wins cult devout.' 120 Then I saw people, some with heads in view, And some their chests above the river bore; And many of them I, beholding, knew. And thus the blood went dwindling more and more, Until at last it covered but the feet: Here took we passage[413] to the other shore. 'As on this hand thou seest still abate In depth the volume of the boiling stream,' The Centaur said, 'so grows its depth more great, Believe me, towards the opposite extreme, 130 Until again its circling course attains The place where tyrants must lament. Supreme Justice upon that side involves in pains, With Attila,[414] once of the world the pest, Pyrrhus[415] and Sextus: and for ever drains Tears out of Rinier of Corneto[416] pressed And Rinier Pazzo[417] in that boiling mass, Whose brigandage did so the roads infest.' Then turned he back alone, the ford to pass. FOOTNOTES: [392] _Our descent_: To the Seventh Circle. [393] _Adige_: Different localities in the valley of the Adige have been fixed on as the scene of this landslip. The Lavini di Marco, about twenty miles south of Trent, seem best to answer to the description. They 'consist of black blocks of stone and fragments of a landslip which, according to the Chronicle of Fulda, fell in the year 883 and overwhelmed the valley for four Italian miles' (Gsell-Fels, _Ober. Ital._ i. 35). [394] _The Cretan Infamy_: The Minotaur, the offspring of Pasiphaë; a half-bovine monster who inhabited the Cretan labyrinth, and to whom a human victim was offered once a year. He lies as guard upon the Seventh Circle--that of the violent (_Inf._ xi. 23, _note_)--and is set at the top of the rugged slope, itself the scene of a violent convulsion. [395] _Duke of Athens_: Theseus, instructed by Ariadne, daughter of Pasiphaë and Minos, how to outwit the Minotaur, entered the labyrinth in the character of a victim, slew the monster, and then made his way out, guided by a thread he had unwound as he went in. [396] _The slippery waste_: The word used here, _scarco_, means in modern Tuscan a place where earth or stones have been carelessly shot into a heap. [397] _The new weight_: The slope had never before been trodden by mortal foot. [398] _The former time_: When Virgil descended to evoke a shade from the Ninth Circle (_Inf._ ix. 22). [399] _Prey from Dis_: The shades delivered from Limbo by Christ (_Inf._ iv. 53). The expression in the text is probably suggested by the words of the hymn _Vexilla: Prædamque tulit Tartaris_. [400] _To Chaos_: The reference is to the theory of Empedocles, known to Dante through the refutation of it by Aristotle. The theory was one of periods of unity and division in nature, according as love or hatred prevailed. [401] _Another spot_: See _Inf._ xxi. 112. The earthquake at the Crucifixion shook even Inferno to its base. [402] _The river of blood_: Phlegethon, the 'boiling river.' Styx and Acheron have been already passed. Lethe, the fourth infernal river, is placed by Dante in Purgatory. The first round or circlet of the Seventh Circle is filled by Phlegethon. [403] _Centaurs_: As this round is the abode of such as are guilty of violence against their neighbours, it is guarded by these brutal monsters, half-man and half-horse. [404] _Chiron_: Called the most just of the Centaurs. [405] _Nessus_: Slain by Hercules with a poisoned arrow. When dying he gave Dejanira his blood-stained shirt, telling her it would insure the faithfulness to her of any whom she loved. Hercules wore it and died of the venom; and thus Nessus avenged himself. [406] The natures: The part of the Centaur where the equine body is joined on to the human neck and head. [407] _Other band_: Of Centaurs. [408] _Alexander_: It is not known whether Alexander the Great or a petty Thessalian tyrant is here meant. _Dionysius_: The cruel tyrant of Syracuse. [409] _Ezzelino_: Or Azzolino of Romano, the greatest Lombard Ghibeline of his time. He was son-in-law of Frederick II., and was Imperial Vicar of the Trevisian Mark. Towards the close of Fredrick's life, and for some years after, he exercised almost independent power in Vicenza, Padua, and Verona. Cruelty, erected into a system, was his chief instrument of government, and 'in his dungeons men found something worse than death.' For Italians, says Burckhardt, he was the most impressive political personage of the thirteenth century; and around his memory, as around Frederick's, there gathered strange legends. He died in 1259, of a wound received in battle. When urged to confess his sins by the monk who came to shrive him, he declared that the only sin on his conscience was negligence in revenge. But this may be mythical, as may also be the long black hair between his eyebrows, which rose up stiff and terrible as his anger waxed. [410] _Obizzo_: The second Marquis of Este of that name. He was lord of Ferrara. There seems little, if any, evidence extant of his being specially cruel. As a strong Guelf he took sides with Charles of Anjou against Manfred. He died in 1293, smothered, it was believed, by a son, here called a stepson for his unnatural conduct. But though Dante vouches for the truth of the rumour it seems to have been an invention. [411] _That bulicamë_: The stream of boiling blood is probably named from the bulicamë, or hot spring, best known to Dante--that near Viterbo (see _Inf._ xiv. 79). And it may be that the mention of the bulicamë suggests the reference at line 119. [412] _In God's house_: Literally, 'In the bosom of God.' The shade is that of Guy, son of Simon of Montfort and Vicar in Tuscany of Charles of Anjou. In 1271 he stabbed, in the Cathedral of Viterbo, Henry, son of Richard of Cornwall and cousin of Edward I. of England. The motive of the murder was to revenge the death of his father, Simon, at Evesham. The body of the young prince was conveyed to England, and the heart was placed in a vase upon the tomb of the Confessor. The shade of Guy stands up to the chin in blood among the worst of the tyrants, and alone, because of the enormity of his crime. [413] _Here took we passage_: Dante on Nessus' back. Virgil has fallen behind to allow the Centaur to act as guide; and how he crosses the stream Dante does not see. [414] _Attila_: King of the Huns, who invaded part of Italy in the fifth century; and who, according to the mistaken belief of Dante's age, was the devastator of Florence. [415] _Pyrrhus_: King of Epirus. _Sextus_: Son of Pompey; a great sea-captain who fought against the Triumvirs. The crime of the first, in Dante's eyes, is that he fought with Rome; of the second, that he opposed Augustus. [416] _Rinier of Corneto_: Who in Dante's time disturbed the coast of the States of the Church by his robberies and violence. [417] _Rinier Pazzo_: Of the great family of the Pazzi of Val d'Arno, was excommunicated in 1269 for robbing ecclesiastics. CANTO XIII. Ere Nessus landed on the other shore We for our part within a forest[418] drew, Which of no pathway any traces bore. Not green the foliage, but of dusky hue; Not smooth the boughs, but gnarled and twisted round; For apples, poisonous thorns upon them grew. No rougher brakes or matted worse are found Where savage beasts betwixt Corneto[419] roam And Cecina,[419] abhorring cultured ground. The loathsome Harpies[420] nestle here at home, 10 Who from the Strophades the Trojans chased With dire predictions of a woe to come. Great winged are they, but human necked and faced, With feathered belly, and with claw for toe; They shriek upon the bushes wild and waste. 'Ere passing further, I would have thee know,' The worthy Master thus began to say, 'Thou'rt in the second round, nor hence shalt go Till by the horrid sand thy footsteps stay. Give then good heed, and things thou'lt recognise 20 That of my words will prove[421] the verity.' Wailings on every side I heard arise: Of who might raise them I distinguished nought; Whereon I halted, smitten with surprise. I think he thought that haply 'twas my thought The voices came from people 'mong the trees, Who, to escape us, hiding-places sought; Wherefore the Master said: 'From one of these Snap thou a twig, and thou shalt understand How little with thy thought the fact agrees.' 30 Thereon a little I stretched forth my hand And plucked a tiny branch from a great thorn. 'Why dost thou tear me?' made the trunk demand. When dark with blood it had begun to turn, It cried a second time: 'Why wound me thus? Doth not a spark of pity in thee burn? Though trees we be, once men were all of us; Yet had our souls the souls of serpents been Thy hand might well have proved more piteous.' As when the fire hath seized a fagot green 40 At one extremity, the other sighs, And wind, escaping, hisses; so was seen, At where the branch was broken, blood to rise And words were mixed with it. I dropped the spray And stood like one whom terror doth surprise. The Sage replied: 'Soul vexed with injury, Had he been only able to give trust To what he read narrated in my lay,[422] His hand toward thee would never have been thrust. 'Tis hard for faith; and I, to make it plain, 50 Urged him to trial, mourn it though I must. But tell him who thou wast; so shall remain This for amends to thee, thy fame shall blow Afresh on earth, where he returns again.' And then the trunk: 'Thy sweet words charm me so, I cannot dumb remain; nor count it hard If I some pains upon my speech bestow. For I am he[423] who held both keys in ward Of Frederick's heart, and turned them how I would, And softly oped it, and as softly barred, 60 Till scarce another in his counsel stood. To my high office I such loyalty bore, It cost me sleep and haleness of my blood. The harlot[424] who removeth nevermore From Cæsar's house eyes ignorant of shame-- A common curse, of courts the special sore-- Set against me the minds of all aflame, And these in turn Augustus set on fire, Till my glad honours bitter woes became. My soul, filled full with a disdainful ire, 70 Thinking by means of death disdain to flee, 'Gainst my just self unjustly did conspire. I swear even by the new roots of this tree My fealty to my lord I never broke, For worthy of all honour sure was he. If one of you return 'mong living folk, Let him restore my memory, overthrown And suffering yet because of envy's stroke.' Still for a while the poet listened on, Then said: 'Now he is dumb, lose not the hour, 80 But make request if more thou'dst have made known.' And I replied: 'Do thou inquire once more Of what thou thinkest[425] I would gladly know; I cannot ask; ruth wrings me to the core.' On this he spake: 'Even as the man shall do, And liberally, what thou of him hast prayed, Imprisoned spirit, do thou further show How with these knots the spirits have been made Incorporate; and, if thou canst, declare If from such members e'er is loosed a shade.' 90 Then from the trunk came vehement puffs of air; Next, to these words converted was the wind: 'My answer to you shall be short and clear. When the fierce soul no longer is confined In flesh, torn thence by action of its own, To the Seventh Depth by Minos 'tis consigned. No choice is made of where it shall be thrown Within the wood; but where by chance 'tis flung It germinates like seed of spelt that's sown. A forest tree it grows from sapling young; 100 Eating its leaves, the Harpies cause it pain, And open loopholes whence its sighs are wrung. We for our vestments shall return again Like others, but in them shall ne'er be clad:[426] Men justly lose what from themselves they've ta'en. Dragged hither by us, all throughout the sad Forest our bodies shall be hung on high; Each on the thorn of its destructive shade.' While to the trunk we listening lingered nigh, Thinking he might proceed to tell us more, 110 A sudden uproar we were startled by Like him who, that the huntsman and the boar To where he stands are sweeping in the chase, Knows by the crashing trees and brutish roar. Upon our left we saw a couple race Naked[427] and scratched; and they so quickly fled The forest barriers burst before their face. 'Speed to my rescue, death!' the foremost pled. The next, as wishing he could use more haste; 'Not thus, O Lano,[428] thee thy legs bested 120 When one at Toppo's tournament thou wast.' Then, haply wanting breath, aside he stepped, Merged with a bush on which himself he cast. Behind them through the forest onward swept A pack of dogs, black, ravenous, and fleet, Like greyhounds from their leashes newly slipped. In him who crouched they made their teeth to meet, And, having piecemeal all his members rent, Haled them away enduring anguish great. Grasping my hand, my Escort forward went 130 And led me to the bush which, all in vain, Through its ensanguined openings made lament. 'James of St. Andrews,'[429] it we heard complain; 'What profit hadst thou making me thy shield? For thy bad life doth blame to me pertain?' Then, halting there, this speech my Master held: 'Who wast thou that through many wounds dost sigh, Mingled with blood, words big with sorrow swelled?' 'O souls that hither come,' was his reply, 'To witness shameful outrage by me borne, 140 Whence all my leaves torn off around me lie, Gather them to the root of this drear thorn. My city[430] for the Baptist changed of yore Her former patron; wherefore, in return, He with his art will make her aye deplore; And were it not some image doth remain Of him where Arno's crossed from shore to shore, Those citizens who founded her again On ashes left by Attila,[431] had spent Their labour of a surety all in vain. 150 In my own house[432] I up a gibbet went.' FOOTNOTES: [418] _A forest_: The second round of the Seventh Circle consists of a belt of tangled forest, enclosed by the river of blood, and devoted to suicides and prodigals. [419] _Corneto and Cecina_: Corneto is a town on the coast of what used to be the States of the Church; Cecina a stream not far south of Leghorn. Between them lies the Maremma, a district of great natural fertility, now being restored again to cultivation, but for ages a neglected and poisonous wilderness. [420] _Harpies_: Monsters with the bodies of birds and the heads of women. In the _Æneid_ iii., they are described as defiling the feast of which the Trojans were about to partake on one of the Strophades--islands of the Ægean; and on that occasion the prophecy was made that Æneas and his followers should be reduced to eat their tables ere they acquired a settlement in Italy. Here the Harpies symbolise shameful waste and disgust with life. [421] _Will prove, etc._: The things seen by Dante are to make credible what Virgil tells (_Æn._ iii.) of the blood and piteous voice that issued from the torn bushes on the tomb of Polydorus. [422] _My lay_: See previous note. Dante thus indirectly acknowledges his debt to Virgil; and, perhaps, at the same time puts in his claim to an imaginative licence equal to that taken by his master. On a modern reader the effect of the reference is to weaken the verisimilitude of the incident. [423] _For I am he, etc._: The speaker is Pier delle Vigne, who from being a begging student of Bologna rose to be the Chancellor of the Emperor Frederick II., the chief councillor of that monarch, and one of the brightest ornaments of his intellectual court. Peter was perhaps the more endeared to his master because, like him, he was a poet of no mean order. There are two accounts of what caused his disgrace. According to one of these he was found to have betrayed Frederick's interests in favour of the Pope's; and according to the other he tried to poison him. Neither is it known whether he committed suicide; though he is said to have done so after being disgraced, by dashing his brains out against a church wall in Pisa. Dante clearly follows this legend. The whole episode is eloquent of the esteem in which Peter's memory was held by Dante. His name is not mentioned in Inferno, but yet the promise is amply kept that it shall flourish on earth again, freed from unmerited disgrace. He died about 1249. [424] _The harlot_: Envy. [425] _Of what thou thinkest, etc._: Virgil never asks a question for his own satisfaction. He knows who the spirits are, what brought them there, and which of them will speak honestly out on the promise of having his fame refreshed in the world. It should be noted how, by a hint, he has made Peter aware of who he is (line 48); a delicate attention yielded to no other shade in the Inferno, except Ulysses (_Inf._ xxvi. 79), and, perhaps, Brunetto Latini (_Inf._ xv. 99). [426] _In them shall ne'er be clad_: Boccaccio is here at great pains to save Dante from a charge of contradicting the tenet of the resurrection of the flesh. [427] _Naked_: These are the prodigals; their nakedness representing the state to which in life they had reduced themselves. [428] _Lano_: Who made one of a club of prodigals in Siena (_Inf._ xxix. 130) and soon ran through his fortune. Joining in a Florentine expedition in 1288 against Arezzo, he refused to escape from a defeat encountered by his side at Pieve del Toppo, preferring, as was supposed, to end his life at once rather than drag it out in poverty. [429] _James of St. Andrews_: Jacopo da Sant' Andrea, a Paduan who inherited enormous wealth which did not last him for long. He literally threw money away, and would burn a house for the sake of the blaze. His death has been placed in 1239. [430] _My city, etc._: According to tradition the original patron of Florence was Mars. In Dante's time an ancient statue, supposed to be of that god, stood upon the Old Bridge of Florence. It is referred to in _Parad._ xvi. 47 and 145. Benvenuto says that he had heard from Boccaccio, who had frequently heard it from old people, that the statue was regarded with great awe. If a boy flung stones or mud at it, the bystanders would say of him that he would make a bad end. It was lost in the great flood of 1333. Here the Florentine shade represents Mars as troubling Florence with wars in revenge for being cast off as a patron. [431] _Attila_: A confusion with Totila. Attila was never so far south as Tuscany. Neither is there reason to believe that when Totila took the city he destroyed it. But the legend was that it was rebuilt in the time of Charles the Great. [432] _My own house, etc._: It is not settled who this was who hanged himself from the beams of his own roof. One of the Agli, say some; others, one of the Mozzi. Boccaccio and Peter Dante remark that suicide by hanging was common in Florence. But Dante's text seems pretty often to have suggested the invention of details in support or illustration of it. CANTO XIV. Me of my native place the dear constraint[433] Led to restore the leaves which round were strewn, To him whose voice by this time was grown faint. Thence came we where the second round joins on Unto the third, wherein how terrible The art of justice can be, is well shown. But, clearly of these wondrous things to tell, I say we entered on a plain of sand Which from its bed doth every plant repel. The dolorous wood lies round it like a band, 10 As that by the drear fosse is circled round. Upon its very edge we came to a stand. And there was nothing within all that bound But burnt and heavy sand; like that once trod Beneath the feet of Cato[434] was the ground. Ah, what a terror, O revenge of God! Shouldst thou awake in any that may read Of what before mine eyes was spread abroad. I of great herds of naked souls took heed. Most piteously was weeping every one; 20 And different fortunes seemed to them decreed. For some of them[435] upon the ground lay prone, And some were sitting huddled up and bent, While others, restless, wandered up and down. More numerous were they that roaming went Than they that were tormented lying low; But these had tongues more loosened to lament. O'er all the sand, deliberate and slow, Broad open flakes of fire were downward rained, As 'mong the Alps[436] in calm descends the snow. 30 Such Alexander[437] saw when he attained The hottest India; on his host they fell And all unbroken on the earth remained; Wherefore he bade his phalanxes tread well The ground, because when taken one by one The burning flakes they could the better quell. So here eternal fire[438] was pouring down; As tinder 'neath the steel, so here the sands Kindled, whence pain more vehement was known. And, dancing up and down, the wretched hands[439] 40 Beat here and there for ever without rest; Brushing away from them the falling brands. And I: 'O Master, by all things confessed Victor, except by obdurate evil powers Who at the gate[440] to stop our passage pressed, Who is the enormous one who noway cowers Beneath the fire; with fierce disdainful air Lying as if untortured by the showers?' And that same shade, because he was aware That touching him I of my Guide was fain 50 To learn, cried: 'As in life, myself I bear In death. Though Jupiter should tire again His smith, from whom he snatched in angry bout The bolt by which I at the last was slain;[441] Though one by one he tire the others out At the black forge in Mongibello[442] placed, While "Ho, good Vulcan, help me!" he shall shout-- The cry he once at Phlegra's[443] battle raised; Though hurled with all his might at me shall fly His bolts, yet sweet revenge he shall not taste.' 60 Then spake my Guide, and in a voice so high Never till then heard I from him such tone: 'O Capaneus, because unquenchably Thy pride doth burn, worse pain by thee is known. Into no torture save thy madness wild Fit for thy fury couldest thou be thrown.' Then, to me turning with a face more mild, He said: 'Of the Seven Kings was he of old, Who leaguered Thebes, and as he God reviled Him in small reverence still he seems to hold; 70 But for his bosom his own insolence Supplies fit ornament,[444] as now I told. Now follow; but take heed lest passing hence Thy feet upon the burning sand should tread; But keep them firm where runs the forest fence.'[445] We reached a place--nor any word we said-- Where issues from the wood a streamlet small; I shake but to recall its colour red. Like that which does from Bulicamë[446] fall, And losel women later 'mong them share; 80 So through the sand this brooklet's waters crawl. Its bottom and its banks I was aware Were stone, and stone the rims on either side. From this I knew the passage[447] must be there. 'Of all that I have shown thee as thy guide Since when we by the gateway[448] entered in, Whose threshold unto no one is denied, Nothing by thee has yet encountered been So worthy as this brook to cause surprise, O'er which the falling fire-flakes quenched are seen.' 90 These were my Leader's words. For full supplies I prayed him of the food of which to taste Keen appetite he made within me rise. 'In middle sea there lies a country waste, Known by the name of Crete,' I then was told, 'Under whose king[449] the world of yore was chaste. There stands a mountain, once the joyous hold Of woods and streams; as Ida 'twas renowned, Now 'tis deserted like a thing grown old. For a safe cradle 'twas by Rhea found. 100 To nurse her child[450] in; and his infant cry, Lest it betrayed him, she with clamours drowned. Within the mount an old man towereth high. Towards Damietta are his shoulders thrown; On Rome, as on his mirror, rests his eye. His head is fashioned of pure gold alone; Of purest silver are his arms and chest; 'Tis brass to where his legs divide; then down From that is all of iron of the best, Save the right foot, which is of baken clay; 110 And upon this foot doth he chiefly rest. Save what is gold, doth every part display A fissure dripping tears; these, gathering all Together, through the grotto pierce a way. From rock to rock into this deep they fall, Feed Acheron[451] and Styx and Phlegethon, Then downward travelling by this strait canal, Far as the place where further slope is none, Cocytus form; and what that pool may be I say not now. Thou'lt see it further on.' 120 'If this brook rises,' he was asked by me, 'Within our world, how comes it that no trace We saw of it till on this boundary?' And he replied: 'Thou knowest that the place Is round, and far as thou hast moved thy feet, Still to the left hand[452] sinking to the base, Nath'less thy circuit is not yet complete. Therefore if something new we chance to spy, Amazement needs not on thy face have seat.' I then: 'But, Master, where doth Lethe lie, 130 And Phlegethon? Of that thou sayest nought; Of this thou say'st, those tears its flood supply.' 'It likes me well to be by thee besought; But by the boiling red wave,' I was told, 'To half thy question was an answer brought. Lethe,[453] not in this pit, shalt thou behold. Thither to wash themselves the spirits go, When penitence has made them spotless souled.' Then said he: 'From the wood 'tis fitting now That we depart; behind me press thou nigh. 140 Keep we the margins, for they do not glow, And over them, ere fallen, the fire-flakes die.' FOOTNOTES: [433] _Dear constraint_: The mention of Florence has awakened Dante to pity, and he willingly complies with the request of the unnamed suicide (_Inf._ xiii. 142). As a rule, the only service he consents to yield the souls with whom he converses in Inferno is to restore their memory upon earth; a favour he does not feign to be asked for in this case, out of consideration, it may be, for the family of the sinner. [434] _Cato_: Cato of Utica, who, after the defeat of Pompey at Pharsalia, led his broken army across the Libyan desert to join King Juba. [435] _Some of them, etc._: In this the third round of the Seventh Circle are punished those guilty of sins of violence against God, against nature, and against the arts by which alone a livelihood can honestly be won. Those guilty as against God, the blasphemers, lie prone like Capaneus (line 46), and are subject to the fiercest pain. Those guilty of unnatural vice are stimulated into ceaseless motion, as described in Cantos XV. and XVI. The usurers, those who despise honest industry and the humanising arts of life, are found crouching on the ground (_Inf._ xvii. 43). [436] _The Alps_: Used here for mountains in general. [437] _Such Alexander, etc._: The reference is to a pretended letter of Alexander to Aristotle, in which he tells of the various hindrances met with by his army from snow and rain and showers of fire. But in that narrative it is the snow that is trampled down, while the flakes of fire are caught by the soldiers upon their outspread cloaks. The story of the shower of fire may have been suggested by Plutarch's mention of the mineral oil in the province of Babylon, a strange thing to the Greeks; and of how they were entertained by seeing the ground, which had been sprinkled with it, burst into flame. [438] _Eternal fire_: As always, the character of the place and of the punishment bears a relation to the crimes of the inhabitants. They sinned against nature in a special sense, and now they are confined to the sterile sand where the only showers that fall are showers of fire. [439] _The wretched hands_: The dance, named in the original the _tresca_, was one in which the performers followed a leader and imitated him in all his gestures, waving their hands as he did, up and down, and from side to side. The simile is caught straight from common life. [440] _At the gate_: Of the city of Dis (_Inf._ viii. 82). [441] _Was slain, etc._: Capaneus, one of the Seven Kings, as told below, when storming the walls of Thebes, taunted the other gods with impunity, but his blasphemy against Jupiter was answered by a fatal bolt. [442] _Mongibello_: A popular name of Etna, under which mountain was situated the smithy of Vulcan and the Cyclopes. [443] _Phlegra_: Where the giants fought with the gods. [444] _Fit ornament, etc._: Even if untouched by the pain he affects to despise, he would yet suffer enough from the mad hatred of God that rages in his breast. Capaneus is the nearest approach to the Satan of Milton found in the _Inferno_. From the need of getting law enough by which to try the heathen Dante is led into some inconsistency. After condemning the virtuous heathen to Limbo for their ignorance of the one true God, he now condemns the wicked heathen to this circle for despising false gods. Jupiter here stands for, as need scarcely be said, the Supreme Ruler; and in that sense he is termed God (line 69). But it remains remarkable that the one instance of blasphemous defiance of God should be taken from classical fable. [445] _The forest fence_: They do not trust themselves so much as to step upon the sand, but look out on it from the verge of the forest which encircles it, and which as they travel they have on the left hand. [446] _Bulicamë_: A hot sulphur spring a couple of miles from Viterbo, greatly frequented for baths in the Middle Ages; and, it is said, especially by light women. The water boils up into a large pool, whence it flows by narrow channels; sometimes by one and sometimes by another, as the purposes of the neighbouring peasants require. Sulphurous fumes rise from the water as it runs. The incrustation of the bottom, sides, and edges of those channels gives them the air of being solidly built. [447] _The passage_: On each edge of the canal there is a flat pathway of solid stone; and Dante sees that only by following one of these can a passage be gained across the desert, for to set foot on the sand is impossible for him owing to the falling flakes of fire. There may be found in his description of the solid and flawless masonry of the canal a trace of the pleasure taken in good building by the contemporaries of Arnolfo. Nor is it without meaning that the sterile sands, the abode of such as despised honest labour, is crossed by a perfect work of art which they are forbidden ever to set foot upon. [448] _The gateway_: At the entrance to Inferno. [449] _Whose king_: Saturn, who ruled the world in the Golden Age. He, as the devourer of his own offspring, is the symbol of Time; and the image of Time is therefore set by Dante in the island where he reigned. [450] _Her child_: Jupiter, hidden in the mountain from his father Saturn. [451] _Feed Acheron, etc._: The idea of this image is taken from the figure in Nebuchadnezzar's dream in Daniel ii. But here, instead of the Four Empires, the materials of the statue represent the Four Ages of the world; the foot of clay on which it stands being the present time, which is so bad that even iron were too good to represent it. Time turns his back to the outworn civilisations of the East, and his face to Rome, which, as the seat of the Empire and the Church, holds the secret of the future. The tears of time shed by every Age save that of Gold feed the four infernal streams and pools of Acheron, Styx, Phlegethon, and Cocytus. Line 117 indicates that these are all fed by the same water; are in fact different names for the same flood of tears. The reason why Dante has not hitherto observed the connection between them is that he has not made a complete circuit of each or indeed of any circle, as Virgil reminds him at line 124, etc. The rivulet by which they stand drains the boiling Phlegethon--where the water is all changed to blood, because in it the murderers are punished--and flowing through the forest of the suicides and the desert of the blasphemers, etc., tumbles into the Eighth Circle as described in Canto xvi. 103. Cocytus they are afterward to reach. An objection to this account of the infernal rivers as being all fed by the same waters may be found in the difference of volume of the great river of Acheron (_Inf._ iii. 71) and of this brooklet. But this difference is perhaps to be explained by the evaporation from the boiling waters of Phlegethon and of this stream which drains it. Dante is almost the only poet applied to whom such criticism would not be trifling. Another difficult point is how Cocytus should not in time have filled, and more than filled, the Ninth Circle. [452] _To the left hand_: Twice only as they descend they turn their course to the right hand (_Inf._ ix. 132, and xvii. 31). The circuit of the Inferno they do not complete till they reach the very base. [453] _Lethe_: Found in the Earthly Paradise, as described in _Purgatorio_ xxviii. 130. CANTO XV. Now lies[454] our way along one of the margins hard; Steam rising from the rivulet forms a cloud, Which 'gainst the fire doth brook and borders guard. Like walls the Flemings, timorous of the flood Which towards them pours betwixt Bruges and Cadsand,[455] Have made, that ocean's charge may be withstood; Or what the Paduans on the Brenta's strand To guard their castles and their homesteads rear, Ere Chiarentana[456] feel the spring-tide bland; Of the same fashion did those dikes appear, 10 Though not so high[457] he made them, nor so vast, Whoe'er the builder was that piled them here. We, from the wood when we so far had passed I should not have distinguished where it lay Though I to see it backward glance had cast, A group of souls encountered on the way, Whose line of march was to the margin nigh. Each looked at us--as by the new moon's ray Men peer at others 'neath the darkening sky-- Sharpening his brows on us and only us, 20 Like an old tailor on his needle's eye. And while that crowd was staring at me thus, One of them knew me, caught me by the gown, And cried aloud: 'Lo, this is marvellous!'[458] And straightway, while he thus to me held on, I fixed mine eyes upon his fire-baked face, And, spite of scorching, seemed his features known, And whose they were my memory well could trace; And I, with hand[459] stretched toward his face below, Asked: 'Ser Brunetto![460] and is this your place?' 30 'O son,' he answered, 'no displeasure show, If now Brunetto Latini shall some way Step back with thee, and leave his troop to go.' I said: 'With all my heart for this I pray, And, if you choose, I by your side will sit; If he, for I go with him, grant delay.' 'Son,' said he, 'who of us shall intermit Motion a moment, for an age must lie Nor fan himself when flames are round him lit. On, therefore! At thy skirts I follow nigh, 40 Then shall I overtake my band again, Who mourn a loss large as eternity.' I dared not from the path step to the plain To walk with him, but low I bent my head,[461] Like one whose steps are all with reverence ta'en. 'What fortune or what destiny,' he said, 'Hath brought thee here or e'er thou death hast seen; And who is this by whom thou'rt onward led?' 'Up yonder,' said I, 'in the life serene, I in a valley wandered all forlorn 50 Before my years had full accomplished been. I turned my back on it but yestermorn;[462] Again I sought it when he came in sight Guided by whom[463] I homeward thus return.' And he to me: 'Following thy planet's light[464] Thou of a glorious haven canst not fail, If in the blithesome life I marked aright. And had my years known more abundant tale, Seeing the heavens so held thee in their grace I, heartening thee, had helped thee to prevail. 60 But that ungrateful and malignant race Which down from Fiesole[465] came long ago, And still its rocky origin betrays, Will for thy worthiness become thy foe; And with good reason, for 'mong crab-trees wild It ill befits the mellow fig to grow. By widespread ancient rumour are they styled A people blind, rapacious, envious, vain: See by their manners thou be not defiled. Fortune reserves such honour for thee, fain 70 Both sides[466] will be to enlist thee in their need; But from the beak the herb shall far remain. Let beasts of Fiesole go on to tread Themselves to litter, nor the plants molest, If any such now spring on their rank bed, In whom there flourishes indeed the blest Seed of the Romans who still lingered there When of such wickedness 'twas made the nest.' 'Had I obtained full answer to my prayer, You had not yet been doomed,' I then did say, 80 'This exile from humanity to bear. For deep within my heart and memory Lives the paternal image good and dear Of you, as in the world, from day to day, How men escape oblivion you made clear; My thankfulness for which shall in my speech While I have life, as it behoves, appear. I note what of my future course you teach. Stored with another text[467] it will be glozed By one expert, should I that Lady reach. 90 Yet would I have this much to you disclosed: If but my conscience no reproaches yield, To all my fortune is my soul composed. Not new to me the hint by you revealed; Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel apace, Even as she will; the clown[468] his mattock wield.' Thereon my Master right about[469] did face, And uttered this, with glance upon me thrown: 'He hears[470] to purpose who doth mark the place.' And none the less I, speaking, still go on 100 With Ser Brunetto; asking him to tell Who of his band[471] are greatest and best known. And he to me: 'To hear of some is well, But of the rest 'tis fitting to be dumb, And time is lacking all their names to spell. That all of them were clerks, know thou in sum, All men of letters, famous and of might; Stained with one sin[472] all from the world are come. Priscian[473] goes with that crowd of evil plight, Francis d'Accorso[474] too; and hadst thou mind 110 For suchlike trash thou mightest have had sight Of him the Slave[475] of Slaves to change assigned From Arno's banks to Bacchiglione, where His nerves fatigued with vice he left behind. More would I say, but neither must I fare Nor talk at further length, for from the sand I see new dust-clouds[476] rising in the air, I may not keep with such as are at hand. Care for my _Treasure_;[477] for I still survive In that my work. I nothing else demand.' 120 Then turned he back, and ran like those who strive For the Green Cloth[478] upon Verona's plain; And seemed like him that shall the first arrive, And not like him that labours all in vain. FOOTNOTES: [454] _Now lies, etc._: The stream on issuing from the wood flows right across the waste of sand which that encompasses. To follow it they must turn to the right, as always when, their general course being to the left, they have to cross a Circle. But such a veering to the right is a consequence of their leftward course, and not an exception to it. [455] _Cadsand_: An island opposite to the mouth of the great canal of Bruges. [456] _Chiarentana_: What district or mountain is here meant has been much disputed. It can be taken for Carinthia only on the supposition that Dante was ignorant of where the Brenta rises. At the source of that river stands the Monte Chiarentana, but it may be a question how old that name is. The district name of it is Canzana, or Carenzana. [457] _Not so high, etc._: This limitation is very characteristic of Dante's style of thought, which compels him to a precision that will produce the utmost possible effect of verisimilitude in his description. Most poets would have made the walls far higher and more vast, by way of lending grandeur to the conception. [458] _Marvellous_: To find Dante, whom he knew, still living, and passing through the Circle. [459] _With hand, etc._: 'With my face bent to his' is another reading, but there seems to be most authority for that in the text.--The fiery shower forbids Dante to stoop over the edge of the causeway. To Brunetto, who is some feet below him, he throws out his open hand, a gesture of astonishment mingled with pity. [460] _Ser Brunetto_: Brunetto Latini, a Florentine, was born in 1220. As a notary he was entitled to be called Ser, or Messer. As appears from the context, Dante was under great intellectual obligations to him, not, we may suppose, as to a tutor so much as to an active-minded and scholarly friend of mature age, and possessed of a ripe experience of affairs. The social respect that Dante owed him is indicated by the use of the plural form of address. See note, _Inf._ x. 51. Brunetto held high appointments in the Republic. Perhaps with some exaggeration, Villani says of him that he was the first to refine the Florentines, teaching them to speak correctly, and to administer State affairs on fixed principles of politics (_Cronica_, viii. 10). A Guelf in politics, he shared in the exile of his party after the Ghibeline victory of Montaperti in 1260, and for some years resided in Paris. There is reason to suppose that he returned to Florence in 1269, and that he acted as prothonotary of the court of Charles of Valois' vicar-general in Tuscany. His signature as secretary to the Council of Florence is found under the date of 1273. He died in 1294, when Dante was twenty-nine, and was buried in the cloister of Santa Maria Maggiore, where his tombstone may still be seen. (Not in Santa Maria Novella.) Villani mentions him in his Chronicle with some reluctance, seeing he was a 'worldly man.' His life must indeed have been vicious to the last, before Dante could have had the heart to fix him in such company. Brunetto's chief works are the _Tesoro_ and _Tesoretto_. For the _Tesoro_, see note at line 119. The _Tesoretto_, or _Little Treasure_, is an allegorical poem in Italian rhymed couplets. In it he imagines himself, as he is on his return from an embassy to Alphonso of Castile, meeting a scholar of Bologna of whom he asks 'in smooth sweet words for news of Tuscany.' Having been told of the catastrophe of Montaperti he wanders out of the beaten way into the Forest of Roncesvalles, where he meets with various experiences; he is helped by Ovid, is instructed by Ptolemy, and grows penitent for his sins. In this, it will be seen, there is a general resemblance to the action of the _Comedy_. There are even turns of expression that recall Dante (_e.g._ beginning of _Cap._ iv.); but all together amounts to little. [461] _Low I bent my head_: But not projecting it beyond the line of safety, strictly defined by the edge of the causeway. We are to imagine to ourselves the fire of Sodom falling on Brunetto's upturned face, and missing Dante's head only by an inch. [462] _Yestermorn_: This is still the Saturday. It was Friday when Dante met Virgil. [463] _Guided by whom_: Brunetto has asked who the guide is, and Dante does not tell him. A reason for the refusal has been ingeniously found in the fact that among the numerous citations of the _Treasure_ Brunetto seldom quotes Virgil. See also the charge brought against Guido Cavalcanti (_Inf._ x. 63), of holding Virgil in disdain. But it is explanation enough of Dante's omission to name his guide that he is passing through Inferno to gain experience for himself, and not to satisfy the curiosity of the shades he meets. See note on line 99. [464] _Thy planet's light_: Some think that Brunetto had cast Dante's horoscope. In a remarkable passage (_Parad._ xxii. 112) Dante attributes any genius he may have to the influence of the Twins, which constellation was in the ascendant when he was born. See also _Inf._ xxvi. 23. But here it is more likely that Brunetto refers to his observation of Dante's good qualities, from which he gathered that he was well starred. [465] _Fiesole_: The mother city of Florence, to which also most of the Fiesolans were believed to have migrated at the beginning of the eleventh century. But all the Florentines did their best to establish a Roman descent for themselves; and Dante among them. His fellow-citizens he held to be for the most part of the boorish Fiesolan breed, rude and stony-hearted as the mountain in whose cleft the cradle of their race was seen from Florence. [466] _Both sides_: This passage was most likely written not long after Dante had ceased to entertain any hope of winning his way back to Florence in the company of the Whites, whose exile he shared, and when he was already standing in proud isolation from Black and White, from Guelf and Ghibeline. There is nothing to show that his expectation of being courted by both sides ever came true. Never a strong partisan, he had, to use his own words, at last to make a party by himself, and stood out an Imperialist with his heart set on the triumph of an Empire far nobler than that the Ghibeline desired. Dante may have hoped to hold a place of honour some day in the council of a righteous Emperor; and this may be the glorious haven with the dream of which he was consoled in the wanderings of his exile. [467] _Another text_: Ciacco and Farinata have already hinted at the troubles that lie ahead of him (_Inf._ vi. 65, and x. 79). [468] _The clown, etc._: The honest performance of duty is the best defence against adverse fortune. [469] _Right about_: In traversing the sands they keep upon the right-hand margin of the embanked stream, Virgil leading the way, with Dante behind him on the right so that Brunetto may see and hear him well. [470] _He hears, etc._: Of all the interpretations of this somewhat obscure sentence that seems the best which applies it to Virgil's _Quicquid erit, superanda omnis fortuna ferendo est_--'Whatever shall happen, every fate is to be vanquished by endurance' (_Æn._ v. 710). Taking this way of it, we have in the form of Dante's profession of indifference to all the adverse fortune that may be in store for him a refined compliment to his Guide; and in Virgil's gesture and words an equally delicate revelation of himself to Brunetto, in which is conveyed an answer to the question at line 48, 'Who is this that shows the way?'--Otherwise, the words convey Virgil's approbation of Dante's having so well attended to his advice to store Farinata's prophecy in his memory (_Inf._ x.127). [471] _His band_: That is, the company to which Brunetto specially belongs, and from which for the time he has separated himself. [472] _Stained with one sin_: Dante will not make Brunetto individually confess his sin. [473] _Priscian_: The great grammarian of the sixth century; placed here without any reason, except that he is a representative teacher of youth. [474] _Francis d'Accorso_: Died about 1294. The son of a great civil lawyer, he was himself professor of the civil law at Bologna, where his services were so highly prized that the Bolognese forbade him, on pain of the confiscation of his goods, to accept an invitation from Edward I. to go to Oxford. [475] _Of him the Slave, etc._: One of the Pope's titles is _Servus Servorum Domini_. The application of it to Boniface, so hated by Dante, may be ironical: 'Fit servant of such a slave to vice!' The priest referred to so contemptuously is Andrea, of the great Florentine family of the Mozzi, who was much engaged in the political affairs of his time, and became Bishop of Florence in 1286. About ten years later he was translated to Vicenza, which stands on the Bacchiglione; and he died shortly afterwards. According to Benvenuto he was a ridiculous preacher and a man of dissolute manners. What is now most interesting about him is that he was Dante's chief pastor during his early manhood, and is consigned by him to the same disgraceful circle of Inferno as his beloved master Brunetto Latini--a terrible evidence of the corruption of life among the churchmen as well as the scholars of the thirteenth century. [476] _New dust-clouds_: Raised by a band by whom they are about to be met. [477] _My Treasure_: The _Trésor_, or _Tesoro_, Brunetto's principal work, was written by him in French as being 'the pleasantest language, and the most widely spread.' In it he treats of things in general in the encyclopedic fashion set him by Alphonso of Castile. The first half consists of a summary of civil and natural history. The second is devoted to ethics, rhetoric, and politics. To a great extent it is a compilation, containing, for instance, a translation, nearly complete, of the Ethics of Aristotle--not, of course, direct from the Greek. It is written in a plodding style, and speaks to more industry than genius. To it Dante is indebted for some facts and fables. [478] _The Green Cloth_: To commemorate a victory won by the Veronese there was instituted a race to be run on the first Sunday of Lent. The prize was a piece of green cloth. The competitors ran naked.--Brunetto does not disappear into the gloom without a parting word of applause from his old pupil. Dante's rigorous sentence on his beloved master is pronounced as softly as it can be. We must still wonder that he has the heart to bring him to such an awful judgment. CANTO XVI. Now could I hear the water as it fell To the next circle[479] with a murmuring sound Like what is heard from swarming hives to swell; When three shades all together with a bound Burst from a troop met by us pressing on 'Neath rain of that sharp torment. O'er the ground Toward us approaching, they exclaimed each one: 'Halt thou, whom from thy garb[480] we judge to be A citizen of our corrupted town.' Alas, what scars I on their limbs did see, 10 Both old and recent, which the flames had made: Even now my ruth is fed by memory. My Teacher halted at their cry, and said: 'Await a while:' and looked me in the face; 'Some courtesy to these were well displayed. And but that fire--the manner of the place-- Descends for ever, fitting 'twere to find Rather than them, thee quickening thy pace.' When we had halted, they again combined In their old song; and, reaching where we stood, 20 Into a wheel all three were intertwined. And as the athletes used, well oiled and nude, To feel their grip and, wary, watch their chance, Ere they to purpose strike and wrestle could; So each of them kept fixed on me his glance As he wheeled round,[481] and in opposing ways His neck and feet seemed ever to advance. 'Ah, if the misery of this sand-strewn place Bring us and our petitions in despite,' One then began, 'and flayed and grimy face; 30 Let at the least our fame goodwill incite To tell us who thou art, whose living feet Thus through Inferno wander without fright. For he whose footprints, as thou see'st, I beat, Though now he goes with body peeled and nude, More than thou thinkest, in the world was great. The grandson was he of Gualdrada good; He, Guidoguerra,[482] with his armèd hand Did mighty things, and by his counsel shrewd. The other who behind me treads the sand 40 Is one whose name should on the earth be dear; For he is Tegghiaio[483] Aldobrand. And I, who am tormented with them here, James Rusticucci[484] was; my fierce and proud Wife of my ruin was chief minister.' If from the fire there had been any shroud I should have leaped down 'mong them, nor have earned Blame, for my Teacher sure had this allowed. But since I should have been all baked and burned, Terror prevailed the goodwill to restrain 50 With which to clasp them in my arms I yearned. Then I began: ''Twas not contempt but pain Which your condition in my breast awoke, Where deeply rooted it will long remain, When this my Master words unto me spoke, By which expectancy was in me stirred That ye who came were honourable folk. I of your city[485] am, and with my word Your deeds and honoured names oft to recall Delighted, and with joy of them I heard. 60 To the sweet fruits I go, and leave the gall, As promised to me by my Escort true; But first I to the centre down must fall.' 'So may thy soul thy members long endue With vital power,' the other made reply, 'And after thee thy fame[486] its light renew; As thou shalt tell if worth and courtesy Within our city as of yore remain, Or from it have been wholly forced to fly. For William Borsier,[487] one of yonder train, 70 And but of late joined with us in this woe, Causeth us with his words exceeding pain.' 'Upstarts, and fortunes suddenly that grow, Have bred in thee pride and extravagance,[488] Whence tears, O Florence! thou art shedding now.' Thus cried I with uplifted countenance. The three, accepting it for a reply, Glanced each at each as hearing truth men glance. And all: 'If others thou shalt satisfy As well at other times[489] at no more cost, 80 Happy thus at thine ease the truth to cry! Therefore if thou escap'st these regions lost, Returning to behold the starlight fair, Then when "There was I,"[490] thou shalt make thy boast, Something of us do thou 'mong men declare.' Then broken was the wheel, and as they fled Their nimble legs like pinions beat the air. So much as one _Amen!_ had scarce been said Quicker than what they vanished from our view. On this once more the way my Master led. 90 I followed, and ere long so near we drew To where the water fell, that for its roar Speech scarcely had been heard between us two. And as the stream which of all those which pour East (from Mount Viso counting) by its own Course falls the first from Apennine to shore-- As Acquacheta[491] in the uplands known By name, ere plunging to its bed profound; Name lost ere by Forlì its waters run-- Above St. Benedict with one long bound, 100 Where for a thousand[492] would be ample room, Falls from the mountain to the lower ground; Down the steep cliff that water dyed in gloom We found to fall echoing from side to side, Stunning the ear with its tremendous boom. There was a cord about my middle tied, With which I once had thought that I might hold Secure the leopard with the painted hide. When this from round me I had quite unrolled To him I handed it, all coiled and tight; 110 As by my Leader I had first been told. Himself then bending somewhat toward the right,[493] He just beyond the edge of the abyss Threw down the cord,[494] which disappeared from sight. 'That some strange thing will follow upon this Unwonted signal which my Master's eye Thus follows,' so I thought, 'can hardly miss.' Ah, what great caution need we standing by Those who behold not only what is done, But who have wit our hidden thoughts to spy! 120 He said to me: 'There shall emerge, and soon, What I await; and quickly to thy view That which thou dream'st of shall be clearly known.'[495] From utterance of truth which seems untrue A man, whene'er he can, should guard his tongue; Lest he win blame to no transgression due. Yet now I must speak out, and by the song Of this my Comedy, Reader, I swear-- So in good liking may it last full long!-- I saw a shape swim upward through that air. 130 All indistinct with gross obscurity, Enough to fill the stoutest heart with fear: Like one who rises having dived to free An anchor grappled on a jagged stone, Or something else deep hidden in the sea; With feet drawn in and arms all open thrown. FOOTNOTES: [479] _The next circle_: The Eighth. [480] _Thy garb_: 'Almost every city,' says Boccaccio, 'had in those times its peculiar fashion of dress distinct from that of neighboring cities.' [481] _As he wheeled round_: Virgil and Dante have come to a halt upon the embankment. The three shades, to whom it is forbidden to be at rest for a moment, clasping one another as in a dance, keep wheeling round in circle upon the sand. [482] _Guidoguerra_: A descendant of the Counts Guidi of Modigliana. Gualdrada was the daughter of Bellincion Berti de' Ravignani, praised for his simple habits in the _Paradiso_, xv. 112. Guidoguerra was a Guelf leader, and after the defeat of Montaperti acted as Captain of his party, in this capacity lending valuable aid to Charles of Anjou at the battle of Benevento, 1266, when Manfred was overthrown. He had no children, and left the Commonwealth of Florence his heir. [483] _Tegghiaio_: Son of Aldobrando of the Adimari. His name should be dear in Florence, because he did all he could to dissuade the citizens from the campaign which ended so disastrously at Montaperti. [484] _James Rusticucci_: An accomplished cavalier of humble birth, said to have been a retainer of Dante's friends the Cavalcanti. The commentators have little to tell of him except that he made an unhappy marriage, which is evident from the text. Of the sins of him and his companions there is nothing known beyond what is to be inferred from the poet's words, and nothing to say, except that when Dante consigned men of their stamp, frank and amiable, to the Infernal Circles, we may be sure that he only executed a verdict already accepted as just by the whole of Florence. And when we find him impartially damning Guelf and Ghibeline we may be equally sure that he looked for the aid of neither party, and of no family however powerful in the State, to bring his banishment to a close. He would even seem to be careful to stop any hole by which he might creep back to Florence. When he did return, it was to be in the train of the Emperor, so he hoped, and as one who gives rather than seeks forgiveness. [485] _Of your city, etc._: At line 32 Rusticucci begs Dante to tell who he is. He tells that he is of their city, which they have already gathered from his _berretta_ and the fashion of his gown; but he tells nothing, almost, of himself. Unless to Farinata, indeed, he never makes an open breast to any one met in Inferno. But here he does all that courtesy requires. [486] _Thy fame_: Dante has implied in his answer that he is gifted with oratorical powers and is the object of a special Divine care; and the illustrious Florentine, frankly acknowledging the claim he makes, adjures him by the fame which is his in store to appease an eager curiosity about the Florence which even in Inferno is the first thought of every not ignoble Florentine. [487] _William Borsiere_: A Florentine, witty and well bred, according to Boccaccio. Being once at Genoa he was shown a fine new palace by its miserly owner, and was asked to suggest a subject for a painting with which to adorn the hall. The subject was to be something that nobody had ever seen. Borsiere proposed liberality as something that the miser at any rate had never yet got a good sight of; an answer of which it is not easy to detect either the wit or the courtesy, but which is said to have converted the churl to liberal ways (_Decam._ i. 8). He is here introduced as an authority on the noble style of manners. [488] _Pride and extravagance_: In place of the nobility of mind that leads to great actions, and the gentle manners that prevail in a society where there is a due subordination of rank to rank and well-defined duties for every man. This, the aristocratic in a noble sense, was Dante's ideal of a social state; for all his instincts were those of a Florentine aristocrat, corrected though they were by his good sense and his thirst for a reign of perfect justice. During his own time he had seen Florence grow more and more democratic; and he was irritated--unreasonably, considering that it was only a sign of the general prosperity--at the spectacle of the amazing growth of wealth in the hands of low-born traders, who every year were coming more to the front and monopolising influence at home and abroad at the cost of their neighbours and rivals with longer pedigrees and shorter purses. In _Paradiso_ xvi. Dante dwells at length on the degeneracy of the Florentines. [489] _At other times_: It is hinted that his outspokenness will not in the future always give equal satisfaction to those who hear. [490] _There was I, etc._: _Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit._--_Æn._ i. 203. [491] _Acquacheta_: The fall of the water of the brook over the lofty cliff that sinks from the Seventh to the Eighth Circle is compared to the waterfall upon the Montone at the monastery of St. Benedict, in the mountains above Forlì. The Po rises in Monte Viso. Dante here travels in imagination from Monte Viso down through Italy, and finds that all the rivers which rise on the left hand, that is, on the north-east of the Apennine, fall into the Po, till the Montone is reached, that river falling into the Adriatic by a course of its own. Above Forlì it was called Acquacheta. The Lamone, north of the Montone, now follows an independent course to the sea, having cut a new bed for itself since Dante's time. [492] _Where for a thousand, etc._: In the monastery there was room for many more monks, say most of the commentators; or something to the like effect. Mr. Longfellow's interpretation seems better: Where the height of the fall is so great that it would divide into a thousand falls. [493] _Toward the right_: The attitude of one about to throw. [494] _The cord_: The services of Geryon are wanted to convey them down the next reach of the pit; and as no voice could be heard for the noise of the waterfall, and no signal be made to catch the eye amid the gloom, Virgil is obliged to call the attention of the monster by casting some object into the depth where he lies concealed. But, since they are surrounded by solid masonry and slack sand, one or other of them must supply something fit to throw down; and the cord worn by Dante is fixed on as what can best be done without. There may be a reference to the cord of Saint Francis, which Dante, according to one of his commentators, wore when he was a young man, following in this a fashion common enough among pious laymen who had no thought of ever becoming friars. But the simile of the cord, as representing sobriety and virtuous purpose, is not strange to Dante. In _Purg._ vii. 114 he describes Pedro of Arragon as being girt with the cord of every virtue; and Pedro was no Franciscan. Dante's cord may therefore be taken as standing for vigilance or self-control. With it he had hoped to get the better of the leopard (_Inf._ i. 32), and may have trusted in it for support as against the terrors of Inferno. But although he has been girt with it ever since he entered by the gate, it has not saved him from a single fear, far less from a single danger; and now it is cast away as useless. Henceforth, more than ever, he is to confide wholly in Virgil and have no confidence in himself. Nor is he to be girt again till he reaches the coast of Purgatory, and then it is to be with a reed, the emblem of humility.--But, however explained, the incident will always be somewhat of a puzzle. [495] Dante attributes to Virgil full knowledge of all that is in his own mind. He thus heightens our conception of his dependence on his guide, with whose will his will is blent, and whose thoughts are always found to be anticipating his own. Few readers will care to be constantly recalling to mind that Virgil represents enlightened human reason. But even if we confine ourselves to the easiest sense of the narrative, the study of the relations between him and Dante will be found one of the most interesting suggested by the poem--perhaps only less so than that of Dante's moods of wonder, anger, and pity. CANTO XVII. 'Behold the monster[496] with the pointed tail, Who passes mountains[497] and can entrance make Through arms and walls! who makes the whole world ail, Corrupted by him!' Thus my Leader spake, And beckoned him that he should land hard by, Where short the pathways built of marble break. And that foul image of dishonesty Moving approached us with his head and chest, But to the bank[498] drew not his tail on high. His face a human righteousness expressed, 10 'Twas so benignant to the outward view; A serpent was he as to all the rest. On both his arms hair to the arm-pits grew: On back and chest and either flank were knot[499] And rounded shield portrayed in various hue; No Turk or Tartar weaver ever brought To ground or pattern a more varied dye;[500] Nor by Arachne[501] was such broidery wrought. As sometimes by the shore the barges lie Partly in water, partly on dry land; 20 And as afar in gluttonous Germany,[502] Watching their prey, alert the beavers stand; So did this worst of brutes his foreparts fling Upon the stony rim which hems the sand. All of his tail in space was quivering, Its poisoned fork erecting in the air, Which scorpion-like was armèd with a sting. My Leader said: 'Now we aside must fare A little distance, so shall we attain Unto the beast malignant crouching there.' 30 So we stepped down upon the right,[503] and then A half score steps[504] to the outer edge did pace, Thus clearing well the sand and fiery rain. And when we were hard by him I could trace Upon the sand a little further on Some people sitting near to the abyss. 'That what this belt containeth may be known Completely by thee,' then the Master said; 'To see their case do thou advance alone. Let thy inquiries be succinctly made. 40 While thou art absent I will ask of him, With his strong shoulders to afford us aid.' Then, all alone, I on the outmost rim Of that Seventh Circle still advancing trod, Where sat a woful folk.[505] Full to the brim Their eyes with anguish were, and overflowed; Their hands moved here and there to win some ease, Now from the flames, now from the soil which glowed. No otherwise in summer-time one sees, Working its muzzle and its paws, the hound 50 When bit by gnats or plagued with flies or fleas. And I, on scanning some who sat around Of those on whom the dolorous flames alight, Could recognise[506] not one. I only found A purse hung from the throat of every wight, Each with its emblem and its special hue; And every eye seemed feasting on the sight. As I, beholding them, among them drew, I saw what seemed a lion's face and mien Upon a yellow purse designed in blue. 60 Still moving on mine eyes athwart the scene I saw another scrip, blood-red, display A goose more white than butter could have been. And one, on whose white wallet blazoned lay A pregnant sow[507] in azure, to me said: 'What dost thou in this pit? Do thou straightway Begone; and, seeing thou art not yet dead, Know that Vitalian,[508] neighbour once of mine, Shall on my left flank one day find his bed. A Paduan I: all these are Florentine; 70 And oft they stun me, bellowing in my ear: "Come, Pink of Chivalry,[509] for whom we pine, Whose is the purse on which three beaks appear:"' Then he from mouth awry his tongue thrust out[510] Like ox that licks its nose; and I, in fear Lest more delay should stir in him some doubt Who gave command I should not linger long, Me from those wearied spirits turned about. I found my Guide, who had already sprung Upon the back of that fierce animal: 80 He said to me: 'Now be thou brave and strong. By stairs like this[511] we henceforth down must fall. Mount thou in front, for I between would sit So thee the tail shall harm not nor appal.' Like one so close upon the shivering fit Of quartan ague that his nails grow blue, And seeing shade he trembles every whit, I at the hearing of that order grew; But his threats shamed me, as before the face Of a brave lord his man grows valorous too. 90 On the great shoulders then I took my place, And wished to say, but could not move my tongue As I expected: 'Do thou me embrace!' But he, who other times had helped me 'mong My other perils, when ascent I made Sustained me, and strong arms around me flung, And, 'Geryon, set thee now in motion!' said; 'Wheel widely; let thy downward flight be slow; Think of the novel burden on thee laid.' As from the shore a boat begins to go 100 Backward at first, so now he backward pressed, And when he found that all was clear below, He turned his tail where earlier was his breast; And, stretching it, he moved it like an eel, While with his paws he drew air toward his chest. More terror Phaëthon could hardly feel What time he let the reins abandoned fall, Whence Heaven was fired,[512] as still its tracts reveal; Nor wretched Icarus, on finding all His plumage moulting as the wax grew hot, 110 While, 'The wrong road!' his father loud did call; Than what I felt on finding I was brought Where nothing was but air and emptiness; For save the brute I could distinguish nought. He slowly, slowly swims; to the abyss Wheeling he makes descent, as I surmise From wind felt 'neath my feet and in my face. Already on the right I heard arise From out the caldron a terrific roar,[513] Whereon I stretch my head with down-turned eyes. 120 Terror of falling now oppressed me sore; Hearing laments, and seeing fires that burned, My thighs I tightened, trembling more and more. Earlier I had not by the eye discerned That we swept downward; scenes of torment now Seemed drawing nearer wheresoe'er we turned. And as a falcon (which long time doth go Upon the wing, not finding lure[514] or prey), While 'Ha!' the falconer cries, 'descending so!' Comes wearied back whence swift it soared away; 130 Wheeling a hundred times upon the road, Then, from its master far, sulks angrily: So we, by Geryon in the deep bestowed, Were 'neath the sheer-hewn precipice set down: He, suddenly delivered from our load, Like arrow from the string was swiftly gone. FOOTNOTES: [496] _The monster_: Geryon, a mythical king of Spain, converted here into the symbol of fraud, and set as the guardian demon of the Eighth Circle, where the fraudulent are punished. There is nothing in the mythology to justify this account of Geryon; and it seems that Dante has created a monster to serve his purpose. Boccaccio, in his _Genealogy of the Gods_ (Lib. i.), repeats the description of Geryon given by 'Dante the Florentine, in his poem written in the Florentine tongue, one certainly of no little importance among poems;' and adds that Geryon reigned in the Balearic Isles, and was used to decoy travellers with his benignant countenance, caressing words, and every kind of friendly lure, and then to murder them when asleep. [497] _Who passes mountains, etc._: Neither art nor nature affords any defence against fraud. [498] _The bank_: Not that which confines the brook but the inner limit of the Seventh Circle, from which the precipice sinks sheer into the Eighth, and to which the embankment by which the travellers have crossed the sand joins itself on. Virgil has beckoned Geryon to come to that part of the bank which adjoins the end of the causeway. [499] _Knot and rounded shield_: Emblems of subtle devices and subterfuges. [500]_ Varied dye_: Denoting the various colours of deceit. [501] _Arachne_: The Lydian weaver changed into a spider by Minerva. See _Purg._ xii. 43. [502] _Gluttonous Germany_: The habits of the German men-at-arms in Italy, odious to the temperate Italians, explains this gibe. [503] _The right_: This is the second and last time that, in their course through Inferno, they turn to the right. See _Inf._ ix. 132. The action may possibly have a symbolical meaning, and refer to the protection against fraud which is obtained by keeping to a righteous course. But here, in fact, they have no choice, for, traversing the Inferno as they do to the left hand, they came to the right bank of the stream which traverses the fiery sands, followed it, and now, when they would leave its edge, it is from the right embankment that they have to step down, and necessarily to the right hand. [504] _A half score steps, etc._: Traversing the stone-built border which lies between the sand and the precipice. Had the brook flowed to the very edge of the Seventh Circle before tumbling down the rocky wall it is clear that they might have kept to the embankment until they were clear beyond the edge of the sand. We are therefore to figure to ourselves the water as plunging down at a point some yards, perhaps the width of the border, short of the true limit of the circle; and this is a touch of local truth, since waterfalls in time always wear out a funnel for themselves by eating back the precipice down which they tumble. It was into this funnel that Virgil flung the cord, and up it that Geryon was seen to ascend, as if by following up the course of the water he would find out who had made the signal. To keep to the narrow causeway where it ran on by the edge of this gulf would seem too full of risk. [505] _Woful folk_: Usurers; those guilty of the unnatural sin of contemning the legitimate modes of human industry. They sit huddled up on the sand, close to its bound of solid masonry, from which Dante looks down on them. But that the usurers are not found only at the edge of the plain is evident from _Inf._ xiv. 19. [506] _Could recognise, etc._: Though most of the group prove to be from Florence Dante recognises none of them; and this denotes that nothing so surely creates a second nature in a man, in a bad sense, as setting the heart on money. So in the Fourth Circle those who, being unable to spend moderately, are always thinking of how to keep or get money are represented as 'obscured from any recognition' (_Inf._ vii. 44). [507] _A pregnant sow_: The azure lion on a golden field was the arms of the Gianfigliazzi, eminent usurers of Florence; the white goose on a red ground was the arms of the Ubriachi of Florence; the azure sow, of the Scrovegni of Padua. [508] _Vitalian_: A rich Paduan noble, whose palace was near that of the Scrovegni. [509] _Pink of Chivalry_: 'Sovereign Cavalier;' identified by his arms as Ser Giovanni Buiamonte, still alive in Florence in 1301, and if we are to judge from the text, the greatest usurer of all. A northern poet of the time would have sought his usurers in the Jewry of some town he knew, but Dante finds his among the nobles of Padua and Florence. He ironically represents them as wearing purses ornamented with their coats of arms, perhaps to hint that they pursued their dishonourable trade under shelter of their noble names--their shop signs, as it were. The whole passage may have been planned by Dante so as to afford him the opportunity of damning the still living Buiamonte without mentioning his name. [510] _His tongue thrust out_: As if to say: We know well what sort of fine gentleman Buiamonte is. [511] _By stairs like this_: The descent from one circle to another grows more difficult the further down they come. They appear to have found no special obstacle in the nature of the ground till they reached the bank sloping down to the Fifth Circle, the pathway down which is described as terrible (_Inf._ vii. 105). The descent into the Seventh Circle is made practicable, and nothing more (_Inf._ xii. I). [512] _Heaven was fired_: As still appears in the Milky Way. In the _Convito_, ii. 15, Dante discusses the various explanations of what causes the brightness of that part of the heavens. [513] _A terrific roar_: Of the water falling to the ground. On beginning the descent they had left the waterfall on the left hand, but Geryon, after fetching one or more great circles, passes in front of it, and then they have it on the right. There is no further mention of the waters of Phlegethon till they are found frozen in Cocytus (_Inf._ xxxii. 23). Philalethes suggests that they flow under the Eighth Circle. [514] _Lure_: An imitation bird used in training falcons. Dante describes the sulky, slow descent of a falcon which has either lost sight of its prey, or has failed to discover where the falconer has thrown the lure. Geryon has descended thus deliberately owing to the command of Virgil. CANTO XVIII. Of iron colour, and composed of stone, A place called Malebolge[515] is in Hell, Girt by a cliff of substance like its own. In that malignant region yawns a well[516] Right in the centre, ample and profound; Of which I duly will the structure tell. The zone[517] that lies between them, then, is round-- Between the well and precipice hard and high; Into ten vales divided is the ground. As is the figure offered to the eye, 10 Where numerous moats a castle's towers enclose That they the walls may better fortify; A like appearance was made here by those. And as, again, from threshold of such place Many a drawbridge to the outworks goes; So ridges from the precipice's base Cutting athwart the moats and barriers run, Till at the well join the extremities.[518] From Geryon's back when we were shaken down 'Twas here we stood, until the Poet's feet 20 Moved to the left, and I, behind, came on. New torments on the right mine eyes did meet With new tormentors, novel woe on woe; With which the nearer Bolgia was replete. Sinners, all naked, in the gulf below, This side the middle met us; while they strode On that side with us, but more swift did go.[519] Even so the Romans, that the mighty crowd Across the bridge, the year of Jubilee, Might pass with ease, ordained a rule of road[520]-- 30 Facing the Castle, on that side should be The multitude which to St. Peter's hied; So to the Mount on this was passage free. On the grim rocky ground, on either side, I saw horned devils[521] armed with heavy whip Which on the sinners from behind they plied. Ah, how they made the wretches nimbly skip At the first lashes; no one ever yet But sought from the second and the third to slip. And as I onward went, mine eyes were set 40 On one of them; whereon I called in haste: 'This one already I have surely met!' Therefore to know him, fixedly I gazed; And my kind Leader willingly delayed, While for a little I my course retraced. On this the scourged one, thinking to evade My search, his visage bent without avail, For: 'Thou that gazest on the ground,' I said, 'If these thy features tell trustworthy tale, Venedico Caccianimico[522] thou! 50 But what has brought thee to such sharp regale?'[523] And he, 'I tell it 'gainst my will, I trow, But thy clear accents[524] to the old world bear My memory, and make me all avow. I was the man who Ghisola the fair To serve the Marquis' evil will led on, Whatever[525] the uncomely tale declare. Of Bolognese here weeping not alone Am I; so full the place of them, to-day 'Tween Reno and Savena[526] are not known 60 So many tongues that _Sipa_ deftly say: And if of this thou'dst know the reason why, Think but how greedy were our hearts alway.' To him thus speaking did a demon cry: 'Pander, begone!' and smote him with his thong; 'Here are no women for thy coin to buy.' Then, with my Escort joined, I moved along. Few steps we made until we there had come, Where from the bank a rib of rock was flung. With ease enough up to its top we clomb, 70 And, turning on the ridge, bore to the right;[527] And those eternal circles[528] parted from. When we had reached where underneath the height A passage opes, yielding the scourged a way, My Guide bade: 'Tarry, so to hold in sight Those other spirits born in evil day, Whose faces until now from thee have been Concealed, because with ours their progress lay.' Then from the ancient bridge by us were seen The troop which toward us on that circuit sped, 80 Chased onward, likewise, by the scourges keen. And my good Master, ere I asked him, said: 'That lordly one now coming hither, see, By whom, despite of pain, no tears are shed. What mien he still retains of majesty! 'Tis Jason, who by courage and by guile The Colchians of the ram deprived. 'Twas he Who on his passage by the Lemnian isle, Where all of womankind with daring hand Upon their males had wrought a murder vile, 90 With loving pledges and with speeches bland The tender-yeared Hypsipyle betrayed, Who had herself a fraud on others planned. Forlorn he left her then, when pregnant made. That is the crime condemns him to this pain; And for Medea[529] too is vengeance paid. Who in his manner cheat compose his train. Of the first moat sufficient now is known, And those who in its jaws engulfed remain.' Already had we by the strait path gone 100 To where 'tis with the second bank dovetailed-- The buttress whence a second arch is thrown. Here heard we who in the next Bolgia wailed[530] And puffed for breath; reverberations told They with their open palms themselves assailed. The sides were crusted over with a mould Plastered upon them by foul mists that rise, And both with eyes and nose a contest hold. The bottom is so deep, in vain our eyes Searched it till further up the bridge we went, 110 To where the arch o'erhangs what under lies. Ascended there, our eyes we downward bent, And I saw people in such ordure drowned, A very cesspool 'twas of excrement. And while I from above am searching round, One with a head so filth-smeared I picked out, I knew not if 'twas lay, or tonsure-crowned. 'Why then so eager,' asked he with a shout, 'To stare at me of all the filthy crew?' And I to him: 'Because I scarce can doubt 120 That formerly thee dry of hair I knew, Alessio Interminei[531] the Lucchese; And therefore thee I chiefly hold in view.' Smiting his head-piece, then, his words were these: ''Twas flattery steeped me here; for, using such, My tongue itself enough could never please.' 'Now stretch thou somewhat forward, but not much,' Thereon my Leader bade me, 'and thine eyes Slowly advance till they her features touch And the dishevelled baggage recognise, 130 Clawing her yonder with her nails unclean, Now standing up, now squatting on her thighs. 'Tis harlot Thais,[532] who, when she had been Asked by her lover, "Am I generous And worthy thanks?" said, "Greatly so, I ween." Enough[533] of this place has been seen by us.' FOOTNOTES: [515] _Malebolge_: Or Evil Pits; literally, Evil Pockets. [516] _A well_: The Ninth and lowest Circle, to be described in Canto xxxii., etc. [517] _The zone_: The Eighth Circle, in which the fraudulent of all species are punished, lies between the precipice and the Ninth Circle. A vivid picture of the enormous height of the enclosing wall has been presented to us at the close of the preceding Canto. As in the description of the Second Circle the atmosphere is represented as malignant, being murky and disturbed with tempest; so the Malebolge is called malignant too, being all of barren iron-coloured rock. In both cases the surroundings of the sinners may well be spoken of as malign, adverse to any thought of goodwill and joy. [518] _The extremities_: The _Malebolge_ consists of ten circular pits or fosses, one inside of another. The outermost lies under the precipice which falls sheer from the Seventh Circle; the innermost, and of course the smallest, runs immediately outside of the 'Well,' which is the Ninth Circle. The Bolgias or valleys are divided from each other by rocky banks; and, each Bolgia being at a lower level than the one that encloses it, the inside of each bank is necessarily deeper than the outside. Ribs or ridges of rock--like spokes of a wheel to the axle-tree--run from the foot of the precipice to the outer rim of the 'Well,' vaulting the moats at right angles with the course of them. Thus each rib takes the form of a ten-arched bridge. By one or other of these Virgil and Dante now travel towards the centre and the base of Inferno; their general course being downward, though varied by the ascent in turn of the hog-backed arches over the moats. [519] _More swift_: The sinners in the First Bolgia are divided into two gangs, moving in opposite directions, the course of those on the outside being to the right, as looked at by Dante. These are the shades of panders; those in the inner current are such as seduced on their own account. Here a list of the various classes of sinners contained in the Bolgias of the Eighth Circle may be given:-- 1st Bolgia--Seducers, CANTO XVIII. 2d " Flatterers, " " 3d " Simoniacs, " XIX. 4th " Soothsayers, " XX. 5th " Barrators, " XXI. XXII. 6th " Hypocrites, " XXIII. 7th " Thieves, " XXIV. XXV. 8th " Evil Counsellors, " XXVI. XXVII. 9th " Scandal and Heresy Mongers, " XXVIII. XXIX. 10th " Falsifiers, " XXIX. XXX. [520] _A rule of road_: In the year 1300 a Jubilee was held in Rome with Plenary Indulgence for all pilgrims. Villani says that while it lasted the number of strangers in Rome was never less than two hundred thousand. The bridge and castle spoken of in the text are those of St. Angelo. The Mount is probably the Janiculum. [521] _Horned devils_: Here the demons are horned--terrible remembrancers to the sinner of the injured husband. [522] _Venedico Caccianimico_: A Bolognese noble, brother of Ghisola, whom he inveigled into yielding herself to the Marquis of Este, lord of Ferrara. Venedico died between 1290 and 1300. [523] _Such sharp regale_: 'Such pungent sauces.' There is here a play of words on the _Salse_, the name of a wild ravine outside the walls of Bologna, where the bodies of felons were thrown. Benvenuto says it used to be a taunt among boys at Bologna: Your father was pitched into the Salse. [524] _Thy clear accents_: Not broken with sobs like his own and those of his companions. [525] _Whatever, etc._: Different accounts seem to have been current about the affair of Ghisola. [526] _'Tween Reno, etc._: The Reno and Savena are streams that flow past Bologna. _Sipa_ is Bolognese for Maybe, or for Yes. So Dante describes Tuscany as the country where _Si_ is heard (_Inf._ xxxiii. 80). With regard to the vices of the Bolognese, Benvenuto says: 'Dante had studied in Bologna, and had seen and observed all these things.' [527] _To the right_: This is only an apparent departure from their leftward course. Moving as they were to the left along the edge of the Bolgia, they required to turn to the right to cross the bridge that spanned it. [528] _Those eternal circles_: The meaning is not clear; perhaps it only is that they have now done with the outer stream of sinners in this Bolgia, left by them engaged in endless procession round and round. [529] _Medea_: When the Argonauts landed on Lemnos, they found it without any males, the women, incited by Venus, having put them all to death, with the exception of Thoas, saved by his daughter Hypsipyle. When Jason deserted her he sailed for Colchis, and with the assistance of Medea won the Golden Fleece. Medea, who accompanied him from Colchis, was in turn deserted by him. [530] _Who in the next Bolgia wailed_: The flatterers in the Second Bolgia. [531] _Alessio Interminei_: Of the Great Lucchese family of the Interminelli, to which the famous Castruccio Castrucani belonged. Alessio is know to have been living in 1295. Dante may have known him personally. Benvenuto says he was so liberal of his flattery that he spent it even on menial servants. [532] _Thais_: In the _Eunuch_ of Terence, Thraso, the lover of that courtesan, asks Gnatho, their go-between, if she really sent him many thanks for the present of a slave-girl he had sent her. 'Enormous!' says Gnatho. It proves what great store Dante set on ancient instances when he thought this worth citing. [533] _Enough, etc._: Most readers will agree with Virgil. CANTO XIX. O Simon Magus![534] ye his wretched crew! The gifts of God, ordained to be the bride Of righteousness, ye prostitute that you With gold and silver may be satisfied; Therefore for you let now the trumpet[535] blow, Seeing that ye in the Third Bolgia 'bide. Arrived at the next tomb,[536] we to the brow Of rock ere this had finished our ascent, Which hangs true plumb above the pit below. What perfect art, O Thou Omniscient, 10 Is Thine in Heaven and earth and the bad world found! How justly does Thy power its dooms invent! The livid stone, on both banks and the ground, I saw was full of holes on every side, All of one size, and each of them was round. No larger seemed they to me nor less wide Than those within my beautiful St. John[537] For the baptizers' standing-place supplied; And one of which, not many years agone, I broke to save one drowning; and I would 20 Have this for seal to undeceive men known. Out of the mouth of each were seen protrude A sinner's feet, and of the legs the small Far as the calves; the rest enveloped stood. And set on fire were both the soles of all, Which made their ankles wriggle with such throes As had made ropes and withes asunder fall. And as flame fed by unctuous matter goes Over the outer surface only spread; So from their heels it flickered to the toes. 30 'Master, who is he, tortured more,' I said, 'Than are his neighbours, writhing in such woe; And licked by flames of deeper-hearted red?' And he: 'If thou desirest that below I bear thee by that bank[538] which lowest lies, Thou from himself his sins and name shalt know.' And I: 'Thy wishes still for me suffice: Thou art my Lord, and knowest I obey Thy will; and dost my hidden thoughts surprise.' To the fourth barrier then we made our way, 40 And, to the left hand turning, downward went Into the narrow hole-pierced cavity; Nor the good Master caused me make descent From off his haunch till we his hole were nigh Who with his shanks was making such lament. 'Whoe'er thou art, soul full of misery, Set like a stake with lower end upcast,' I said to him, 'Make, if thou canst, reply.' I like a friar[539] stood who gives the last Shrift to a vile assassin, to his side 50 Called back to win delay for him fixed fast. 'Art thou arrived already?' then he cried, 'Art thou arrived already, Boniface? By several years the prophecy[540] has lied. Art so soon wearied of the wealthy place, For which thou didst not fear to take with guile, Then ruin the fair Lady?'[541] Now my case Was like to theirs who linger on, the while They cannot comprehend what they are told, And as befooled[542] from further speech resile. 60 But Virgil bade me: 'Speak out loud and bold, "I am not he thou thinkest, no, not he!"' And I made answer as by him controlled. The spirit's feet then twisted violently, And, sighing in a voice of deep distress, He asked: 'What then requirest thou of me? If me to know thou hast such eagerness, That thou the cliff hast therefore ventured down, Know, the Great Mantle sometime was my dress. I of the Bear, in sooth, was worthy son: 70 As once, the Cubs to help, my purse with gain I stuffed, myself I in this purse have stown. Stretched out at length beneath my head remain All the simoniacs[543] that before me went, And flattened lie throughout the rocky vein. I in my turn shall also make descent, Soon as he comes who I believed thou wast, When I asked quickly what for him was meant. O'er me with blazing feet more time has past, While upside down I fill the topmost room, 80 Than he his crimsoned feet shall upward cast; For after him one viler still shall come, A Pastor from the West,[544] lawless of deed: To cover both of us his worthy doom. A modern Jason[545] he, of whom we read In Maccabees, whose King denied him nought: With the French King so shall this man succeed.' Perchance I ventured further than I ought, But I spake to him in this measure free: 'Ah, tell me now what money was there sought 90 Of Peter by our Lord, when either key He gave him in his guardianship to hold? Sure He demanded nought save: "Follow me!" Nor Peter, nor the others, asked for gold Or silver when upon Matthias fell The lot instead of him, the traitor-souled. Keep then thy place, for thou art punished well,[546] And clutch the pelf, dishonourably gained, Which against Charles[547] made thee so proudly swell. And, were it not that I am still restrained 100 By reverence[548] for those tremendous keys, Borne by thee while the glad world thee contained, I would use words even heavier than these; Seeing your avarice makes the world deplore, Crushing the good, filling the bad with ease. 'Twas you, O Pastors, the Evangelist bore In mind what time he saw her on the flood Of waters set, who played with kings the whore; Who with seven heads was born; and as she would By the ten horns to her was service done, 110 Long as her spouse[549] rejoiced in what was good. Now gold and silver are your god alone: What difference 'twixt the idolater and you, Save that ye pray a hundred for his one? Ah, Constantine,[550] how many evils grew-- Not from thy change of faith, but from the gift Wherewith thou didst the first rich Pope endue!' While I my voice continued to uplift To such a tune, by rage or conscience stirred Both of his soles he made to twist and shift. 120 My Guide, I well believe, with pleasure heard; Listening he stood with lips so well content To me propounding truthful word on word. Then round my body both his arms he bent, And, having raised me well upon his breast, Climbed up the path by which he made descent. Nor was he by his burden so oppressed But that he bore me to the bridge's crown, Which with the fourth joins the fifth rampart's crest. And lightly here he set his burden down, 130 Found light by him upon the precipice, Up which a goat uneasily had gone. And thence another valley met mine eyes. FOOTNOTES: [534] _Simon Magus_: The sin of simony consists in setting a price on the exercise of a spiritual grace or the acquisition of a spiritual office. Dante assails it at headquarters, that is, as it was practised by the Popes; and in their case it took, among other forms, that of ecclesiastical nepotism. [535] _The trumpet_: Blown at the punishment of criminals, to call attention to their sentence. [536] _The next tomb_: The Third Bolgia, appropriately termed a tomb, because its manner of punishment is that of a burial, as will be seen. [537] _St. John_: The church of St. John's, in Dante's time, as now, the Baptistery of Florence. In _Parad._ xxv. he anticipates the day, if it should ever come, when he shall return to Florence, and in the church where he was baptized a Christian be crowned as a Poet. Down to the middle of the sixteenth century all baptisms, except in cases of urgent necessity, were celebrated in St. John's; and, even there, only on the eves of Easter and Pentecost. For protection against the crowd, the officiating priests were provided with standing-places, circular cavities disposed around the great font. To these Dante compares the holes of this Bolgia, for the sake of introducing a defence of himself from a charge of sacrilege. Benvenuto tells that once when some boys were playing about the church one of them, to hide himself from his companions, squeezed himself into a baptizer's standing-place, and made so tight a fit of it that he could not be rescued till Dante with his own hands plied a hammer upon the marble, and so saved the child from drowning. The presence of water in the cavity may be explained by the fact of the church's being at that time lighted by an unglazed opening in the roof; and as baptisms were so infrequent the standing-places, situated as they were in the centre of the floor, may often have been partially flooded. It is easy to understand how bitterly Dante would resent a charge of irreverence connected with his 'beautiful St. John's;' 'that fair sheep-fold' (_Parad._ xxv. 5). [538] _That bank, etc._: Of each Bolgia the inner bank is lower than the outer; the whole of Malebolge sloping towards the centre of the Inferno. [539] _Like a friar, etc._: In those times the punishment of an assassin was to be stuck head downward in a pit, and then to have earth slowly shovelled in till he was suffocated. Dante bends down, the better to hear what the sinner has to say, like a friar recalled by the felon on the pretence that he has something to add to his confession. [540] _The prophecy_: 'The writing.' The speaker is Nicholas III., of the great Roman family of the Orsini, and Pope from 1277 to 1280; a man of remarkable bodily beauty and grace of manner, as well as of great force of character. Like many other Holy Fathers he was either a great hypocrite while on his promotion, or else he degenerated very quickly after getting himself well settled on the Papal Chair. He is said to have been the first Pope who practised simony with no attempt at concealment. Boniface VIII., whom he is waiting for to relieve him, became Pope in 1294, and died in 1303. None of the four Popes between 1280 and 1294 were simoniacs; so that Nicholas was uppermost in the hole for twenty-three years. Although ignorant of what is now passing on the earth, he can refer back to his foreknowledge of some years earlier (see _Inf._ x. 99) as if to a prophetic writing, and finds that according to this it is still three years too soon, it being now only 1300, for the arrival of Boniface. This is the usual explanation of the passage. To it lies the objection that foreknowledge of the present that can be referred back to is the same thing as knowledge of it, and with this the spirits in Inferno are not endowed. But Dante elsewhere shows that he finds it hard to observe the limitation. The alternative explanation, supported by the use of _scritto_ (writing) in the text, is that Nicholas refers to some prophecy once current about his successors in Rome. [541] _The fair Lady_: The Church. The guile is that shown by Boniface in getting his predecessor Celestine v. to abdicate (_Inf._ iii. 60). [542] _As befooled_: Dante does not yet suspect that it is with a Pope he is speaking. He is dumbfounded at being addressed as Boniface. [543] _All the simoniacs_: All the Popes that had been guilty of the sin. [544] _A Pastor from the West_: Boniface died in 1303, and was succeeded by Benedict XI., who in his turn was succeeded by Clement V., the Pastor from the West. Benedict was not stained with simony, and so it is Clement that is to relieve Boniface; and he is to come from the West, that is, from Avignon, to which the Holy See was removed by him. Or the reference may simply be to the country of his birth. Elsewhere he is spoken of as 'the Gascon who shall cheat the noble Henry' of Luxemburg (_Parad._ xvii. 82).--This passage has been read as throwing light on the question of when the _Inferno_ was written. Nicholas says that from the time Boniface arrives till Clement relieves him will be a shorter period than that during which he has himself been in Inferno, that is to say, a shorter time than twenty years. Clement died in 1314; and so, it is held, we find a date before which the _Inferno_ was, at least, not published. But Clement was known for years before his death to be ill of a disease usually soon fatal. He became Pope in 1305, and the wonder was that he survived so long as nine years. Dante keeps his prophecy safe--if it is a prophecy; and there does seem internal evidence to prove the publication of the _Inferno_ to have taken place long before 1314.--It is needless to point out how the censure of Clement gains in force if read as having been published before his death. [545] _Jason_: Or Joshua, who purchased the office of High Priest from Antiochus Epiphanes, and innovated the customs of the Jews (2 Maccab. iv. 7). [546] _Punished well_: At line 12 Dante has admired the propriety of the Divine distribution of penalties. He appears to regard with a special complacency that which he invents for the simoniacs. They were industrious in multiplying benefices for their kindred; Boniface, for example, besides Cardinals, appointed about twenty Archbishops and Bishops from among his own relatives. Here all the simoniacal Popes have to be contented with one place among them. They paid no regard to whether a post was well filled or not: here they are set upside down. [547] _Charles_: Nicholas was accused of taking a bribe to assist Peter of Arragon in ousting Charles of Anjou from the kingdom of Sicily. [548] _By reverence, etc._: Dante distinguishes between the office and the unworthy holder of it. So in Purgatory he prostrates himself before a Pope (_Purg._ xix. 131). [549] _Her spouse_: In the preceding lines the vision of the Woman in the Apocalypse is applied to the corruption of the Church, represented under the figure of the seven-hilled Rome seated in honour among the nations and receiving observance from the kings of the earth till her spouse, the Pope, began to prostitute her by making merchandise of her spiritual gifts. Of the Beast there is no mention here, his qualities being attributed to the Woman. [550] _Ah, Constantine, etc._: In Dante's time, and for some centuries later, it was believed that Constantine, on transferring the seat of empire to Byzantium, had made a gift to the Pope of rights and privileges almost equal to those of the Emperor. Rome was to be the Pope's; and from his court in the Lateran he was to exercise supremacy over all the West. The Donation of Constantine, that is, the instrument conveying these rights, was a forgery of the Middle Ages. CANTO XX. Now of new torment must my verses tell, And matter for the Twentieth Canto win Of Lay the First,[551] which treats of souls in Hell. Already was I eager to begin To peer into the visible profound,[552] Which tears of agony was bathèd in: And I saw people in the valley round; Like that of penitents on earth the pace At which they weeping came, nor uttering[553] sound. When I beheld them with more downcast gaze,[554] 10 That each was strangely screwed about I learned, Where chest is joined to chin. And thus the face Of every one round to his loins was turned; And stepping backward[555] all were forced to go, For nought in front could be by them discerned. Smitten by palsy although one might show Perhaps a shape thus twisted all awry, I never saw, and am to think it slow. As, Reader,[556] God may grant thou profit by Thy reading, for thyself consider well 20 If I could then preserve my visage dry When close at hand to me was visible Our human form so wrenched that tears, rained down Out of the eyes, between the buttocks fell. In very sooth I wept, leaning upon A boss of the hard cliff, till on this wise My Escort asked: 'Of the other fools[557] art one? Here piety revives as pity dies; For who more irreligious is than he In whom God's judgments to regret give rise? 30 Lift up, lift up thy head, and thou shalt see Him for whom earth yawned as the Thebans saw, All shouting meanwhile: "Whither dost thou flee, Amphiaraüs?[558] Wherefore thus withdraw From battle?" But he sinking found no rest Till Minos clutched him with all-grasping claw. Lo, how his shoulders serve him for a breast! Because he wished to see too far before Backward he looks, to backward course addressed. Behold Tiresias,[559] who was changed all o'er, 40 Till for a man a woman met the sight, And not a limb its former semblance bore; And he behoved a second time to smite The same two twisted serpents with his wand, Ere he again in manly plumes was dight. With back to him, see Aruns next at hand, Who up among the hills of Luni, where Peasants of near Carrara till the land, Among the dazzling marbles[560] held his lair Within a cavern, whence could be descried 50 The sea and stars of all obstruction bare. The other one, whose flowing tresses hide Her bosom, of the which thou seest nought, And all whose hair falls on the further side, Was Manto;[561] who through many regions sought: Where I was born, at last her foot she stayed. It likes me well thou shouldst of this be taught. When from this life her father exit made, And Bacchus' city had become enthralled, She for long time through many countries strayed. 60 'Neath mountains by which Germany is walled And bounded at Tirol, a lake there lies High in fair Italy, Benacus[562] called. The waters of a thousand springs that rise 'Twixt Val Camonica and Garda flow Down Pennine; and their flood this lake supplies. And from a spot midway, if they should go Thither, the Pastors[563] of Verona, Trent, And Brescia might their blessings all bestow. Peschiera,[564] with its strength for ornament, 70 Facing the Brescians and the Bergamese Lies where the bank to lower curve is bent. And there the waters, seeking more of ease, For in Benacus is not room for all, Forming a river, lapse by green degrees. The river, from its very source, men call No more Benacus--'tis as Mincio known, Which into Po does at Governo fall. A flat it reaches ere it far has run, Spreading o'er which it feeds a marshy fen, 80 Whence oft in summer pestilence has grown. Wayfaring here the cruel virgin, when She found land girdled by the marshy flood, Untilled and uninhabited of men, That she might 'scape all human neighbourhood Stayed on it with her slaves, her arts to ply; And there her empty body was bestowed. On this the people from the country nigh Into that place came crowding, for the spot, Girt by the swamp, could all attack defy, 90 And for the town built o'er her body sought A name from her who made it first her seat, Calling it Mantua, without casting lot.[565] The dwellers in it were in number great, Till stupid Casalodi[566] was befooled And victimised by Pinamonte's cheat. Hence, shouldst thou ever hear (now be thou schooled!) Another story to my town assigned, Let by no fraud the truth be overruled.' And I: 'Thy reasonings, Master, to my mind 100 So cogent are, and win my faith so well, What others say I shall black embers find. But of this people passing onward tell, If thou, of any, something canst declare, For all my thoughts[567] on that intently dwell.' And then he said: 'The one whose bearded hair Falls from his cheeks upon his shoulders dun, Was, when the land of Greece[568] of males so bare Was grown the very cradles scarce held one, An augur;[569] he with Calchas gave the sign 110 In Aulis through the first rope knife to run. Eurypylus was he called, and in some line Of my high Tragedy[570] is sung the same, As thou know'st well, who mad'st it wholly thine. That other, thin of flank, was known to fame As Michael Scott;[571] and of a verity He knew right well the black art's inmost game. Guido Bonatti,[572] and Asdente see Who mourns he ever should have parted from His thread and leather; but too late mourns he. 120 Lo the unhappy women who left loom, Spindle, and needle that they might divine; With herb and image[573] hastening men's doom. But come; for where the hemispheres confine Cain and the Thorns[574] is falling, to alight Underneath Seville on the ocean line. The moon was full already yesternight; Which to recall thou shouldst be well content, For in the wood she somewhat helped thy plight.' Thus spake he to me while we forward went. 130 FOOTNOTES: [551] _Lay the First_: The _Inferno_. [552] _The visible profound_: The Fourth Bolgia, where soothsayers of every kind are punished. Their sin is that of seeking to find out what God has made secret. That such discoveries of the future could be made by men, Dante seems to have had no doubt; but he regards the exercise of the power as a fraud on Providence, and also credits the adepts in the black art with ruining others by their spells (line 123). [553] _Nor uttering, etc._: They who on earth told too much are now condemned to be for ever dumb. It will be noticed that with none of them does Dante converse. [554] _More downcast gaze_: Standing as he does on the crown of the arch, the nearer they come to him the more he has to decline his eyes. [555] _Stepping backward_: Once they peered far into the future; now they cannot see a step before them. [556]_ As, Reader, etc._: Some light may be thrown on this unusual, and, at first sight, inexplicable display of pity, by the comment of Benvenuto da Imola:--'It is the wisest and most virtuous of men that are most subject to this mania of divination; and of this Dante is himself an instance, as is well proved by this book of his.' Dante reminds the reader how often since the journey began he has sought to have the veil of the future lifted; and would have it understood that he was seized by a sudden misgiving as to whether he too had not overstepped the bounds of what, in that respect, is allowed and right. [557] _Of the other fools_: Dante, weeping like the sinners in the Bolgia, is asked by Virgil: 'What, art thou then one of them?' He had been suffered, without reproof, to show pity for Francesca and Ciacco. The terrors of the Lord grow more cogent as they descend, and even pity is now forbidden. [558] _Amphiaraüs_: One of the Seven Kings who besieged Thebes. He foresaw his own death, and sought by hiding to evade it; but his wife revealed his hiding-place, and he was forced to join in the siege. As he fought, a thunderbolt opened a chasm in the earth, into which he fell. [559] _Tiresias_: A Theban soothsayer whose change of sex is described by Ovid (_Metam._ iii.). [560] _The dazzling marbles_: Aruns, a Tuscan diviner, is introduced by Lucan as prophesying great events to come to pass in Rome--the Civil War and the victories of Cæsar. His haunt was the deserted city of Luna, situated on the Gulf of Spezia, and under the Carrara mountains (_Phars._ i. 586). [561] _Manto_: A prophetess, a native of Thebes the city of Bacchus, and daughter of Tiresias.--Here begins a digression on the early history of Mantua, the native city of Virgil. In his account of the foundation of it Dante does not agree with Virgil, attributing to a Greek Manto what his master attributes to an Italian one (_Æn._ x. 199). [562] _Benacus_: The ancient Benacus, now known as the Lake of Garda. [563] _The Pastors, etc._: About half-way down the western side of the lake a stream falls into it, one of whose banks, at its mouth, is in the diocese of Trent, and the other in that of Brescia, while the waters of the lake are in that of Verona. The three Bishops, standing together, could give a blessing each to his own diocese. [564] _Peschiera_: Where the lake drains into the Mincio. It is still a great fortress. [565] _Without casting lot_; Without consulting the omens, as was usual when a city was to be named. [566] _Casalodi_: Some time in the second half of the thirteenth century Alberto Casalodi was befooled out of the lordship of Mantua by Pinamonte Buonacolsi. Benvenuto tells the tale as follows:--Pinamonte was a bold, ambitious man, with a great troop of armed followers; and, the nobility being at that time in bad odour with the people at large, he persuaded the Count Albert that it would be a popular measure to banish the suspected nobles for a time. Hardly was this done when he usurped the lordship; and by expelling some of the citizens and putting others of them to death he greatly thinned the population of the city. [567] _All my thoughts, etc._: The reader's patience is certainly abused by this digression of Virgil's, and Dante himself seems conscious that it is somewhat ill-timed. [568] _The land of Greece, etc._: All the Greeks able to bear arms being engaged in the Trojan expedition. [569] _An augur_: Eurypylus, mentioned in the Second _Æneid_ as being employed by the Greeks to consult the oracle of Apollo regarding their return to Greece. From the auspices Calchas had found at what hour they should set sail for Troy. Eurypylus can be said only figuratively to have had to do with cutting the cable. [570] _Tragedy_: The _Æneid_. Dante defines Comedy as being written in a style inferior to that of Tragedy, and as having a sad beginning and a happy ending (Epistle to Can Grande, 10). Elsewhere he allows the comic poet great licence in the use of common language (_Vulg. El._ ii. 4). By calling his own poem a Comedy he, as it were, disarms criticism. [571] _Michael Scott_: Of Balwearie in Scotland, familiar to English readers through the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_. He flourished in the course of the thirteenth century, and made contributions to the sciences, as they were then deemed, of astrology, alchemy, and physiognomy. He acted for some time as astrologer to the Emperor Frederick II., and the tradition of his accomplishments powerfully affected the Italian imagination for a century after his death. It was remembered that the terrible Frederick, after being warned by him to beware of Florence, had died at a place called Firenzuola; and more than one Italian city preserved with fear and trembling his dark sayings regarding their fate. Villani frequently quotes his prophecies; and Boccaccio speaks of him as a great necromancer who had been in Florence. A commentary of his on Aristotle was printed at Venice in 1496. The thinness of his flanks may refer to a belief that he could make himself invisible at will. [572] _Guido Bonatti_: Was a Florentine, a tiler by trade, and was living in 1282. When banished from his own city he took refuge at Forlì and became astrologer to Guido of Montefeltro (_Inf._ xxvii.), and was credited with helping his master to a great victory.--_Asdente_: A cobbler of Parma, whose prophecies were long renowned, lived in the twelfth century. He is given in the _Convito_ (iv. 16) as an instance that a man may be very notorious without being truly noble. [573] _Herb and image_: Part of the witch's stock in trade. All that was done to a waxen image of him was suffered by the witch's victim. [574] _Cain and the Thorns_: The moon. The belief that the spots in the moon are caused by Cain standing in it with a bundle of thorns is referred to at _Parad._ ii. 51. Although it is now the morning of the Saturday, the 'yesternight' refers to the night of Thursday, when Dante found some use of the moon in the Forest. The moon is now setting on the line dividing the hemisphere of Jerusalem, in which they are, from that of the Mount of Purgatory. According to Dante's scheme of the world, Purgatory is the true opposite of Jerusalem; and Seville is ninety degrees from Jerusalem. As it was full moon the night before last, and the moon is now setting, it is now fully an hour after sunrise. But, as has already been said, it is not possible to reconcile the astronomical indications thoroughly with one another.--Virgil serves as clock to Dante, for they can see nothing of the skies. CANTO XXI. Conversing still from bridge to bridge[575] we went; But what our words I in my Comedy Care not to tell. The top of the ascent Holding, we halted the next pit to spy Of Malebolge, with plaints bootless all: There, darkness[576] full of wonder met the eye. As the Venetians[577] in their Arsenal Boil the tenacious pitch at winter-tide, To caulk the ships with for repairs that call; For then they cannot sail; and so, instead, 10 One builds his bark afresh, one stops with tow His vessel's ribs, by many a voyage tried; One hammers at the poop, one at the prow; Some fashion oars, and others cables twine, And others at the jib and main sails sew: So, not by fire, but by an art Divine, Pitch of thick substance boiled in that low Hell, And all the banks did as with plaster line. I saw it, but distinguished nothing well Except the bubbles by the boiling raised, 20 Now swelling up and ceasing now to swell. While down upon it fixedly I gazed, 'Beware, beware!' my Leader to me said, And drew me thence close to him. I, amazed, Turned sharply round, like him who has delayed, Fain to behold the thing he ought to flee, Then, losing nerve, grows suddenly afraid, Nor lingers longer what there is to see; For a black devil I beheld advance Over the cliff behind us rapidly. 30 Ah me, how fierce was he of countenance! What bitterness he in his gesture put, As with spread wings he o'er the ground did dance! Upon his shoulders, prominent and acute, Was perched a sinner[578] fast by either hip; And him he held by tendon of the foot. He from our bridge: 'Ho, Malebranche![579] Grip An Elder brought from Santa Zita's town:[580] Stuff him below; myself once more I slip Back to the place where lack of such is none. 40 There, save Bonturo, barrates[581] every man, And No grows Yes that money may be won.' He shot him down, and o'er the cliff began To run; nor unchained mastiff o'er the ground, Chasing a robber, swifter ever ran. The other sank, then rose with back bent round; But from beneath the bridge the devils cried: 'Not here the Sacred Countenance[582] is found, One swims not here as on the Serchio's[583] tide; So if thou wouldst not with our grapplers deal 50 Do not on surface of the pitch abide.' Then he a hundred hooks[584] was made to feel. 'Best dance down there,' they said the while to him, 'Where, if thou canst, thou on the sly mayst steal.' So scullions by the cooks are set to trim The caldrons and with forks the pieces steep Down in the water, that they may not swim. And the good Master said to me: 'Now creep Behind a rocky splinter for a screen; So from their knowledge thou thyself shalt keep. 60 And fear not thou although with outrage keen I be opposed, for I am well prepared, And formerly[585] have in like contest been.' Then passing from the bridge's crown he fared To the sixth bank,[586] and when thereon he stood He needed courage doing what he dared. In the same furious and tempestuous mood In which the dogs upon the beggar leap, Who, halting suddenly, seeks alms or food, They issued forth from underneath the deep 70 Vault of the bridge, with grapplers 'gainst him stretched; But he exclaimed: 'Aloof, and harmless keep! Ere I by any of your hooks be touched, Come one of you and to my words give ear; And then advise you if I should be clutched.' All cried: 'Let Malacoda then go near;' On which one moved, the others standing still. He coming said: 'What will this[587] help him here?' 'O Malacoda, is it credible That I am come,' my Master then replied, 80 'Secure your opposition to repel, Without Heaven's will, and fate, upon my side? Let me advance, for 'tis by Heaven's behest That I on this rough road another guide.' Then was his haughty spirit so depressed, He let his hook drop sudden to his feet, And, 'Strike him not!' commanded all the rest My Leader charged me thus: 'Thou, from thy seat Where 'mid the bridge's ribs thou crouchest low, Rejoin me now in confidence complete.' 90 Whereon I to rejoin him was not slow; And then the devils, crowding, came so near, I feared they to their paction false might show. So at Caprona[588] saw I footmen fear, Spite of their treaty, when a multitude Of foes received them, crowding front and rear. With all my body braced I closer stood To him, my Leader, and intently eyed The aspect of them, which was far from good. Lowering their grapplers, 'mong themselves they cried: 'Shall I now tickle him upon the thigh?' 101 'Yea, see thou clip him deftly,' one replied. The demon who in parley had drawn nigh Unto my Leader, upon this turned round; 'Scarmiglione, lay thy weapon by!' He said; and then to us: 'No way is found Further along this cliff, because, undone, All the sixth arch lies ruined on the ground. But if it please you further to pass on, Over this rocky ridge advancing climb 110 To the next rib,[589] where passage may be won. Yestreen,[590] but five hours later than this time, Twelve hundred sixty-six years reached an end, Since the way lost the wholeness of its prime. Thither I some of mine will straightway send To see that none peer forth to breathe the air: Go on with them; you they will not offend. You, Alichin[591] and Calcabrin, prepare To move,' he bade; 'Cagnazzo, thou as well; Guiding the ten, thou, Barbariccia, fare. 120 With Draghignazzo, Libicocco fell, Fanged Ciriatto, Graffiacane too, Set on, mad Rubicant and Farfarel: Search on all quarters round the boiling glue. Let these go safe, till at the bridge they be, Which doth unbroken[592] o'er the caverns go.' 'Alas, my Master, what is this I see?' Said I, 'Unguided, let us forward set, If thou know'st how. I wish no company. If former caution thou dost not forget, 130 Dost thou not mark how each his teeth doth grind, The while toward us their brows are full of threat?' And he: 'I would not fear should fill thy mind; Let them grin all they will, and all they can; 'Tis at the wretches in the pitch confined.' They wheeled and down the left hand bank began To march, but first each bit his tongue,[593] and passed The signal on to him who led the van. He answered grossly as with trumpet blast. FOOTNOTES: [575] _From bridge to bridge_: They cross the barrier separating the Fourth from the Fifth Bolgia, and follow the bridge which spans the Fifth until they have reached the crown of it. We may infer that the conversation of Virgil and Dante turned on foreknowledge of the future. [576] _Darkness, etc._: The pitch with which the trench of the Bolgia is filled absorbs most of the scanty light accorded to Malebolge. [577] _The Venetians_: But for this picturesque description of the old Arsenal, and a passing mention of the Rialto in one passage of the _Paradiso_, and of the Venetian coinage in another, it could not be gathered from the _Comedy_, with all its wealth of historical and geographical references, that there was such a place as Venice in the Italy of Dante. Unlike the statue of Time (_Inf._ xiv.), the Queen of the Adriatic had her face set eastwards. Her back was turned and her ears closed as in a proud indifference to the noise of party conflicts which filled the rest of Italy. [578] _A sinner_: This is the only instance in the _Inferno_ of the arrival of a sinner at his special place of punishment. See _Inf._ v. 15, _note_. [579] _Malebranche_: Evil Claws, the name of the devils who have the sinners of this Bolgia in charge. [580] _Santa Zita's town_: Zita was a holy serving-woman of Lucca, who died some time between 1270 and 1280, and whose miracle-working body is still preserved in the church of San Frediano. Most probably, although venerated as a saint, she was not yet canonized at the time Dante writes of, and there may be a Florentine sneer hidden in the description of Lucca as her town. Even in Lucca there was some difference of opinion as to her merits, and a certain unlucky Ciappaconi was pitched into the Serchio for making fun of the popular enthusiasm about her. See Philalethes, _Gött. Com._ In Lucca the officials that were called Priors in Florence, were named Elders. The commentators give a name to this sinner, but it is only guesswork. [581] _Save Bonturo_, _barrates, etc._: It is the barrators, those who trafficked in offices and sold justice, that are punished in this Bolgia. The greatest barrator of all in Lucca, say the commentators, was this Bonturo; but there seems no proof of it, though there is of his arrogance. He was still living in 1314. [582] _The Sacred Countenance_: An image in cedar wood, of Byzantine workmanship, still preserved and venerated in the cathedral of Lucca. According to the legend, it was carved from memory by Nicodemus, and after being a long time lost was found again in the eighth century by an Italian bishop travelling in Palestine. He brought it to the coast at Joppa, where it was received by a vessel without sail or oar, which, with its sacred freight, floated westwards and was next seen at the port of Luna. All efforts to approach the bark were vain, till the Bishop of Lucca descended to the seashore, and to him the vessel resigned itself and suffered him to take the image into his keeping. 'Believe what you like of all this,' says Benvenuto; 'it is no article of faith.'--The sinner has come to the surface, bent as if in an attitude of prayer, when he is met by this taunt. [583] _The Serchio_: The stream which flows past Lucca. [584] _A hundred hooks_: So many devils with their pronged hooks were waiting to receive the victim. The punishment of the barrators bears a relation to their sins. They wrought their evil deeds under all kinds of veils and excuses, and are now themselves effectually buried out of sight. The pitch sticks as close to them as bribes ever did to their fingers. They misused wards and all subject to them, and in their turn are clawed and torn by their devilish guardians. [585] _Formerly, etc._: On the occasion of his previous descent (_Inf._ ix. 22). [586] _The sixth bank_: Dante remains on the crown of the arch overhanging the pitch-filled moat. Virgil descends from the bridge by the left hand to the bank on the inner side of the Fifth Bolgia. [587] _What will this, etc._: As if he said: What good will this delay do him in the long-run? [588] _At Caprona_: Dante was one of the mounted militia sent by Florence in 1289 to help the Lucchese against the Pisans, and was present at the surrender by the Pisan garrison of the Castle of Caprona. Some make the reference to be to a siege of the same stronghold by the Pisans in the following year, when the Lucchese garrison, having surrendered on condition of having their lives spared, were met as they issued forth with cries of 'Hang them! Hang them!' But of this second siege it is only a Pisan commentator that speaks. [589] _The next rib_: Malacoda informs them that the arch of rock across the Sixth Bolgia in continuation of that by which they have crossed the Fifth is in ruins, but that they will find a whole bridge if they keep to the left hand along the rocky bank on the inner edge of the pitch-filled moat. But, as appears further on, he is misleading them. It will be remembered that from the precipice enclosing the Malebolge there run more than one series of bridges or ribs into the central well of Inferno. [590] _Yestreen, etc._: This is the principal passage in the _Comedy_ for fixing the date of the journey. It is now, according to the text, twelve hundred and sixty-six years and a day since the crucifixion. Turning to the _Convito_, iv. 23, we find Dante giving his reasons for believing that Jesus, at His death, had just completed His thirty-fourth year. This brings us to the date of 1300 A.D. But according to Church tradition the crucifixion happened on the 25th March, and to get thirty-four years His life must be counted from the incarnation, which was held to have taken place on the same date, namely the 25th March. It was in Dante's time optional to reckon from the incarnation or the birth of Christ. The journey must therefore be taken to have begun on Friday the 25th March, a fortnight before the Good Friday of 1300; and, counting strictly from the incarnation, on the first day of 1301--the first day of the new century. So we find Boccaccio in his unfinished commentary saying in _Inf._ iii. that it will appear from Canto xxi. that Dante began his journey in MCCCI.--The hour is now five hours before that at which the earthquake happened which took place at the death of Jesus. This is held by Dante (_Convito_ iv. 23), who professes to follow the account by Saint Luke, to have been at the sixth hour, that is, at noon; thus the time is now seven in the morning. [591] _Alichino, etc._: The names of the devils are all descriptive: Alichino, for instance, is the Swooper; but in this and the next Canto we have enough of the horrid crew without considering too closely how they are called. [592] _Unbroken_: Malacoda repeats his lie. [593] _Each bit his tongue, etc._: The demons, aware of the cheat played by Malacoda, show their devilish humour by making game of Virgil and Dante.--Benvenuto is amazed that a man so involved in his own thoughts as Dante was, should have been such a close observer of low life as this passage shows him. He is sure that he laughed to himself as he wrote the Canto. CANTO XXII. Horsemen I've seen in march across the field, Hastening to charge, or, answering muster, stand, And sometimes too when forced their ground to yield; I have seen skirmishers upon your land, O Aretines![594] and those on foray sent; With trumpet and with bell[595] to sound command Have seen jousts run and well-fought tournament, With drum, and signal from the castle shown, And foreign music with familiar blent; But ne'er by blast on such a trumpet blown 10 Beheld I horse or foot to motion brought, Nor ship by star or landmark guided on. With the ten demons moved we from the spot; Ah, cruel company! but 'with the good In church, and in the tavern with the sot.' Still to the pitch was my attention glued Fully to see what in the Bolgia lay, And who were in its burning mass imbrued. As when the dolphins vaulted backs display, Warning to mariners they should prepare 20 To trim their vessel ere the storm makes way; So, to assuage the pain he had to bear, Some wretch would show his back above the tide, Then swifter plunge than lightnings cleave the air. And as the frogs close to the marsh's side With muzzles thrust out of the water stand, While feet and bodies carefully they hide; So stood the sinners upon every hand. But on beholding Barbariccia nigh Beneath the bubbles[596] disappeared the band. 30 I saw what still my heart is shaken by: One waiting, as it sometimes comes to pass That one frog plunges, one at rest doth lie; And Graffiacan, who nearest to him was, Him upward drew, clutching his pitchy hair: To me he bore the look an otter has. I of their names[597] ere this was well aware, For I gave heed unto the names of all When they at first were chosen. 'Now prepare, And, Rubicante, with thy talons fall 40 Upon him and flay well,' with many cries And one consent the accursed ones did call. I said: 'O Master, if in any wise Thou canst, find out who is the wretched wight Thus at the mercy of his enemies.' Whereon my Guide drew full within his sight, Asking him whence he came, and he replied: 'In kingdom of Navarre[598] I first saw light. Me servant to a lord my mother tied; Through her I from a scoundrel sire did spring, 50 Waster of goods and of himself beside. As servant next to Thiebault,[599] righteous king, I set myself to ply barratorship; And in this heat discharge my reckoning.' And Ciriatto, close upon whose lip On either side a boar-like tusk did stand, Made him to feel how one of them could rip. The mouse had stumbled on the wild cat band; But Barbariccia locked him in embrace, And, 'Off while I shall hug him!' gave command. 60 Round to my Master then he turned his face: 'Ask more of him if more thou wouldest know, While he against their fury yet finds grace.' My Leader asked: 'Declare now if below The pitch 'mong all the guilty there lies here A Latian?'[600] He replied: 'Short while ago From one[601] I parted who to them lived near; And would that I might use him still for shield, Then hook or claw I should no longer fear,' Said Libicocco: 'Too much grace we yield.' 70 And in the sinner's arm he fixed his hook, And from it clean a fleshy fragment peeled. But seeing Draghignazzo also took Aim at his legs, the leader of the Ten Turned swiftly round on them with angry look. On this they were a little quieted; then Of him who still gazed on his wound my Guide Without delay demanded thus again: 'Who was it whom, in coming to the side, Thou say'st thou didst do ill to leave behind?' 80 'Gomita of Gallura,'[602] he replied, 'A vessel full of fraud of every kind, Who, holding in his power his master's foes, So used them him they bear in thankful mind; For, taking bribes, he let slip all of those, He says; and he in other posts did worse, And as a chieftain 'mong barrators rose. Don Michael Zanche[603] doth with him converse, From Logodoro, and with endless din They gossip[604] of Sardinian characters. 90 But look, ah me! how yonder one doth grin. More would I say, but that I am afraid He is about to claw me on the skin.' To Farfarel the captain turned his head, For, as about to swoop, he rolled his eye, And, 'Cursed hawk, preserve thy distance!' said. 'If ye would talk with, or would closer spy,' The frighted wretch began once more to say, 'Tuscans or Lombards, I will bring them nigh. But let the Malebranche first give way, 100 That of their vengeance they may not have fear, And I to this same place where now I stay For me, who am but one, will bring seven near When I shall whistle as we use to do Whenever on the surface we appear.' On this Cagnazzo up his muzzle threw, Shaking his head and saying: 'Hear the cheat He has contrived, to throw himself below.' Then he who in devices was complete: 'Far too malicious, in good sooth,' replied, 110 'When for my friends I plan a sorer fate.' This, Alichin withstood not but denied The others' counsel,[605] saying: 'If thou fling Thyself hence, thee I strive not to outstride. But o'er the pitch I'll dart upon the wing. Leave we the ridge,[606] and be the bank a shield; And see if thou canst all of us outspring.' O Reader, hear a novel trick revealed. All to the other side turned round their eyes, He first[607] who slowest was the boon to yield. 120 In choice of time the Navarrese was wise; Taking firm stand, himself he forward flung, Eluding thus their hostile purposes. Then with compunction each of them was stung, But he the most[608] whose slackness made them fail; Therefore he started, 'Caught!' upon his tongue. But little it bested, nor could prevail His wings 'gainst fear. Below the other went, While he with upturned breast aloft did sail. And as the falcon, when, on its descent, 130 The wild duck suddenly dives out of sight, Returns outwitted back, and malcontent; To be befooled filled Calcabrin with spite. Hovering he followed, wishing in his mind The wretch escaping should leave cause for fight. When the barrator vanished, from behind He on his comrade with his talons fell And clawed him, 'bove the moat with him entwined. The other was a spar-hawk terrible To claw in turn; together then the two 140 Plunged in the boiling pool. The heat full well How to unlock their fierce embraces knew; But yet they had no power[609] to rise again, So were their wings all plastered o'er with glue. Then Barbariccia, mourning with his train, Caused four to fly forth to the other side With all their grapplers. Swift their flight was ta'en. Down to the place from either hand they glide, Reaching their hooks to those who were limed fast, And now beneath the scum were being fried. 150 And from them thus engaged we onward passed. FOOTNOTES: [594] _O Aretines_: Dante is mentioned as having taken part in the campaign of 1289 against Arezzo, in the course of which the battle of Campaldino was fought. But the text can hardly refer to what he witnessed in that campaign, as the field of it was almost confined to the Casentino, and little more than a formal entrance was made on the true Aretine territory; while the chronicles make no mention of jousts and forays. There is, however, no reason to think but that Dante was engaged in the attack made by Florence on the Ghibeline Arezzo in the early summer of the preceding year. In a few days the Florentines and their allies had taken above forty castles and strongholds, and devastated the enemy's country far and near; and, though unable to take the capital, they held all kinds of warlike games in front of it. Dante was then twenty-three years of age, and according to the Florentine constitution of that period would, in a full muster of the militia, be required to serve as a cavalier without pay, and providing his own horse and arms. [595] _Bell_: The use of the bell for martial music was common in the Italy of the thirteenth century. The great war-bell of the Florentines was carried with them into the field. [596] _Beneath the bubbles, etc._: As the barrators took toll of the administration of justice and appointment to offices, something always sticking to their palms, so now they are plunged in the pitch; and as they denied to others what should be the common blessing of justice, now they cannot so much as breathe the air without paying dearly for it to the demons. [597] _Their names_: The names of all the demons. All of them urge Rubicante, the 'mad red devil,' to flay the victim, shining and sleek with the hot pitch, who is held fast by Graffiacane. [598] _In kingdom of Navarre, etc._: The commentators give the name of John Paul to this shade, but all that is known of him is found in the text. [599] _Thiebault_: King of Navarre and second of that name. He accompanied his father-in-law, Saint Louis, to Tunis, and died on his way back, in 1270. [600] _A Latian_: An Italian. [601] _From one, etc._: A Sardinian. The barrator prolongs his answer so as to procure a respite from the fangs of his tormentors. [602] _Gomita of Gallura_: 'Friar Gomita' was high in favour with Nino Visconti (_Purg._ viii. 53), the lord of Gallura, one of the provinces into which Sardinia was divided under the Pisans. At last, after bearing long with him, the 'gentle Judge Nino' hanged Gomita for setting prisoners free for bribes. [603] _Don Michael Zanche_: Enzo, King of Sardinia, married Adelasia, the lady of Logodoro, one of the four Sardinian judgedoms or provinces. Of this province Zanche, seneschal to Enzo, acquired the government during the long imprisonment of his master, or upon his death in 1273. Zanche's daughter was married to Branca d'Oria, by whom Zanche was treacherously slain in 1275 (_Inf._ xxxiii. 137). There seems to be nothing extant to support the accusation implied in the text. [604] _They gossip, etc._: Zanche's experience of Sardinia was of an earlier date than Gomita's. It has been claimed for, or charged against, the Sardinians, that more than other men they delight in gossip touching their native country. These two, if it can be supposed that, plunged among and choked with pitch, they still cared for Sardinian talk, would find material enough in the troubled history of their land. In 1300 it belonged partly to Genoa and partly to Pisa. [605] _The others' counsel_: Alichino, confident in his own powers, is willing to risk an experiment with the sinner. The other devils count a bird in the hand worth two in the bush. [606] _The ridge_: Not the crown of the great rocky barrier between the Fifth and the Sixth Bolgias, for it is not on that the devils are standing; neither are they allowed to pass over it (_Inf._ xxiii. 55). We are to figure them to ourselves as standing on a ledge running between the fosse and the foot of the enclosing rocky steep--a pathway continued under the bridges and all round the Bolgia for their convenience as guardians of it. The bank adjoining the pitch will serve as a screen for the sinner if the demons retire to the other side of this ledge. [607] _He first, etc._: Cagnazzo. See line 106. [608] _He the most, etc._: Alichino, whose confidence in his agility had led to the outwitting of the band. [609] _No power_: The foolish ineptitude of the devils for anything beyond their special function of hooking up and flaying those who appear on the surface of the pitch, and their irrational fierce playfulness as of tiger cubs, convey a vivid impression of the limits set to their diabolical power, and at the same time heighten the sense of what Dante's feeling of insecurity must have been while in such inhuman companionship. CANTO XXIII. Silent, alone, not now with company We onward went, one first and one behind, As Minor Friars[610] use to make their way. On Æsop's fable[611] wholly was my mind Intent, by reason of that contest new-- The fable where the frog and mouse we find; For _Mo_ and _Issa_[612] are not more of hue Than like the fable shall the fact appear, If but considered with attention due. And as from one thought springs the next, so here 10 Out of my first arose another thought, Until within me doubled was my fear. For thus I judged: Seeing through us[613] were brought Contempt upon them, hurt, and sore despite, They needs must be to deep vexation wrought. If anger to malevolence unite, Then will they us more cruelly pursue Than dog the hare which almost feels its bite. All my hair bristled, I already knew, With terror when I spake: 'O Master, try 20 To hide us quick' (and back I turned to view What lay behind), 'for me they terrify, These Malebranche following us; from dread I almost fancy I can feel them nigh.' And he: 'Were I a mirror backed with lead I should no truer glass that form of thine, Than all thy thought by mine is answered. For even now thy thoughts accord with mine, Alike in drift and featured with one face; And to suggest one counsel they combine. 30 If the right bank slope downward at this place, To the next Bolgia[614] offering us a way, Swiftly shall we evade the imagined chase.' Ere he completely could his purpose say, I saw them with their wings extended wide, Close on us; as of us to make their prey. Then quickly was I snatched up by my Guide: Even as a mother when, awaked by cries, She sees the flames are kindling at her side, Delaying not, seizes her child and flies; 40 Careful for him her proper danger mocks, Nor even with one poor shift herself supplies. And he, stretched out upon the flinty rocks, Himself unto the precipice resigned Which one side of the other Bolgia blocks. A swifter course ne'er held a stream confined, That it may turn a mill, within its race, Where near the buckets 'tis the most declined Than was my Master's down that rock's sheer face; Nor seemed I then his comrade, as we sped, 50 But like a son locked in a sire's embrace. And barely had his feet struck on the bed Of the low ground, when they were seen to stand Upon the crest, no more a cause of dread.[615] For Providence supreme, who so had planned In the Fifth Bolgia they should minister, Them wholly from departure thence had banned. 'Neath us we saw a painted people fare, Weeping as on their way they circled slow, Crushed by fatigue to look at, and despair. 60 Cloaks had they on with hoods pulled down full low Upon their eyes, and fashioned, as it seemed, Like those which at Cologne[616] for monks they sew. The outer face was gilt so that it gleamed; Inside was all of lead, of such a weight Frederick's[617] to these had been but straw esteemed. O weary robes for an eternal state! With them we turned to the left hand once more, Intent upon their tears disconsolate. But those folk, wearied with the loads they bore, 70 So slowly crept that still new company Was ours at every footfall on the floor. Whence to my Guide I said: 'Do thou now try To find some one by name or action known, And as we go on all sides turn thine eye.' And one, who recognised the Tuscan tone, Called from behind us: 'Halt, I you entreat Who through the air obscure are hastening on; Haply in me thou what thou seek'st shalt meet.' Whereon my Guide turned round and said: 'Await, And keep thou time with pacing of his feet.' 81 I stood, and saw two manifesting great Desire to join me, by their countenance; But their loads hampered them and passage strait.[618] And, when arrived, me with an eye askance[619] They gazed on long time, but no word they spoke; Then, to each other turned, held thus parlance: 'His heaving throat[620] proves him of living folk. If they are of the dead, how could they gain To walk uncovered by the heavy cloak?' 90 Then to me: 'Tuscan, who dost now attain To the college of the hypocrites forlorn, To tell us who thou art show no disdain.' And I to them: 'I was both bred and born In the great city by fair Arno's stream, And wear the body I have always worn. But who are ye, whose suffering supreme Makes tears, as I behold, to flood the cheek; And what your mode of pain that thus doth gleam?' 'Ah me, the yellow mantles,' one to speak 100 Began, 'are all of lead so thick, its weight Maketh the scales after this manner creak. We, Merry Friars[621] of Bologna's state, I Catalano, Loderingo he, Were by thy town together designate, As for the most part one is used to be, To keep the peace within it; and around Gardingo,[622] what we were men still may see.' I made beginning: 'Friars, your profound--' But said no more, on suddenly seeing there 110 One crucified by three stakes to the ground, Who, when he saw me, writhed as in despair, Breathing into his beard with heavy sigh. And Friar Catalan, of this aware, Said: 'He thus fixed, on whom thou turn'st thine eye, Counselled the Pharisees that it behoved One man as victim[623] for the folk should die. Naked, thou seest, he lies, and ne'er removed From where, set 'cross the path, by him the weight Of every one that passes by is proved. 120 And his wife's father shares an equal fate, With others of the Council, in this fosse; For to the Jews they proved seed reprobate.' Meanwhile at him thus stretched upon the cross Virgil,[624] I saw, displayed astonishment-- At his mean exile and eternal loss. And then this question to the Friars he sent: 'Be not displeased, but, if ye may, avow If on the right[625] hand there lies any vent By which we, both of us,[626] from hence may go, 130 Nor need the black angelic company To come to help us from this valley low.' 'Nearer than what thou think'st,' he made reply, 'A rib there runs from the encircling wall,[627] The cruel vales in turn o'erarching high; Save that at this 'tis rent and ruined all. Ye can climb upward o'er the shattered heap Where down the side the piled-up fragments fall.' His head bent down a while my Guide did keep, Then said: 'He warned us[628] in imperfect wise, 140 Who sinners with his hook doth clutch and steep.' The Friar: 'At Bologna[629] many a vice I heard the Devil charged with, and among The rest that, false, he father is of lies.' Then onward moved my Guide with paces long, And some slight shade of anger on his face. I with him parted from the burdened throng, Stepping where those dear feet had left their trace. FOOTNOTES: [610] _Minor Friars_: In the early years of their Order the Franciscans went in couples upon their journeys, not abreast but one behind the other. [611] _Æsop's fable_: This fable, mistakenly attributed to Æsop, tells of how a frog enticed a mouse into a pond, and how they were then both devoured by a kite. To discover the aptness of the simile would scarcely be reward enough for the continued mental effort Dante enjoins. So much was everything Greek or Roman then held in reverence, that the mention even of Æsop is held to give dignity to the page. [612] _Mo_ and _Issa_: Two words for _now_. [613] _Through us_: The quarrel among the fiends arose from Dante's insatiable desire to confer with 'Tuscan or Lombard.' [614] _To the next Bolgia_: The Sixth. They are now on the top of the circular ridge that divides it from the Fifth. From the construction of Malebolge the ridge is deeper on the inner side than on that up which they have travelled from the pitch. [615] _No more a cause of dread_: There seems some incongruity between Virgil's dread of these smaller devils and the ease with which he cowed Minos, Charon, and Pluto. But his character gains in human interest the more he is represented as sympathising with Dante in his terrors; and in this particular case the confession of fellow-feeling prepares the way for the beautiful passage which follows it (line 38, etc.), one full of an almost modern tenderness. [616] _Cologne_: Some make it Clugny, the great Benedictine monastery; but all the old commentators and most of the mss. read Cologne. All that the text necessarily carries is that the cloaks had great hoods. If, in addition, a reproach of clumsiness is implied, it would agree well enough with the Italian estimate of German people and things. [617] _Frederick's, etc._: The Emperor Frederick II.; but that he used any torture of leaden sheets seems to be a fabrication of his enemies. [618] _Passage strait_: Through the crowd of shades, all like themselves weighed down by the leaden cloaks. There is nothing in all literature like this picture of the heavily-burdened shades. At first sight it seems to be little of a torture compared with what we have already seen, and yet by simple touch after touch an impression is created of the intolerable weariness of the victims. As always, too, the punishment answers to the sin. The hypocrites made a fair show in the flesh, and now their mantles which look like gold are only of base lead. On earth they were of a sad countenance, trying to seem better than they were, and the load which to deceive others they voluntarily assumed in life is now replaced by a still heavier weight, and one they cannot throw off if they would. The choice of garb conveys an obvious charge of hypocrisy against the Friars, then greatly fallen away from the purity of their institution, whether Franciscans or Dominicans. [619] _An eye askance_: They cannot turn their heads. [620] _His heaving throat_: In Purgatory Dante is known for a mortal by his casting a shadow. Here he is known to be of flesh and blood by the act of respiration; yet, as appears from line 113, the shades, too, breathe as well as perform other functions of living bodies. At least they seem so to do, but this is all only in appearance. They only seem to be flesh and blood, having no weight, casting no shadow, and drawing breath in a way of their own. Dante, as has been said (_Inf._ vi. 36), is hard put to it to make them subject to corporal pains and yet be only shadows. [621] _Merry Friars_: Knights of the Order of Saint Mary, instituted by Urban IV. in 1261. Whether the name of Frati Godenti which they here bear was one of reproach or was simply descriptive of the easy rule under which they lived, is not known. Married men might, under certain conditions, enter the Order. The members were to hold themselves aloof from public office, and were to devote themselves to the defence of the weak and the promotion of justice and religion. The two monkish cavaliers of the text were in 1266 brought to Florence as Podestas, the Pope himself having urged them to go. There is much uncertainty as to the part they played in Florence, but none as to the fact of their rule having been highly distasteful to the Florentines, or as to the other fact, that in Florence they grew wealthy. The Podesta, or chief magistrate, was always a well-born foreigner. Probably some monkish rule or custom forbade either Catalano or Loderingo to leave the monastery singly. [622] _Gardingo_: A quarter of Florence, in which many palaces were destroyed about the time of the Podestaship of the Frati. [623] _One man as victim_: _St. John_ xi. 50. Caiaphas and Annas, with the Scribes and Pharisees who persecuted Jesus to the death, are the vilest hypocrites of all. They lie naked across the path, unburdened by the leaden cloak, it is true, but only that they may feel the more keenly the weight of the punishment of all the hypocrites of the world. [624] _Virgil_: On Virgil's earlier journey through Inferno Caiaphas and the others were not here, and he wonders as at something out of a world to him unknown. [625] _On the right_: As they are moving round the Bolgia to the left, the rocky barrier between them and the Seventh Bolgia is on their right. [626] _We, both of us_: Dante, still in the body, as well as Virgil, the shade. [627] _The encircling wall_: That which encloses all the Malebolge. [628] _He warned us_: Malacoda (_Inf._ xxi. 109) had assured him that the next rib of rock ran unbroken across all the Bolgias, but it too, like all the other bridges, proves to have been, at the time of the earthquake, shattered where it crossed this gulf of the hypocrites. The earthquake told most on this Bolgia, because the death of Christ and the attendant earthquake were, in a sense, caused by the hypocrisy of Caiaphas and the rest. [629] _At Bologna_: Even in Inferno the Merry Friar must have his joke. He is a gentleman, but a bit of a scholar too; and the University of Bologna is to him what Marischal College was to Captain Dalgetty. CANTO XXIV. In season of the new year, when the sun Beneath Aquarius[630] warms again his hair, And somewhat on the nights the days have won; When on the ground the hoar-frost painteth fair A mimic image of her sister white-- But soon her brush of colour is all bare-- The clown, whose fodder is consumed outright, Rises and looks abroad, and, all the plain Beholding glisten, on his thigh doth smite. Returned indoors, like wretch that seeks in vain 10 What he should do, restless he mourns his case; But hope revives when, looking forth again, He sees the earth anew has changed its face. Then with his crook he doth himself provide, And straightway doth his sheep to pasture chase: So at my Master was I terrified, His brows beholding troubled; nor more slow To where I ailed[631] the plaster was applied. For when the broken bridge[632] we stood below My Guide turned to me with the expression sweet 20 Which I beneath the mountain learned to know. His arms he opened, after counsel meet Held with himself, and, scanning closely o'er The fragments first, he raised me from my feet; And like a man who, working, looks before, With foresight still on that in front bestowed, Me to the summit of a block he bore And then to me another fragment showed, Saying: 'By this thou now must clamber on; But try it first if it will bear thy load.' 30 The heavy cowled[633] this way could ne'er have gone, For hardly we, I holpen, he so light, Could clamber up from shattered stone to stone. And but that on the inner bank the height Of wall is not so great, I say not he, But for myself I had been vanquished quite. But Malebolge[634] to the cavity Of the deep central pit is planned to fall; Hence every Bolgia in its turn must be High on the out, low on the inner wall; 40 So to the summit we attained at last, Whence breaks away the topmost stone[635] of all. My lungs were so with breathlessness harassed, The summit won, I could no further go; And, hardly there, me on the ground I cast 'Well it befits that thou shouldst from thee throw All sloth,' the Master said; 'for stretched in down Or under awnings none can glory know. And he who spends his life nor wins renown Leaves in the world no more enduring trace 50 Than smoke in air, or foam on water blown. Therefore arise; o'ercome thy breathlessness By force of will, victor in every fight When not subservient to the body base. Of stairs thou yet must climb a loftier flight:[636] 'Tis not enough to have ascended these. Up then and profit if thou hear'st aright.' Rising I feigned to breathe with greater ease Than what I felt, and spake: 'Now forward plod, For with my courage now my strength agrees.' 60 Up o'er the rocky rib we held our road; And rough it was and difficult and strait, And steeper far[637] than that we earlier trod. Speaking I went, to hide my wearied state, When from the neighbouring moat a voice we heard Which seemed ill fitted to articulate. Of what it said I knew not any word, Though on the arch[638] that vaults the moat set high; But he who spake appeared by anger stirred. Though I bent downward yet my eager eye, 70 So dim the depth, explored it all in vain; I then: 'O Master, to that bank draw nigh, And let us by the wall descent obtain, Because I hear and do not understand, And looking down distinguish nothing plain.' 'My sole reply to thee,' he answered bland, 'Is to perform; for it behoves,' he said, 'With silent act to answer just demand.' Then we descended from the bridge's head,[639] Where with the eighth bank is its junction wrought; 80 And full beneath me was the Bolgia spread. And I perceived that hideously 'twas fraught With serpents; and such monstrous forms they bore, Even now my blood is curdled at the thought. Henceforth let sandy Libya boast no more! Though she breed hydra, snake that crawls or flies, Twy-headed, or fine-speckled, no such store Of plagues, nor near so cruel, she supplies, Though joined to all the land of Ethiop, And that which by the Red Sea waters lies. 90 'Midst this fell throng and dismal, without hope A naked people ran, aghast with fear-- No covert for them and no heliotrope.[640] Their hands[641] were bound by serpents at their rear, Which in their reins for head and tail did get A holding-place: in front they knotted were. And lo! to one who on our side was set A serpent darted forward, him to bite At where the neck is by the shoulders met. Nor _O_ nor _I_ did any ever write 100 More quickly than he kindled, burst in flame, And crumbled all to ashes. And when quite He on the earth a wasted heap became, The ashes[642] of themselves together rolled, Resuming suddenly their former frame. Thus, as by mighty sages we are told, The Phoenix[643] dies, and then is born again, When it is close upon five centuries old. In all its life it eats not herb nor grain, But only tears that from frankincense flow; 110 It, for a shroud, sweet nard and myrrh contain. And as the man who falls and knows not how, By force of demons stretched upon the ground, Or by obstruction that makes life run low, When risen up straight gazes all around In deep confusion through the anguish keen He suffered from, and stares with sighs profound: So was the sinner, when arisen, seen. Justice of God, how are thy terrors piled, Showering in vengeance blows thus big with teen! 120 My Guide then asked of him how he was styled. Whereon he said: 'From Tuscany I rained, Not long ago, into this gullet wild. From bestial life, not human, joy I gained, Mule that I was; me, Vanni Fucci,[644] brute, Pistoia, fitting den, in life contained.' I to my Guide: 'Bid him not budge a foot, And ask[645] what crime has plunged him here below. In rage and blood I knew him dissolute.' The sinner heard, nor insincere did show, 130 But towards me turned his face and eke his mind, With spiteful shame his features all aglow; Then said: 'It pains me more thou shouldst me find And catch me steeped in all this misery, Than when the other life I left behind. What thou demandest I can not deny: I'm plunged[646] thus low because the thief I played Within the fairly furnished sacristy; And falsely to another's charge 'twas laid. Lest thou shouldst joy[647] such sight has met thy view If e'er these dreary regions thou evade, 141 Give ear and hearken to my utterance true: The Neri first out of Pistoia fail, Her laws and parties Florence shapes anew; Mars draws a vapour out of Magra's vale, Which black and threatening clouds accompany: Then bursting in a tempest terrible Upon Piceno shall the war run high; The mist by it shall suddenly be rent, And every Bianco[648] smitten be thereby: 150 And I have told thee that thou mayst lament.' FOOTNOTES: [630] _Aquarius_: The sun is in the constellation of Aquarius from the end of January till the end of February; and already, say in the middle of February, the day is nearly as long as the night. [631] _Where I ailed, etc._: As the peasant is in despair at seeing the earth white with what he thinks is snow, so was Dante at the signs of trouble on Virgil's face. He has mistaken anger at the cheat for perplexity as to how they are to escape from the Bolgia; and his Master's smile is grateful and reassuring to him as the spectacle of the green earth to the despairing shepherd. [632] _The broken bridge_: They are about to escape from the bottom of the Sixth Bolgia by climbing the wall between it and the Seventh, at the point where the confused fragments of the bridge Friar Catalano told them of (_Inf._ xxiii. 133) lie piled up against the wall, and yield something of a practicable way. [633] _The heavy cowled_: He finds his illustration on the spot, his mind being still full of the grievously burdened hypocrites. [634] _But Malebolge, etc._: Each Bolgia in turn lies at a lower level than the one before it, and consequently the inner side of each dividing ridge or wall is higher than the outer; or, to put it otherwise, in each Bolgia the wall they come to last--that nearest the centre of the Inferno, is lower than that they first reach--the one enclosing the Bolgia. [635] _The topmost stone_: The stone that had formed the beginning of the arch at this end of it. [636] _A loftier flight_: When he ascends the Mount of Purgatory. [637] _Steeper far, etc._: Rougher and steeper than the rib of rock they followed till they had crossed the Fifth Bolgia. They are now travelling along a different spoke of the wheel. [638] _The arch, etc._: He has gone on hiding his weariness till he is on the top of the arch that overhangs the Seventh Bolgia--that in which thieves are punished. [639] _Front the bridge's head_: Further on they climb up again (_Inf._ xxvi. 13) by the projecting stones which now supply them with the means of descent. It is a disputed point how far they do descend. Clearly it is further than merely from the bridge to the lower level of the wall dividing the Seventh from the Eighth Bolgia; but not so far as to the ground of the moat. Most likely the stones jut forth at the angle formed by the junction of the bridge and the rocky wall. On one of the lowest of these they find a standing-place whence they can see clearly what is in the Bolgia. [640] _Heliotrope_: A stone supposed to make the bearer of it invisible. [641] _Their hands, etc._: The sinners in this Bolgia are the thieves, not the violent robbers and highwaymen but those crime involves a betrayal of trust. After all their cunning thefts they are naked now; and, though here is nothing to steal, hands are firmly bound behind them. [642] _The ashes, etc._: The sufferings of the thieves, if looked closely into, will be found appropriate to their sins. They would fain but cannot steal themselves away, and in addition to the constant terror of being found out they are subject to pains the essence of which consists in the deprivation--the theft from them--of their unsubstantial bodies, which are all that they now have to lose. In the case of this victim the deprivation is only temporary. [643] _The Phoenix_: Dante here borrows very directly from Ovid (_Metam._ xv.). [644] _Vanni Fucci_: Natural son of a Pistoiese noble and a poet of some merit, who bore a leading part in the ruthless feuds of Blacks and Whites which distracted Pistoia towards the close of the thirteenth century. [645] _And ask, etc._: Dante wishes to find out why Fucci is placed among the thieves, and not in the circle of the violent. The question is framed so as to compel confession of a crime for which the sinner had not been condemned in life; and he flushes with rage at being found among the cowardly thieves. [646] _I'm plunged, etc._: Fucci was concerned in the theft of treasure from the Cathedral Church of St. James at Pistoia. Accounts vary as to the circumstances under which the crime was committed, and as to who suffered for it. Neither is it certainly known when Fucci died, though his recent arrival in the Bolgia agrees with the view that he was still active on the side of the Blacks in the last year of the century. In the fierceness of his retort to Dante we have evidence of their old acquaintance and old enmity. [647] _Lest thou shouldst joy_: Vanni, a _Nero_ or Black, takes his revenge for being found here by Dante, who was, as he knew, associated with the _Bianchi_ or Whites, by prophesying an event full of disaster to these. [648] _Every Bianco, etc._: The Blacks, according to Villani (viii. 45), were driven from Pistoia in May 1301. They took refuge in Florence, where their party, in the following November under the protection of Charles of Valois, finally gained the upper hand, and began to persecute and expel the Whites, among whom was Dante. Mars, the god of war, or, more probably, the planet of war, draws a vapour from the valley of the Magra, a small stream which flows into the Mediterranean on the northern confine of Tuscany. This vapour is said to signify Moroello Malaspina, a noble of that district and an active leader of the Blacks, who here figure as murky clouds. The Campo Piceno is the country west of Pistoia. There Moroello bursts on his foes like a lightning-flash out of its cloud. This seems to refer to a pitched battle that should have happened soon after the Blacks recovered their strength; but the chroniclers tell of none such, though some of the commentators do. The fortress of Seravalle was taken from the Pistoiese, it is true, in 1302, and Moroello is said to have been the leader of the force which starved it into submission. He was certainly present at the great siege of Pistoia in 1305, when the citizens suffered the last rigours of famine.--This prophecy by Fucci recalls those by Farinata and Ciacco. CANTO XXV. The robber,[649] when his words were ended so, Made both the figs and lifted either fist, Shouting: 'There, God! for them at thee I throw.' Then were the snakes my friends; for one 'gan twist And coiled itself around the sinner's throat, As if to say: 'Now would I have thee whist.' Another seized his arms and made a knot, Clinching itself upon them in such wise He had no power to move them by a jot. Pistoia![650] thou, Pistoia, shouldst devise 10 To burn thyself to ashes, since thou hast Outrun thy founders in iniquities. The blackest depths of Hell through which I passed Showed me no soul 'gainst God so filled with spite, No, not even he who down Thebes' wall[651] was cast. He spake no further word, but turned to flight; And I beheld a Centaur raging sore Come shouting: 'Of the ribald give me sight!' I scarce believe Maremma[652] yieldeth more Snakes of all kinds than what composed the load 20 Which on his back, far as our form, he bore. Behind his nape, with pinions spread abroad, A dragon couchant on his shoulders lay To set on fire whoever bars his road. 'This one is Cacus,'[653] did my Master say, 'Who underneath the rock of Aventine Watered a pool with blood day after day. Not with his brethren[654] runs he in the line, Because of yore the treacherous theft he wrought Upon the neighbouring wealthy herd of kine: 30 Whence to his crooked course an end was brought 'Neath Hercules' club, which on him might shower down A hundred blows; ere ten he suffered nought.' While this he said, the other had passed on; And under us three spirits forward pressed Of whom my Guide and I had nothing known But that: 'Who are ye?' they made loud request. Whereon our tale[655] no further could proceed; And toward them wholly we our wits addressed. I recognised them not, but gave good heed; 40 Till, as it often haps in such a case, To name another, one discovered need, Saying: 'Now where stopped Cianfa[656] in the race?' Then, that my Guide might halt and hearken well, On chin[657] and nose I did my finger place. If, Reader, to believe what now I tell Thou shouldst be slow, I wonder not, for I Who saw it all scarce find it credible. While I on them my brows kept lifted high A serpent, which had six feet, suddenly flew 50 At one of them and held him bodily. Its middle feet about his paunch it drew, And with the two in front his arms clutched fast, And bit one cheek and the other through and through. Its hinder feet upon his thighs it cast, Thrusting its tail between them till behind, Distended o'er his reins, it upward passed. The ivy to a tree could never bind Itself so firmly as this dreadful beast Its members with the other's intertwined. 60 Each lost the colour that it once possessed, And closely they, like heated wax, unite, The former hue of neither manifest: Even so up o'er papyrus,[658] when alight, Before the flame there spreads a colour dun, Not black as yet, though from it dies the white. The other two meanwhile were looking on, Crying: 'Agnello, how art thou made new! Thou art not twain, and yet no longer one.' A single head was moulded out of two; 70 And on our sight a single face arose, Which out of both lost countenances grew. Four separate limbs did but two arms compose; Belly with chest, and legs with thighs did grow To members such as nought created shows. Their former fashion was all perished now: The perverse shape did both, yet neither seem; And, thus transformed, departed moving slow. And as the lizard, which at fierce extreme Of dog-day heat another hedge would gain, 80 Flits 'cross the path swift as the lightning's gleam; Right for the bellies of the other twain A little snake[659] quivering with anger sped, Livid and black as is a pepper grain, And on the part by which we first are fed Pierced one of them; and then upon the ground It fell before him, and remained outspread. The wounded gazed on it, but made no sound. Rooted he stood[660] and yawning, scarce awake, As seized by fever or by sleep profound. 90 It closely watched him and he watched the snake, While from its mouth and from his wound 'gan swell Volumes of smoke which joined one cloud to make. Be Lucan henceforth dumb, nor longer tell Of plagued Sabellus and Nassidius,[661] But, hearkening to what follows, mark it well. Silent be Ovid: of him telling us How Cadmus[662] to a snake, and to a fount Changed Arethuse,[663] I am not envious; For never of two natures front to front 100 In metamorphosis, while mutually The forms[664] their matter changed, he gives account. 'Twas thus that each to the other made reply: Its tail into a fork the serpent split; Bracing his feet the other pulled them nigh: And then in one so thoroughly were knit His legs and thighs, no searching could divine At where the junction had been wrought in it. The shape, of which the one lost every sign, The cloven tail was taking; then the skin 110 Of one grew rough, the other's soft and fine. I by the armpits saw the arms drawn in; And now the monster's feet, which had been small, What the other's lost in length appeared to win. Together twisted, its hind feet did fall And grew the member men are used to hide: For his the wretch gained feet with which to crawl. Dyed in the smoke they took on either side A novel colour: hair unwonted grew On one; the hair upon the other died. 120 The one fell prone, erect the other drew, With cruel eyes continuing to glare, 'Neath which their muzzles metamorphose knew. The erect to his brows drew his. Of stuff to spare Of what he upward pulled, there was no lack; So ears were formed on cheeks that erst were bare. Of that which clung in front nor was drawn back, Superfluous, on the face was formed a nose, And lips absorbed the skin that still was slack. His muzzle who lay prone now forward goes; 130 Backward into his head his ears he draws Even as a snail appears its horns to lose. The tongue, which had been whole and ready was For speech, cleaves now; the forked tongue of the snake Joins in the other: and the smoke has pause.[665] The soul which thus a brutish form did take, Along the valley, hissing, swiftly fled; The other close behind it spluttering spake, Then, toward it turning his new shoulders, said Unto the third: 'Now Buoso down the way 140 May hasten crawling, as I earlier sped.' Ballast which in the Seventh Bolgia lay Thus saw I shift and change. Be my excuse The novel theme,[666] if swerves my pen astray. And though these things mine eyesight might confuse A little, and my mind with fear divide, Such secrecy they fleeing could not use But that Puccio Sciancatto plain I spied; And he alone of the companions three Who came at first, was left unmodified. 150 For the other, tears, Gaville,[667] are shed by thee. FOOTNOTES: [649] _The robber, etc._: By means of his prophecy Fucci has, after a fashion, taken revenge on Dante for being found by him among the cheating thieves instead of among the nobler sinners guilty of blood and violence. But in the rage of his wounded pride he must insult even Heaven, and this he does by using the most contemptuous gesture in an Italian's repertory. The fig is made by thrusting the thumb between the next two fingers. In the English 'A fig for him!' we have a reference to the gesture. [650] _Pistoia_: The Pistoiese bore the reputation of being hard and pitiless. The tradition was that their city had been founded by such of Catiline's followers as survived his defeat on the Campo Piceno. 'It is no wonder,' says Villani (i. 32) 'that, being the descendants as they are of Catiline and his followers, the Pistoiese have always been ruthless and cruel to strangers and to one another.' [651] _Who down Thebes' wall_: Capaneus (_Inf._ xiv. 63). [652] _Maremma_: See note, _Inf._ xiii. 8. [653] _Cacus_: Dante makes him a Centaur, but Virgil (_Æn._ viii.) only describes him as half human. The pool was fed with the blood of his human victims. The herd was the spoil Hercules took from Geryon. In the _Æneid_ Cacus defends himself from Hercules by vomiting a fiery smoke; and this doubtless suggested the dragon of the text. [654] _His brethren_: The Centaurs who guard the river of blood (_Inf._ xii. 56). In Fucci, as a sinner guilty of blood and violence above most of the thieves, the Centaur Cacus takes a special malign interest. [655] _Our tale_: Of Cacus. It is interrupted by the arrival of three sinners whom Dante does not at first recognise as he gazes down on them, but only when they begin to speak among themselves. They are three noble citizens of Florence: Agnello Brunelleschi, Buoso degli Abati, and Puccio Sciancatto de' Galigai--all said to have pilfered in private life, or to have abused their tenure of high office by plundering the Commonwealth. What is certainly known of them is that they were Florentine thieves of quality. [656] _Cianfa_: Another Florentine gentleman, one of the Donati. Since his companions lost sight of him he has been transformed into a six-footed serpent. Immediately appearing, he darts upon Agnello. [657] _On chin, etc._: A gesture by which silence is requested. The mention of Cianfa shows Dante that he is among Florentines. [658] _Papyrus_: The original is _papiro_, the word used in Dante's time for a wick made out of a reed like the papyrus; _papér_ being still the name for a wick in some dialects.--(Scartazzini.) It cannot be shown that _papiro_ was ever employed for paper in Italian. This, however, does not prove that Dante may not so use it in this instance, adopting it from the Latin _papyrus_. Besides, he says that the brown colour travels up over the _papiro_; while it goes downward on a burning wick. Nor would the simile, if drawn from a slowly burning lamp-wick, agree with the speed of the change described in the text. [659] _A little snake_: As transpires from the last line of the Canto, this is Francesco, of the Florentine family of the Cavalcanti, to which Dante's friend Guido belonged. He wounds Buoso in the navel, and then, instead of growing into one new monster as was the case with Cianfa and Agnello, they exchange shapes, and when the transformation is complete Buoso is the serpent and Francesco is the human shade. [660] _Rooted he stood, etc._: The description agrees with the symptoms of snake-bite, one of which is extreme drowsiness. [661] _Sabellus and Nassidius_: Were soldiers of Cato's army whose death by snake-bite in the Libyan desert is described by Lucan, _Pharsal._ ix. Sabbellus was burned up by the poison, bones and all; Nassidius swelled up and burst. [662] _Cadmus_: _Metam._ iv. [663] _Arethusa_: _Metam._ v. [664] _The forms, etc._: The word _form_ is here to be taken in its scholastic sense of _virtus formativa_, the inherited power of modifying matter into an organised body. 'This, united to the divinely implanted spark of reason,' says Philalethes, 'constitutes, on Dante's system, a human soul. Even after death this power continues to be an essential constituent of the soul, and constructs out of the elements what seems to be a body. Here the sinners exchange the matter they have thus made their own, each retaining, however, his proper plastic energy as part of his soul.' Dante in his _Convito_ (iii. 2) says that 'the human soul is the noblest form of all that are made under the heavens, receiving more of the Divine nature than any other.' [665] _The smoke has pause_: The sinners have robbed one another of all they can lose. In the punishment is mirrored the sin that plunged them here. [666] _The novel theme_: He has lingered longer than usual on this Bolgia, and pleads wonder of what he saw in excuse either of his prolixity or of some of the details of his description. The expression is perhaps one of feigned humility, to balance his recent boast of excelling Ovid and Lucan in inventive power. [667] _Gaville_: The other, and the only one of those five Florentine thieves not yet named in the text, is he who came at first in the form of a little black snake, and who has now assumed the shape of Buoso. In reality he is Francesco Cavalcanti, who was slain by the people of Gaville in the upper Valdarno. Many of them were in their turn slaughtered in revenge by the Cavalcanti and their associates. It should be remarked that some of these five Florentines were of one party, some of the other. It is also noteworthy that Dante recruits his thieves as he did his usurers from the great Florentine families.--As the 'shifting and changing' of this rubbish is apt to be found confusing, the following may be useful to some readers:--There first came on the scene Agnello, Buoso, and Puccio. Cianfa, in the shape of a six-footed serpent, comes and throws himself on Agnello, and then, grown incorporate in a new strange monster, two in one, they disappear. Buoso is next wounded by Francesco, and they exchange members and bodies. Only Puccio remains unchanged. CANTO XXVI. Rejoice, O Florence, in thy widening fame! Thy wings thou beatest over land and sea, And even through Inferno spreads thy name. Burghers of thine, five such were found by me Among the thieves; whence I ashamed[668] grew, Nor shall great glory thence redound to thee. But if 'tis toward the morning[669] dreams are true, Thou shalt experience ere long time be gone The doom even Prato[670] prays for as thy due. And came it now, it would not come too soon. 10 Would it were come as come it must with time: 'Twill crush me more the older I am grown. Departing thence, my Guide began to climb The jutting rocks by which we made descent Some while ago,[671] and pulled me after him. And as upon our lonely way we went 'Mong splinters[672] of the cliff, the feet in vain, Without the hand to help, had labour spent. I sorrowed, and am sorrow-smit again, Recalling what before mine eyes there lay, 20 And, more than I am wont, my genius rein From running save where virtue leads the way; So that if happy star[673] or holier might Have gifted me I never mourn it may. At time of year when he who gives earth light His face shows to us longest visible, When gnats replace the fly at fall of night, Not by the peasant resting on the hill Are seen more fire-flies in the vale below, Where he perchance doth field and vineyard[674] till, 30 Than flamelets I beheld resplendent glow Throughout the whole Eighth Bolgia, when at last I stood whence I the bottom plain could know. And as he whom the bears avenged, when passed From the earth Elijah, saw the chariot rise With horses heavenward reared and mounting fast, And no long time had traced it with his eyes Till but a flash of light it all became, Which like a rack of cloud swept to the skies: Deep in the valley's gorge, in mode the same, 40 These flitted; what it held by none was shown, And yet a sinner[675] lurked in every flame. To see them well I from the bridge peered down, And if a jutting crag I had not caught I must have fallen, though neither thrust nor thrown. My Leader me beholding lost in thought: 'In all the fires are spirits,' said to me; 'His flame round each is for a garment wrought.' 'O Master!' I replied, 'by hearing thee I grow assured, but yet I knew before 50 That thus indeed it was, and longed to be Told who is in the flame which there doth soar, Cloven, as if ascending from the pyre Where with Eteocles[676] there burned of yore His brother.' He: 'Ulysses in that fire And Diomedes[677] burn; in punishment Thus held together, as they held in ire. And, wrapped within their flame, they now repent The ambush of the horse, which oped the door Through which the Romans' noble seed[678] forth went. 60 For guile Deïdamia[679] makes deplore In death her lost Achilles, tears they shed, And bear for the Palladium[680] vengeance sore.' 'Master, I pray thee fervently,' I said, 'If from those flames they still can utter speech-- Give ear as if a thousand times I pled! Refuse not here to linger, I beseech, Until the cloven fire shall hither gain: Thou seest how toward it eagerly I reach.' And he: 'Thy prayers are worthy to obtain 70 Exceeding praise; thou hast what thou dost seek: But see that thou from speech thy tongue refrain. I know what thou wouldst have; leave me to speak, For they perchance would hear contemptuously Shouldst thou address them, seeing they were Greek.'[681] Soon as the flame toward us had come so nigh That to my Leader time and place seemed met, I heard him thus adjure it to reply: 'O ye who twain within one fire are set, If what I did your guerdon meriteth, 80 If much or little ye are in my debt For the great verse I built while I had breath, By one of you be openly confessed Where, lost to men, at last he met with death.' Of the ancient flame the more conspicuous crest Murmuring began to waver up and down Like flame that flickers, by the wind distressed. At length by it was measured motion shown, Like tongue that moves in speech; and by the flame Was language uttered thus: 'When I had gone 90 From Circe[682] who a long year kept me tame Beside her, ere the near Gaeta had Receivèd from Æneas that new name; No softness for my son, nor reverence sad For my old father, nor the love I owed Penelope with which to make her glad, Could quench the ardour that within me glowed A full experience of the world to gain-- Of human vice and worth. But I abroad Launched out upon the high and open main[683] 100 With but one bark and but the little band Which ne'er deserted me.[684] As far as Spain I saw the sea-shore upon either hand, And as Morocco; saw Sardinia's isle, And all of which those waters wash the strand. I and my comrades were grown old the while And sluggish, ere we to the narrows came Where Hercules of old did landmarks pile For sign to men they should no further aim; And Seville lay behind me on the right, 110 As on the left lay Ceuta. Then to them I spake: "O Brothers, who through such a fight Of hundred thousand dangers West have won, In this short watch that ushers in the night Of all your senses, ere your day be done, Refuse not to obtain experience new Of worlds unpeopled, yonder, past the sun. Consider whence the seed of life ye drew; Ye were not born to live like brutish herd, But righteousness and wisdom to ensue." 120 My comrades to such eagerness were stirred By this short speech the course to enter on, They had no longer brooked restraining word. Turning our poop to where the morning shone We of the oars made wings for our mad flight, Still tending left the further we had gone. And of the other pole I saw at night Now all the stars; and 'neath the watery plain Our own familiar heavens were lost to sight. Five times afresh had kindled, and again 130 The moon's face earthward was illumed no more, Since out we sailed upon the mighty main;[685] Then we beheld a lofty mountain[686] soar, Dim in the distance; higher, as I thought, By far than any I had seen before. We joyed; but with despair were soon distraught When burst a whirlwind from the new-found world And the forequarter of the vessel caught. With all the waters thrice it round was swirled; At the fourth time the poop, heaved upward, rose, 140 The prow, as pleased Another,[687] down was hurled; And then above us did the ocean close.' FOOTNOTES: [668] _Whence I ashamed, etc._: There is here a sudden change from irony to earnest. 'Five members of great Florentine families, eternally engaged among themselves in their shameful metamorphoses--nay, but it is too sad!' [669] _Toward the morning, etc._: There was a widespread belief in the greater truthfulness of dreams dreamed as the night wears away. See _Purg._ ix. 13. The dream is Dante's foreboding of what is to happen to Florence. Of its truth he has no doubt, and the only question is how soon will it be answered by the fact. Soon, he says, if it is near to the morning that we dream true dreams--morning being the season of waking reality in which dreams are accomplished. [670] _Even Prato_: A small neighbouring city, much under the influence of Florence, and somewhat oppressed by it. The commentators reckon up the disasters that afflicted Florence in the first years of the fourteenth century, between the date of Dante's journey and the time he wrote--fires, falls of bridges, and civil strife. But such misfortunes were too much in keeping with the usual course of Florentine history to move Dante thus deeply in the retrospect; and as he speaks here in his own person the 'soon' is more naturally counted from the time at which he writes than from the date assigned by him to his pilgrimage. He is looking forward to the period when his own return in triumph to Florence was to be prepared by grievous national reverses; and, as a patriot, he feels that he cannot be wholly reconciled by his private advantage to the public misfortune. But it was all only a dream. [671] _Some while ago_: See note, _Inf._ xxiv. 79. [672] _'Mong splinters, etc._: They cross the wall or barrier between the Seventh and Eighth Bolgias. From _Inf._ xxiv. 63 we have learned that the rib of rock, on the line of which they are now proceeding, with its arches which overhang the various Bolgias, is rougher and worse to follow than that by which they began their passage towards the centre of Malebolge. [673] _Happy star_: See note, _Inf._ xv. 55. Dante seems to have been uncertain what credence to give to the claims of astrology. In a passage of the _Purgatorio_ (xvi. 67) he tries to establish that whatever influence the stars may possess over us we can never, except with our own consent, be influenced by them to evil.--His sorrow here, as elsewhere, is not wholly a feeling of pity for the suffering shades, but is largely mingled with misgivings for himself. The punishment of those to whose sins he feels no inclination he always beholds with equanimity. Here, as he looks down upon the false counsellors and considers what temptations there are to misapply intellectual gifts, he is smitten with dread lest his lot should one day be cast in that dismal valley and he find cause to regret that the talent of genius was ever committed to him. The memory even of what he saw makes him recollect himself and resolve to be wary. Then, as if to justify the claim to superior powers thus clearly implied, there comes a passage which in the original is of uncommon beauty. [674] _Field and vineyard_: These lines, redolent of the sweet Tuscan midsummer gloaming, give us amid the horrors of Malebolge something like the breath of fresh air the peasant lingers to enjoy. It may be noted that in Italy the village is often found perched above the more fertile land, on a site originally chosen with a view to security from attack. So that here the peasant is at home from his labour. [675] _And yet a sinner, etc._: The false counsellors who for selfish ends hid their true minds and misused their intellectual light to lead others astray are for ever hidden each in his own wandering flame. [676] _Eteocles_: Son of Oedipus and twin brother of Polynices. The brothers slew one another, and were placed on the same funeral pile, the flame of which clove into two as if to image the discord that had existed between them (_Theb._ xii.). [677] _And Diomedes_: The two are associated in deeds of blood and guile at the siege of Troy. [678] _The Romans' noble seed_: The trick of the wooden horse led to the capture of Troy, and that led Æneas to wander forth on the adventures that ended in the settlement of the Trojans in Italy. [679] _Deïdamia_: That Achilles might be kept from joining the Greek expedition to Troy he was sent by his mother to the court of Lycomedes, father of Deïdamia. Ulysses lured him away from his hiding-place and from Deïdamia, whom he had made a mother. [680] _The Palladium_: The Trojan sacred image of Pallas, stolen by Ulysses and Diomed (_Æn._ ii.). Ulysses is here upon his own ground. [681] _They were Greek_: Some find here an allusion to Dante's ignorance of the Greek language and literature. But Virgil addresses them in the Lombard dialect of Italian (_Inf._ xxvii. 21). He acts as spokesman because those ancient Greeks were all so haughty that to a common modern mortal they would have nothing to say. He, as the author of the _Æneid_, has a special claim on their good-nature. It is but seldom that the shades are told who Virgil is, and never directly. Here Ulysses may infer it from the mention of the 'lofty verse.' [682] _From Circe_: It is Ulysses that speaks. [683] _The open main_: The Mediterranean as distinguished from the Ægean. [684] _Which ne'er deserted me_: There seems no reason for supposing, with Philalethes, that Ulysses is here represented as sailing on his last voyage from the island of Circe and not from Ithaca. Ulysses, on the contrary, represents himself as breaking away afresh from all the ties of home. According to Homer, Ulysses had lost all his companions ere he returned to Ithaca; and in the _Odyssey_ Tiresias prophesies to him that his last wanderings are to be inland. But any acquaintance that Dante had with Homer can only have been vague and fragmentary. He may have founded his narrative of how Ulysses ended his days upon some floating legend; or, eager to fill up what he took to be a blank in the world of imagination, he may have drawn wholly on his own creative power. In any case it is his Ulysses who, through the version of him given by a living poet, is most familiar to the English reader. [685] _The mighty main_: The Atlantic Ocean. They bear to the left as they sail, till their course is due south, and crossing the Equator, they find themselves under the strange skies of the southern hemisphere. For months they have seen no land. [686] _A lofty mountain_: This is the Mountain of Purgatory, according to Dante's geography antipodal to Jerusalem, and the only land in the southern hemisphere. [687] _As pleased Another_: Ulysses is proudly resigned to the failure of his enterprise, 'for he was Greek.' CANTO XXVII. Now, having first erect and silent grown (For it would say no more), from us the flame, The Poet sweet consenting,[688] had moved on; And then our eyes were turned to one that came[689] Behind it on the way, by sounds that burst Out of its crest in a confusèd stream. As the Sicilian bull,[690] which bellowed first With his lamenting--and it was but right-- Who had prepared it with his tools accurst,[691] Roared with the howlings of the tortured wight, 10 So that although constructed all of brass Yet seemed it pierced with anguish to the height; So, wanting road and vent by which to pass Up through the flame, into the flame's own speech The woeful language all converted was. But when the words at length contrived to reach The top, while hither thither shook the crest As moved the tongue[692] at utterance of each, We heard: 'Oh thou, to whom are now addressed My words, who spakest now in Lombard phrase: 20 "Depart;[693] of thee I nothing more request." Though I be late arrived, yet of thy grace Let it not irk thee here a while to stay: It irks not me, yet, as thou seest, I blaze. If lately to this world devoid of day From that sweet Latian land thou art come down Whence all my guilt I bring, declare and say Has now Romagna peace? because my own Native abode was in the mountain land 'Tween springs[694] of Tiber and Urbino town.' 30 While I intent and bending low did stand, My Leader, as he touched me on the side, 'Speak thou, for he is Latian,' gave command. Whereon without delay I thus replied-- Because already[695] was my speech prepared: 'Soul, that down there dost in concealment 'bide, In thy Romagna[696] wars have never spared And spare not now in tyrants' hearts to rage; But when I left it there was none declared. No change has fallen Ravenna[697] for an age. 40 There, covering Cervia too with outspread wing, Polenta's Eagle guards his heritage. Over the city[698] which long suffering Endured, and Frenchmen slain on Frenchmen rolled, The Green Paws[699] once again protection fling. The Mastiffs of Verrucchio,[700] young and old, Who to Montagna[701] brought such evil cheer, Still clinch their fangs where they were wont to hold. Cities,[702] Lamone and Santerno near, The Lion couched in white are governed by 50 Which changes party with the changing year. And that to which the Savio[703] wanders nigh As it is set 'twixt mountain and champaign Lives now in freedom now 'neath tyranny. But who thou art I to be told am fain: Be not more stubborn than we others found, As thou on earth illustrious wouldst remain.' When first the fire a little while had moaned After its manner, next the pointed crest Waved to and fro; then in this sense breathed sound: 'If I believed my answer were addressed 61 To one that earthward shall his course retrace, This flame should forthwith altogether rest. But since[704] none ever yet out of this place Returned alive, if all be true I hear, I yield thee answer fearless of disgrace. I was a warrior, then a Cordelier;[705] Thinking thus girt to purge away my stain: And sure my hope had met with answer clear Had not the High Priest[706]--ill with him remain! 70 Plunged me anew into my former sin: And why and how, I would to thee make plain. While I the frame of bones and flesh was in My mother gave me, all the deeds I wrought Were fox-like and in no wise leonine. Of every wile and hidden way I caught The secret trick, and used them with such sleight That all the world with fame of it was fraught. When I perceived I had attainèd quite The time of life when it behoves each one 80 To furl his sails and coil his cordage tight, Sorrowing for deeds I had with pleasure done, Contrite and shriven, I religious grew. Ah, wretched me! and well it was begun But for the Chieftain of the Pharisees new,[707] Then waging war hard by the Lateran, And not with Saracen nor yet with Jew; For Christian[708] were his enemies every man, And none had at the siege of Acre been Or trafficked in the Empire of Soldàn. 90 His lofty office he held cheap, and e'en His Sacred Orders and the cord I wore, Which used[709] to make the wearers of it lean. As from Soracte[710] Constantine of yore Sylvester called to cure his leprosy, I as a leech was called this man before To cure him of his fever which ran high; My counsel he required, but I stood dumb, For drunken all his words appeared to be. He said; "For fear be in thy heart no room; 100 Beforehand I absolve thee, but declare How Palestrina I may overcome. Heaven I unlock, as thou art well aware, And close at will; because the keys are twin My predecessor[711] was averse to bear." Then did his weighty reasoning on me win Till to be silent seemed the worst of all; And, "Father," I replied, "since from this sin Thou dost absolve me into which I fall-- The scant performance[712] of a promise wide 110 Will yield thee triumph in thy lofty stall." Francis came for me soon as e'er I died; But one of the black Cherubim was there And "Take him not, nor rob me of him" cried, "For him of right among my thralls I bear Because he offered counsel fraudulent; Since when I've had him firmly by the hair. None is absolved unless he first repent; Nor can repentance house with purpose ill, For this the contradiction doth prevent." 120 Ah, wretched me! How did I shrinking thrill When clutching me he sneered: "Perhaps of old Thou didst not think[713] I had in logic skill." He carried me to Minos:[714] Minos rolled His tail eight times round his hard back; in ire Biting it fiercely, ere of me he told: "Among the sinners of the shrouding fire!" Therefore am I, where thou beholdest, lost; And, sore at heart, go clothed in such attire.' What he would say thus ended by the ghost, 130 Away from us the moaning flame did glide While to and fro its pointed horn was tossed. But we passed further on, I and my Guide, Along the cliff to where the arch is set O'er the next moat, where paying they reside, As schismatics who whelmed themselves in debt. FOOTNOTES: [688] _Consenting_: See line 21. [689] _One that came_: This is the fire-enveloped shade of Guido of Montefeltro, the colloquy with whom occupies the whole of the Canto. [690] _The Sicilian bull_: Perillus, an Athenian, presented Phalaris, the tyrant of Agrigentum, with a brazen bull so constructed that when it was heated from below the cries of the victim it contained were converted into the bellowing of a bull. The first trial of the invention was made upon the artist. [691] _Accurst_: Not in the original. 'Rime in English hath such scarcity,' as Chaucer says. [692] _As moved the tongue, etc._: The shade being enclosed in the hollow fire all his words are changed into a sound like the roaring of a flame. At last, when an opening has been worked through the crested point, the speech becomes articulate. [693] _Depart, etc._: One at least of the words quoted as having been used by Virgil is Lombard. There is something very quaint in making him use the Lombard dialect of Dante's time. [694] _'Tween springs, etc._: Montefeltro lies between Urbino and the mountain where the Tiber has its source. [695] _Already_: Dante knew that Virgil would refer to him for an answer to Guido's question, bearing as it did on modern Italian affairs. [696] _Romagna_: The district of Italy lying on the Adriatic, south of the Po and east of Tuscany, of which Bologna and the cities named in the text were the principal towns. During the last quarter of the thirteenth century it was the scene of constant wars promoted in the interest of the Church, which claimed Romagna as the gift of the Emperor Rudolf, and in that of the great nobles of the district, who while using the Guelf and Ghibeline war-cries aimed at nothing but the lordship of the various cities. Foremost among these nobles was he with whose shade Dante speaks. Villani calls him 'the most sagacious and accomplished warrior of his time in Italy' (_Cronica_, vii. 80). He was possessed of lands of his own near Forlì and Cesena, and was lord in turn of many of the Romagnese cities. On the whole he appears to have remained true to his Ghibeline colours in spite of Papal fulminations, although once and again he was reconciled to the Church; on the last occasion in 1294. In the years immediately before this he had greatly distinguished himself as a wise governor and able general in the service of the Ghibeline Pisa--or rather as the paid lord of it. [697] _Ravenna_: Ravenna and the neighbouring town of Cervia were in 1300 under the lordship of members of the Polenta family--the father and brothers of the ill-fated Francesca (_Inf._ v.). Their arms were an eagle, half white on an azure and half red on a gold field. It was in the court of the generous Guido, son of one of these brothers, that Dante was to find his last refuge and to die. [698] _Over the city, etc._: Forlì. The reference is to one of the most brilliant feats of war performed by Guido of Montefeltro. Frenchmen formed great part of an army sent in 1282 against Forlì by the Pope, Martin IV., himself a Frenchman. Guido, then lord of the city, led them into a trap and overthrew them with great slaughter. Like most men of his time Guido was a believer in astrology, and is said on this occasion to have acted on the counsel of Guido Bonatti, mentioned among the diviners in the Fourth Bolgia (_Inf._ xx. 118). [699] _The Green Paws_: In 1300 the Ordelaffi were lords of Forlì. Their arms were a green lion on a gold ground. During the first years of his exile Dante had to do with Scarpetta degli Ordelaffi, under whose command the exiled Florentines put themselves for a time, and there is even a tradition that he acted as his secretary. [700] _The Mastiffs of Verrucchio_: Verrucchio was the castle of the Malatestas, lords of Rimini, called the Mastiffs on account of their cruel tenacity. The elder was the father of Francesca's husband and lover; the younger was a brother of these. [701] _Montagna_: Montagna de' Parcitati, one of a Ghibeline family that contested superiority in Rimini with the Guelf Malatestas, was taken prisoner by guile and committed by the old Mastiff to the keeping of the young one, whose fangs were set in him to such purpose that he soon died in his dungeon. [702] _Cities, etc._: Imola and Faenza, situated on the rivers named in the text. Mainardo Pagani, lord of these towns, had for arms an azure lion on a white field. During his minority he was a ward of the Commonwealth of Florence. By his cunning and daring he earned the name of the Demon (_Purg._ xiv. 118). He died at Imola in 1302, and was buried in the garb of a monk of Vallombrosa. Like most of his neighbours he changed his party as often as his interest required. He was a Guelf in Florence and a Ghibeline in Romagna, say some. [703] _Savio_: Cesena, on the Savio, was distinguished among the cities of Romagna by being left more frequently than the others were to manage its own affairs. The Malatestas and Montefeltros were in turn possessed of the tyranny of it. [704] _But since, etc._: The shades, being enveloped in fire, are unable to see those with whom they speak; and so Guido does not detect in Dante the signs of a living man, but takes him to be like himself a denizen of Inferno. He would not have the truth regarding his fate to be known in the world, where he is supposed to have departed life in the odour of sanctity. Dante's promise to refresh his fame he either regards as meaningless, or as one made without the power of fulfilling it. Dante leaves him in his error, for he is there to learn all he can, and not to bandy personal confessions with the shades. [705] _A Cordelier_: In 1296 Guido entered the Franciscan Order. He died in 1298, but where is not known; some authorities say at Venice and others at Assisi. Benvenuto tells: 'He was often seen begging his bread in Ancona, where he was buried. Many good deeds are related of him, and I cherish a sweet hope that he may have been saved.' [706] _The High Priest_: Boniface VIII. [707] _The Pharisees new_: The members of the Court of Rome. Saint Jerome calls the dignified Roman clergy of his day 'the Senate of the Pharisees.' [708] _For Christian, etc._: The foes of Boniface, here spoken of, were the Cardinals Peter and James Colonna. He destroyed their palace in Rome (1297) and carried the war against them to their country seat at Palestrina, the ancient Præneste, then a great stronghold. Dante here bitterly blames Boniface for instituting a crusade against Christians at a time when, by the recent loss of Acre, the gate of the Holy Land had been lost to Christendom. The Colonnas were innocent, too, of the crime of supplying the Infidel with munitions of war--a crime condemned by the Lateran Council of 1215, and by Boniface himself, who excluded those guilty of it from the benefits of the great Jubilee of 1300. [709] _Which used, etc._: In former times, when the rule of the Order was faithfully observed. Dante charges the Franciscans with degeneracy in the _Paradiso_, xi. 124. [710] _From Soracte_: Referring to the well-known legend. The fee for the cure was the fabulous Donation. See _Inf._ xix. 115. [711] _My predecessor_: Celestine v. See _Inf._ iii. 60. [712] _The scant performance, etc._: That Guido gave such counsel is related by a contemporary chronicler: 'The Pope said: Tell me how to get the better of those mine enemies, thou who art so knowing in these things. Then he answered: Promise much, and perform little; which he did.' But it seems odd that the wily and unscrupulous Boniface should have needed to put himself to school for such a simple lesson. [713] _Thou didst not think, etc._: Guido had forgot that others could reason besides the Pope. With regard to the inefficacy of the Papal absolution an old commentator says, following Origen: 'The Popes that walk in the footsteps of Peter have this power of binding and loosing; but only such as do so walk.' But on Dante's scheme of what fixes the fate of the soul absolution matters little to save, or priestly curses to damnify. See _Purg._ iii. 133. It is unfeigned repentance that can help a sinner even at the last; and it is remarkable that in the case of Buonconte, the gallant son of this same Guido, the infernal angel who comes for him as he expires complains that he has been cheated of his victim by one poor tear. See _Purg._ v. 88, etc. Why then is no indulgence shown in Dante's court to Guido, who might well have been placed in Purgatory and made to have repented effectually of this his last sin? That Dante had any personal grudge against him we can hardly think. In the Fourth Book of the _Convito_ (written, according to Fraticelli, in 1297), he calls him 'our most noble Guido Montefeltrano;' and praises him as one of the wise and noble souls that refuse to run with full sails into the port of death, but furl the sails of their worldly undertakings, and, relinquishing all earthly pleasures and business, give themselves up in their old age to a religious life. Either, then, he sets Guido here in order that he may have a modern false counsellor worthy to be ranked with Ulysses; or because, on longer experience, he had come to reprobate more keenly the abuse of the Franciscan habit; or, most likely of all, that he might, even at the cost of Guido, load the hated memory of Boniface with another reproach. [714] _Minos_: Here we have Minos represented in the act of pronouncing judgment in words as well as by the figurative rolling of his tail around his body (_Inf._ v. 11). CANTO XXVIII. Could any, even in words unclogged by rhyme Recount the wounds that now I saw,[715] and blood, Although he aimed at it time after time? Here every tongue must fail of what it would, Because our human speech and powers of thought To grasp so much come short in aptitude. If all the people were together brought Who in Apulia,[716] land distressed by fate, Made lamentation for the bloodshed wrought By Rome;[717] and in that war procrastinate[718] 10 When the large booty of the rings was won, As Livy writes whose every word has weight; With those on whom such direful deeds were done When Robert Guiscard[719] they as foes assailed; And those of whom still turns up many a bone At Ceperan,[720] where each Apulian failed In faith; and those at Tagliacozzo[721] strewed, Where old Alardo, not by arms, prevailed; And each his wounds and mutilations showed, Yet would they far behind by those be left 20 Who had the vile Ninth Bolgia for abode. No cask, of middle stave or end bereft, E'er gaped like one I saw the rest among, Slit from the chin all downward to the cleft. Between his legs his entrails drooping hung; The pluck and that foul bag were evident Which changes what is swallowed into dung. And while I gazed upon him all intent, Opening his breast his eyes on me he set, Saying: 'Behold, how by myself I'm rent! 30 See how dismembered now is Mahomet![722] Ali[723] in front of me goes weeping too; With visage from the chin to forelock split. By all the others whom thou seest there grew Scandal and schism while yet they breathed the day; Because of which they now are cloven through. There stands behind a devil on the way, Us with his sword thus cruelly to trim: He cleaves again each of our company As soon as we complete the circuit grim; 40 Because the wounds of each are healed outright Or e'er anew he goes in front of him. But who art thou that peerest from the height, It may be putting off to reach the pain Which shall the crimes confessed by thee requite?' 'Death has not seized him yet, nor is he ta'en To torment for his sins,' my Master said; 'But, that he may a full experience gain, By me, a ghost, 'tis doomed he should be led Down the Infernal circles, round on round; 50 And what I tell thee is the truth indeed.' A hundred shades and more, to whom the sound Had reached, stood in the moat to mark me well, Their pangs forgot; so did the words astound. 'Let Fra Dolcin[724] provide, thou mayst him tell-- Thou, who perchance ere long shalt sunward go-- Unless he soon would join me in this Hell, Much food, lest aided by the siege of snow The Novarese should o'er him victory get, Which otherwise to win they would be slow.' 60 While this was said to me by Mahomet One foot he held uplifted; to the ground He let it fall, and so he forward set Next, one whose throat was gaping with a wound, Whose nose up to the brows away was sheared And on whose head a single ear was found, At me, with all the others, wondering peered; And, ere the rest, an open windpipe made, The outside of it all with crimson smeared. 'O thou, not here because of guilt,' he said; 70 'And whom I sure on Latian ground did know Unless by strong similitude betrayed, Upon Pier da Medicin[725] bestow A thought, shouldst thou revisit the sweet plain That from Vercelli[726] slopes to Marcabò. And make thou known to Fano's worthiest twain-- To Messer Guido and to Angiolel-- They, unless foresight here be wholly vain, Thrown overboard in gyve and manacle Shall drown fast by Cattolica, as planned 80 By treachery of a tyrant fierce and fell. Between Majolica[727] and Cyprus strand A blacker crime did Neptune never spy By pirates wrought, or even by Argives' hand. The traitor[728] who is blinded of an eye, Lord of the town which of my comrades one Had been far happier ne'er to have come nigh, To parley with him will allure them on, Then so provide, against Focara's[729] blast No need for them of vow or orison.' 90 And I: 'Point out and tell, if wish thou hast To get news of thee to the world conveyed, Who rues that e'er his eyes thereon were cast?' On a companion's jaw his hand he laid, And shouted, while the mouth he open prised: ''Tis this one here by whom no word is said. He quenched all doubt in Cæsar, and advised-- Himself an outlaw--that a man equipped For strife ran danger if he temporised.' Alas, to look on, how downcast and hipped 100 Curio,[730] once bold in counsel, now appeared; With gorge whence by the roots the tongue was ripped. Another one, whose hands away were sheared, In the dim air his stumps uplifted high So that his visage was with blood besmeared, And, 'Mosca,[731] too, remember!' loud did cry, 'Who said, ah me! "A thing once done is done!" An evil seed for all in Tuscany.' I added: 'Yea, and death to every one Of thine!' whence he, woe piled on woe, his way 110 Went like a man with grief demented grown. But I to watch the gang made longer stay, And something saw which I should have a fear, Without more proof, so much as even to say, But that my conscience bids me have good cheer-- The comrade leal whose friendship fortifies A man beneath the mail of purpose clear. I saw in sooth (still seems it 'fore mine eyes), A headless trunk; with that sad company It forward moved, and on the selfsame wise. 120 The severed head, clutched by the hair, swung free Down from the fist, yea, lantern-like hung down; Staring at us it murmured: 'Wretched me!' A lamp he made of head-piece once his own; And he was two in one and one in two; But how, to Him who thus ordains is known. Arrived beneath the bridge and full in view, With outstretched arm his head he lifted high To bring his words well to us. These I knew: 'Consider well my grievous penalty, 130 Thou who, though still alive, art visiting The people dead; what pain with this can vie? In order that to earth thou news mayst bring Of me, that I'm Bertrand de Born[732] know well, Who gave bad counsel to the Younger King. I son and sire made each 'gainst each rebel: David and Absalom were fooled not more By counsels of the false Ahithophel. Kinsmen so close since I asunder tore, Severed, alas! I carry now my brain 140 From what[733] it grew from in this trunk of yore: And so I prove the law of pain for pain.'[734] FOOTNOTES: [715] _That now I saw_: In the Ninth Bolgia, on which he is looking down, and in which are punished the sowers of discord in church and state. [716] _Apulia_: The south-eastern district of Italy, owing to its situation a frequent battle-field in ancient and modern times. [717] _Rome_: 'Trojans' in most MSS.; and then the Romans are described as descended from Trojans. The reference may be to the defeat of the Apulians with considerable slaughter by P. Decius Mus, or to their losses in general in the course of the Samnite war. [718] _War procrastinate_: The second Punic war lasted fully fifteen years, and in the course of it the battle of Cannæ was gained by Hannibal, where so many Roman knights fell that the spoil of rings amounted to a peck. [719] _Guiscard_: One of the Norman conquerors of the regions which up to our own time constituted the kingdom of Naples. In Apulia he did much fighting against Lombards, Saracens, and Greeks. He is found by Dante in Paradise among those who fought for the faith (_Par._ xviii. 48). His death happened in Cephalonia in 1085, at the age of seventy, when he was engaged on an expedition against Constantinople. [720] _Ceperan_: In the swift and decisive campaign undertaken by Charles of Anjou against Manfred, King of Sicily and Naples, the first victory was obtained at Ceperano; but it was won owing to the treachery of Manfred's lieutenant, and not by the sword. The true battle was fought at Benevento (_Purg._ iii. 128). Ceperano may be named by Dante as the field where the defeat of Manfred was virtually begun, and where the Apulians first failed in loyalty to their gallant king. Dante was a year old at the time of Manfred's overthrow (1266). [721] _Tagliacozzo_: The crown Charles had won from Manfred he had to defend against Manfred's nephew Conradin (grandson and last representative of Frederick II. and the legitimate heir to the kingdom of Sicily), whom, in 1268, he defeated near Tagliacozzo in the Abruzzi. He made his victory the more complete by acting on the advice of Alardo or Erard de Valery, an old Crusader, to hold good part of his force in reserve. Charles wrote to the Pope that the slaughter was so great as far to exceed that at Benevento. The feet of all the low-born prisoners not slain on the field were cut off, while the gentlemen were beheaded or hanged. [722] _Mahomet_: It has been objected to Dante by M. Littré that he treats Mahomet, the founder of a new religion, as a mere schismatic. The wonder would have been had he dwelt on the good qualities of the Prophet at a time when Islam still threatened Europe. He goes on the fact that Mahomet and his followers rent great part of the East and South from Christendom; and for this the Prophet is represented as being mutilated in a sorer degree than the other schismatics. [723] _Ali_: Son-in-law of Mahomet. [724] _Fra Dolcin_: At the close of the thirteenth century, Boniface being Pope, the general discontent with the corruption of the higher clergy found expression in the north of Italy in the foundation of a new sect, whose leader was Fra Dolcino. What he chiefly was--enthusiast, reformer, or impostor--it is impossible to ascertain; all we know of him being derived from writers in the Papal interest. Among other crimes he was charged with that of teaching the lawfulness of telling an Inquisitor a lie to save your life, and with prophesying the advent of a pious Pope. A holy war on a small scale was preached against him. After suffering the extremities of famine, snowed up as he was among the mountains, he was taken prisoner and cruelly put to death (1307). It may have been in order to save himself from being suspected of sympathy with him, that Dante, whose hatred of Boniface and the New Pharisees was equal to Dolcino's, provides for him by anticipation a place with Mahomet. [725] _Pier da Medicin_: Medicina is in the territory of Bologna. Piero is said to have stirred up dissensions between the Polentas of Ravenna and the Malatestas of Rimini. [726] _From Vercelli, etc._: From the district of Vercelli to where the castle of Marcabò once stood, at the mouth of the Po, is a distance of two hundred miles. The plain is Lombardy. [727] _Majolica, etc._: On all the Mediterranean, from Cyprus in the east to Majorca in the west. [728] _The traitor, etc._: The one-eyed traitor is Malatesta, lord of Rimini, the Young Mastiff of the preceding Canto. He invited the two chief citizens of Fano, named in the text, to hold a conference with him, and procured that on their way they should be pitched overboard opposite the castle of Cattolica, which stood between Fano and Rimini. This is said to have happened in 1304. [729] _Focara_: The name of a promontory near Cattolica, subject to squalls. The victims were never to double the headland. [730] _Curio_: The Roman Tribune who, according to Lucan--the incident is not historically correct--found Cæsar hesitating whether to cross the Rubicon, and advised him: _Tolle moras: semper nocuit differre paratis_. 'No delay! when men are ready they always suffer by putting off.' The passage of the Rubicon was counted as the beginning of the Civil War.--Curio gets scant justice, seeing that in Dante's view Cæsar in all he did was only carrying out the Divine purpose regarding the Empire. [731] _Mosca_: In 1215 one of the Florentine family of the Buondelmonti jilted a daughter of the Amidei. When these with their friends met to take counsel touching revenge for the insult, Mosca, one of the Uberti or of the Lamberti, gave his opinion in the proverb, _Cosa fatta ha capo_: 'A thing once done is done with.' The hint was approved of, and on the following Easter morning the young Buondelmonte, as, mounted on a white steed and dressed in white he rode across the Ponte Vecchio, was dragged to the ground and cruelly slain. All the great Florentine families took sides in the feud, and it soon widened into the civil war between Florentine Guelf and Ghibeline. [732] _Bertrand de Born_: Is mentioned by Dante in his Treatise _De Vulgari Eloquio_, ii. 2, as specially the poet of warlike deeds. He was a Gascon noble who used his poetical gift very much to stir up strife. For patron he had the Prince Henry, son of Henry II. of England. Though Henry never came to the throne he was, during his father's lifetime, crowned as his successor, and was known as the young King. After the death of the Prince, Bertrand was taken prisoner by the King, and, according to the legend, was loaded with favours because he had been so true a friend to his young master. That he had a turn for fomenting discord is shown by his having also led a revolt in Aquitaine against Richard I.--All the old MSS. and all the earlier commentators read _Re Giovanni_, King John; _Re Giovane_, the young King, being a comparatively modern emendation. In favour of adopting this it may be mentioned that in his poems Bertrand calls Prince Henry _lo Reys joves_, the young King; that it was Henry and not John that was his friend and patron; and that in the old _Cento Novelle_ Henry is described as the young King: in favour of the older reading, that John as well as his brother was a rebel to Henry; and that the line is hurt by the change from _Giovanni_ to _Giovane_. Considering that Dante almost certainly wrote _Giovanni_ it seems most reasonable to suppose that he may have confounded the _Re Giovane_ with King John. [733] _From what, etc._: The spinal cord, as we should now say, though Dante may have meant the heart. [734] _Pain for pain_: In the City of Dis we found the heresiarchs, those who lead others to think falsely. The lower depth of the Malebolge is reserved for such as needlessly rend any Divinely-constituted order of society, civil or religious. Conduct counts more with Dante than opinion--in this case. CANTO XXIX. The many folk and wounds of divers kind Had flushed mine eyes and set them on the flow, Till I to weep and linger had a mind; But Virgil said to me: 'Why gazing so? Why still thy vision fastening on the crew Of dismal shades dismembered there below? Thou didst not[735] thus the other Bolgias view: Think, if to count them be thine enterprise, The valley circles twenty miles and two.[736] Beneath our feet the moon[737] already lies; 10 The time[738] wears fast away to us decreed; And greater things than these await thine eyes.' I answered swift: 'Hadst thou but given heed To why it was my looks were downward bent, To yet more stay thou mightest have agreed.' My Guide meanwhile was moving, and I went Behind him and continued to reply, Adding: 'Within the moat on which intent I now was gazing with such eager eye I trow a spirit weeps, one of my kin, 20 The crime whose guilt is rated there so high.' Then said the Master: 'Henceforth hold thou in Thy thoughts from wandering to him: new things claim Attention now, so leave him with his sin. Him saw I at thee from the bridge-foot aim A threatening finger, while he made thee known; Geri del Bello[739] heard I named his name. But, at the time, thou wast with him alone Engrossed who once held Hautefort,[740] nor the place Didst look at where he was; so passed he on.' 30 'O Leader mine! death violent and base, And not avenged as yet,' I made reply, 'By any of his partners in disgrace, Made him disdainful; therefore went he by And spake not with me, if I judge aright; Which does the more my ruth[741] intensify.' So we conversed till from the cliff we might Of the next valley have had prospect good Down to the bottom, with but clearer light.[742] When we above the inmost Cloister stood 40 Of Malebolge, and discerned the crew Of such as there compose the Brotherhood,[743] So many lamentations pierced me through-- And barbed with pity all the shafts were sped-- My open palms across my ears I drew. From Valdichiana's[744] every spital bed All ailments to September from July, With all in Maremma and Sardinia[745] bred, Heaped in one pit a sickness might supply Like what was here; and from it rose a stink 50 Like that which comes from limbs that putrefy. Then we descended by the utmost brink Of the long ridge[746]--leftward once more we fell-- Until my vision, quickened now, could sink Deeper to where Justice infallible, The minister of the Almighty Lord, Chastises forgers doomed on earth[747] to Hell. Ægina[748] could no sadder sight afford, As I believe (when all the people ailed And all the air was so with sickness stored, 60 Down to the very worms creation failed And died, whereon the pristine folk once more, As by the poets is for certain held, From seed of ants their family did restore), Than what was offered by that valley black With plague-struck spirits heaped upon the floor. Supine some lay, each on the other's back Or stomach; and some crawled with crouching gait For change of place along the doleful track. Speechless we moved with step deliberate, 70 With eyes and ears on those disease crushed down Nor left them power to lift their bodies straight. I saw two sit, shoulder to shoulder thrown As plate holds plate up to be warmed, from head Down to the feet with scurf and scab o'ergrown. Nor ever saw I curry-comb so plied By varlet with his master standing by, Or by one kept unwillingly from bed, As I saw each of these his scratchers ply Upon himself; for nought else now avails 80 Against the itch which plagues them furiously. The scab[749] they tore and loosened with their nails, As with a knife men use the bream to strip, Or any other fish with larger scales. 'Thou, that thy mail dost with thy fingers rip,' My Guide to one of them began to say, 'And sometimes dost with them as pincers nip, Tell, is there any here from Italy Among you all, so may thy nails suffice For this their work to all eternity.'[750] 90 'Latians are both of us in this disguise Of wretchedness,' weeping said one of those; 'But who art thou, demanding on this wise?' My Guide made answer: 'I am one who goes Down with this living man from steep to steep That I to him Inferno may disclose.' Then broke their mutual prop; trembling with deep Amazement each turned to me, with the rest To whom his words had echoed in the heap. Me the good Master cordially addressed: 100 'Whate'er thou hast a mind to ask them, say.' And since he wished it, thus I made request: 'So may remembrance of you not decay Within the upper world out of the mind Of men, but flourish still for many a day, As ye shall tell your names and what your kind: Let not your vile, disgusting punishment To full confession make you disinclined.' 'An Aretine,[751] I to the stake was sent By Albert of Siena,' one confessed, 110 'But came not here through that for which I went To death. 'Tis true I told him all in jest, I through the air could float in upward gyre; And he, inquisitive and dull at best, Did full instruction in the art require: I could not make him Dædalus,[752] so then His second father sent me to the fire. But to the deepest Bolgia of the ten, For alchemy which in the world I wrought, The unerring Minos doomed me.' 'Now were men E'er found,' I of the Poet asked, 'so fraught 121 With vanity as are the Sienese?[753] French vanity to theirs is surely nought.' The other leper hearing me, to these My words: 'Omit the Stricca,'[754] swift did shout, 'Who knew his tastes with temperance to please; And Nicholas,[755] who earliest found out The lavish custom of the clove-stuffed roast Within the garden where such seed doth sprout. Nor count the club[756] where Caccia d' Ascian lost 130 Vineyards and woods; 'mid whom away did throw His wit the Abbagliato.[757] But whose ghost It is, that thou mayst weet, that backs thee so Against the Sienese, make sharp thine eyes That thou my countenance mayst surely know. In me Capocchio's[758] shade thou'lt recognise, Who forged false coin by means of alchemy: Thou must remember, if I well surmise, How I of nature very ape could be.' FOOTNOTES: [735] _Thou didst not, etc._: It is a noteworthy feature in the conduct of the Poem that when Dante has once gained sufficient knowledge of any group in the Inferno he at once detaches his mind from it, and, carrying on as little arrear of pity as he can, gives his thoughts to further progress on the journey. The departure here made from his usual behaviour is presently accounted for. Virgil knows why he lingers, but will not seem to approve of the cause. [736] _Twenty miles and two_: The Ninth Bolgia has a circumference of twenty-two miles, and as the procession of the shades is slow it would indeed involve a protracted halt to wait till all had passed beneath the bridge. Virgil asks ironically if he wishes to count them all. This precise detail, taken along with one of the same kind in the following Canto (line 86), has suggested the attempt to construct the Inferno to a scale. Dante wisely suffers us to forget, if we will, that--taking the diameter of the earth at 6500 miles, as given by him in the _Convito_--he travels from the surface of the globe to the centre at the rate of more than two miles a minute, counting downward motion alone. It is only when he has come to the lowest rings that he allows himself to give details of size; and probably the mention of the extent of the Ninth Bolgia, which comes on the reader as a surprise, is thrown out in order to impress on the imagination some sense of the enormous extent of the regions through which the pilgrim has already passed. Henceforth he deals in exact measurement. [737] _The moon_: It is now some time after noon on the Saturday. The last indication of time was at Canto xxi. 112. [738] _The time, etc._: Before nightfall they are to complete their exploration of the Inferno, and they will have spent twenty-four hours in it. [739] _Geri del Bello_: One of the Alighieri, a full cousin of Dante's father. He was guilty of encouraging dissension, say the commentators; which is to be clearly inferred from the place assigned him in Inferno: but they do not agree as to how he met his death, nor do they mention the date of it. 'Not avenged till thirty years after,' says Landino; but does not say if this was after his death or the time at which Dante writes. [740] _Hautefort_: Bertrand de Born's castle in Gascony. [741] _My ruth_: Enlightened moralist though Dante is, he yet shows himself man of his age enough to be keenly alive to the extremest claims of kindred; and while he condemns the _vendetta_ by the words put into Virgil's mouth, he confesses to a feeling of meanness not to have practised it on behoof of a distant relative. There is a high art in this introduction of Geri del Bello. Had they conferred together Dante must have seemed either cruel or pusillanimous, reproaching or being reproached. As it is, all the poetry of the situation comes out the stronger that they do not meet face to face: the threatening finger, the questions hastily put to Geri by the astonished shades, and his disappearance under the dark vault when by the law of his punishment the sinner can no longer tarry. [742] _With but clearer light_: They have crossed the rampart dividing the Ninth Bolgia from the Tenth, of which they would now command a view, were it not so dark. [743] _The Brotherhood_: The word used properly describes the Lay Brothers of a monastery. Philalethes suggests that Dante may regard the devils as the true monks of the monastery of Malebolge. The simile involves no contempt for the monastic life, but is naturally used with reference to those who live secluded and under a fixed rule. He elsewhere speaks of the College of the Hypocrites (_Inf._ xxiii. 91) and of Paradise as the Cloister where Christ is Abbot (_Purg._ xxvi.129). [744] _Valdichiana_: The district lying between Arezzo and Chiusi; in Dante's time a hotbed of malaria, but now, owing to drainage works promoted by the enlightened Tuscan minister Fossombroni (1823), one of the most fertile and healthy regions of Italy. [745] _Sardinia_: Had in the middle ages an evil reputation for its fever-stricken air. The Maremma has been already mentioned (_Inf._ xxv.19). In Dante's time it was almost unpeopled. [746] _The long ridge_: One of the ribs of rock which, like the spokes of a wheel, ran from the periphery to the centre of Malebolge, rising into arches as they crossed each successive Bolgia. The utmost brink is the inner bank of the Tenth and last Bolgia. To the edge of this moat they descend, bearing as usual to the left hand. [747] _Doomed on earth, etc._: 'Whom she here registers.' While they are still on earth their doom is fixed by Divine justice. [748] _Ægina_: The description is taken from Ovid (_Metam._ vii.). [749] _The scab, etc._: As if by an infernal alchemy the matter of the shadowy bodies of these sinners is changed into one loathsome form or another. [750] _To all eternity_: This may seem a stroke of sarcasm, but is not. Himself a shade, Virgil cannot, like Dante, promise to refresh the memory of the shades on earth, and can only wish for them some slight alleviation of their suffering. [751] _An Aretine_: Called Griffolino, and burned at Florence or Siena on a charge of heresy. Albert of Siena is said to have been a relative, some say the natural son, of the Bishop of Siena. A man of the name figures as hero in some of Sacchetti's novels, always in a ridiculous light. There seems to be no authentic testimony regarding the incident in the text. [752] _Dædalus_: Who escaped on wings of his invention from the Cretan Labyrinth he had made and lost himself in. [753] _The Sienese_: The comparison of these to the French would have the more cogency as Siena boasted of having been founded by the Gauls. 'That vain people,' says Dante of the Sienese in the _Purgatory_ (xiii. 151). Among their neighbours they still bear the reputation of light-headedness; also, it ought to be added, of great urbanity. [754] _The Stricca_: The exception in his favour is ironical, as is that of all the others mentioned. [755] _Nicholas_: 'The lavish custom of the clove' which he invented is variously described. I have chosen the version which makes it consist of stuffing pheasants with cloves, then very costly. [756] _The club_: The commentators tell that the two young Sienese nobles above mentioned were members of a society formed for the purpose of living luxuriously together. Twelve of them contributed a fund of above two hundred thousand gold florins; they built a great palace and furnished it magnificently, and launched out into every other sort of extravagance with such assiduity that in a few months their capital was gone. As that amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds of our money, equal in those days to a million or two, the story must be held to savour of romance. That Dante refers to a prodigal's club that actually existed some time before he wrote we cannot doubt. But it seems uncertain, to say the least, whether the sonnets addressed by the Tuscan poet Folgore da Gemignano to a jovial crew in Siena can be taken as having been inspired by the club Dante speaks of. A translation of them is given by Mr. Rossetti in his _Circle of Dante_. (See Mr. Symonds's _Renaissance_, vol. iv. page 54, _note_, for doubts as to the date of Folgore.)--_Caccia d' Ascian_: Whose short and merry club life cost him his estates near Siena. [757] _The Abbagliato_: Nothing is known, though a great deal is guessed, about this member of the club. It is enough to know that, having a scant supply of wit, he spent it freely. [758] _Capocchio_: Some one whom Dante knew. Whether he was a Florentine or a Sienese is not ascertained, but from the strain of his mention of the Sienese we may guess Florentine. He was burned in Siena in 1293.--(Scartazzini.) They had studied together, says the _Anonimo_. Benvenuto tells of him that one Good Friday, while in a cloister, he painted on his nail with marvellous completeness a picture of the crucifixion. Dante came up, and was lost in wonder, when Capocchio suddenly licked his nail clean--which may be taken for what it is worth. CANTO XXX. Because of Semele[759] when Juno's ire Was fierce 'gainst all that were to Thebes allied, As had been proved by many an instance dire; So mad grew Athamas[760] that when he spied His wife as she with children twain drew near, Each hand by one encumbered, loud he cried: 'Be now the nets outspread, that I may snare Cubs with the lioness at yon strait ground!' And stretching claws of all compassion bare He on Learchus seized and swung him round, 10 And shattered him upon a flinty stone; Then she herself and the other burden drowned. And when by fortune was all overthrown The Trojans' pride, inordinate before-- Monarch and kingdom equally undone-- Hecuba,[761] sad and captive, mourning o'er Polyxena, when dolorous she beheld The body of her darling Polydore Upon the coast, out of her wits she yelled, And spent herself in barking like a hound; 20 So by her sorrow was her reason quelled. But never yet was Trojan fury[762] found, Nor that of Thebes, to sting so cruelly Brute beasts, far less the human form to wound, As two pale naked shades were stung, whom I Saw biting run, like swine when they escape Famished and eager from the empty sty. Capocchio[763] coming up to, in his nape One fixed his fangs, and hauling at him made His belly on the stony pavement scrape. 30 The Aretine[764] who stood, still trembling, said: 'That imp is Gianni Schicchi,[765] and he goes Rabid, thus trimming others.' 'O!' I prayed, 'So may the teeth of the other one of those Not meet in thee, as, ere she pass from sight, Thou freely shalt the name of her disclose.' And he to me: 'That is the ancient sprite Of shameless Myrrha,[766] who let liking rise For him who got her, past all bounds of right. As, to transgress with him, she in disguise 40 Came near to him deception to maintain; So he, departing yonder from our eyes, That he the Lady of the herd might gain, Bequeathed his goods by formal testament While he Buoso Donate's[767] form did feign.' And when the rabid couple from us went, Who all this time by me were being eyed, Upon the rest ill-starred I grew intent; And, fashioned like a lute, I one espied, Had he been only severed at the place 50 Where at the groin men's lower limbs divide. The grievous dropsy, swol'n with humours base, Which every part of true proportion strips Till paunch grows out of keeping with the face, Compelled him widely ope to hold his lips Like one in fever who, by thirst possessed, Has one drawn up while the other chinward slips. 'O ye![768] who by no punishment distressed, Nor know I why, are in this world of dool,' He said; 'a while let your attention rest 60 On Master Adam[769] here of misery full. Living, I all I wished enjoyed at will; Now lust I for a drop of water cool. The water-brooks that down each grassy hill Of Casentino to the Arno fall And with cool moisture all their courses fill-- Always, and not in vain, I see them all; Because the vision of them dries me more Than the disease 'neath which my face grows small. For rigid justice, me chastising sore, 70 Can in the place I sinned at motive find To swell the sighs in which I now deplore. There lies Romena, where of the money coined[770] With the Baptist's image I made counterfeit, And therefore left my body burnt behind. But could I see here Guido's[771] wretched sprite, Or Alexander's, or their brother's, I For Fonte Branda[772] would not give the sight. One is already here, unless they lie-- Mad souls with power to wander through the crowd-- What boots it me, whose limbs diseases tie? 81 But were I yet so nimble that I could Creep one poor inch a century, some while Ago had I begun to take the road Searching for him among this people vile; And that although eleven miles[773] 'tis long, And has a width of more than half a mile. Because of them am I in such a throng; For to forge florins I by them was led, Which by three carats[774] of alloy were wrong,' 90 'Who are the wretches twain,' I to him said, 'Who smoke[775] like hand in winter-time fresh brought From water, on thy right together spread?' 'Here found I them, nor have they budged a jot,' He said, 'since I was hurled into this vale; And, as I deem, eternally they'll not. One[776] with false charges Joseph did assail; False Sinon,[777] Greek from Troy, is the other wight. Burning with fever they this stink exhale.' Then one of them, perchance o'ercome with spite 100 Because he thus contemptuously was named, Smote with his fist upon the belly tight. It sounded like a drum; and then was aimed A blow by Master Adam at his face With arm no whit less hard, while he exclaimed: 'What though I can no longer shift my place Because my members by disease are weighed! I have an arm still free for such a case.' To which was answered: 'When thou wast conveyed Unto the fire 'twas not thus good at need, 110 But even more so when the coiner's trade Was plied by thee.' The swol'n one: 'True indeed! But thou didst not bear witness half so true When Trojans[778] at thee for the truth did plead.' 'If I spake falsely, thou didst oft renew False coin,' said Sinon; 'one fault brought me here; Thee more than any devil of the crew.' 'Bethink thee of the horse, thou perjurer,' He of the swol'n paunch answered; 'and that by All men 'tis known should anguish in thee stir.' 120 'Be thirst that cracks thy tongue thy penalty, And putrid water,' so the Greek replied, 'Which 'fore thine eyes thy stomach moundeth high.' The coiner then: 'Thy mouth thou openest wide, As thou art used, thy slanderous words to vent; But if I thirst and humours plump my hide Thy head throbs with the fire within thee pent. To lap Narcissus' mirror,[779] to implore And urge thee on would need no argument.' While I to hear them did attentive pore 130 My Master said: 'Thy fill of staring take! To rouse my anger needs but little more.' And when I heard that he in anger spake Toward him I turned with such a shame inspired, Recalled, it seems afresh on me to break. And, as the man who dreams of hurt is fired With wish that he might know his dream a dream, And so what is, as 'twere not, is desired; So I, struck dumb and filled with an extreme Craving to find excuse, unwittingly 140 The meanwhile made the apology supreme. 'Less shame,' my Master said, 'would nullify A greater fault, for greater guilt atone; All sadness for it, therefore, lay thou by. But bear in mind that thou art not alone, If fortune hap again to bring thee near Where people such debate are carrying on. To things like these 'tis shame[780] to lend an ear.' FOOTNOTES: [759] _Semele_: The daughter of Cadmus, founder and king of Thebes, was beloved by Jupiter and therefore hated by Juno, who induced her to court destruction by urging the god to visit her, as he was used to come to Juno, in all his glory. And in other instances the goddess took revenge (Ovid, _Metam._ iv.). [760] _Athamas_: Married to a sister of Semele, was made insane by the angry Juno, with the result described in the text. [761] _Hecuba_: Wife of Priam, king of Troy, and mother of Polyxena and Polydorus. While she was lamenting the death of her daughter, slain as an offering on the tomb of Achilles, she found the corpse of her son, slain by the king of Thrace, to whose keeping she had committed him (Ovid, _Metam._ xiii.). [762] _Trojan fury, etc._: It was by the agency of a Fury that Athamas was put out of his mind; but the Trojan and Theban furies here meant are the frenzies of Athamas and Hecuba, wild with which one of them slew his son, and the other scratched out the eyes of the Thracian king. [763] _Capocchio_: See close of the preceding Canto. Here as elsewhere sinners are made ministers of vengeance on one another. [764] _The Aretine_: Griffolino, who boasted he could fly; already represented as trembling (_Inf._ xxix. 97). [765] _Gianni Schicchi_: Giovanni Schicchi, one of the Cavalcanti of Florence. [766] _Myrrha_: This is a striking example of Dante's detestation of what may be called heartless sins. It is covered by the classification of Canto xi. Yet it is almost with a shock that we find Myrrha here for personation, and not rather condemned to some other circle for another sin. [767] _Buoso Donati_: Introduced as a thief in the Seventh Bolgia (_Inf._ xxv. 140). Buoso was possessed of a peerless mare, known as the Lady of the herd. To make some amends for his unscrupulous acquisition of wealth, he made a will bequeathing legacies to various religious communities. When he died his nephew Simon kept the fact concealed long enough to procure a personation of him as if on his death-bed by Gianni Schicchi, who had great powers of mimicry. Acting in the character of Buoso, the rogue professed his wish to make a new disposition of his means, and after specifying some trifling charitable bequests the better to maintain his assumed character, named Simon as general legatee, and bequeathed Buoso's mare to himself. [768] _O ye, etc._: The speaker has heard and noted Virgil's words of explanation given in the previous Canto, line 94. [769] _Master Adam_: Adam of Brescia, an accomplished worker in metals, was induced by the Counts Guidi of Romena in the Casentino, the upland district of the upper Arno, to counterfeit the gold coin of Florence. This false coin is mentioned in a Chronicle as having been in circulation in 1281. It must therefore have been somewhat later that Master Adam was burned, as he was by sentence of the Republic, upon the road which led from Romena to Florence. A cairn still existing near the ruined castle bears the name of the 'dead man's cairn.' [770] _The money coined, etc._: The gold florin, afterwards adopted in so many countries, was first struck in 1252; 'which florins weighed eight to the ounce, and bore the lily on the one side, and on the other Saint John.'--(Villani, vi. 54.) The piece was thus of about the weight of our half-sovereign. The gold was of twenty-four carats; that is, it had no alloy. The coin soon passed into wide circulation, and to maintain its purity became for the Florentines a matter of the first importance. Villani, in the chapter above cited, tells how the King of Tunis finding the florin to be of pure gold sent for some of the Pisans, then the chief traders in his ports, and asked who were the Florentines that they coined such money. 'Only our Arabs,' was the answer; meaning that they were rough country folk, dependent on Pisa. 'Then what is your coin like?' he asked. A Florentine of Oltrarno named Pera Balducci, who was present, took the opportunity of informing him how great Florence was compared with Pisa, as was shown by that city having no gold coinage of its own; whereupon the King made the Florentines free of Tunis, and allowed them to have a factory there. 'And this,' adds Villani, who had himself been agent abroad for a great Florentine house of business, 'we had at first hand from the aforesaid Pera, a man worthy of credit, and with whom we were associated in the Priorate.' [771] _Guido, etc._: The Guidi of Romena were a branch of the great family of the Counts Guidi. The father of the three brothers in the text was grandson of the old Guido that married the Good Gualdrada, and cousin of the Guidoguerra met by Dante in the Seventh Circle (_Inf._ xvi. 38). How the third brother was called is not settled, nor which of the three was already dead in the beginning of 1300. The Alexander of Romena, who for some time was captain of the banished Florentine Whites, was, most probably, he of the text. A letter is extant professing to be written by Dante to two of Alexander's nephews on the occasion of his death, in which the poet excuses himself for absence from the funeral on the plea of poverty. By the time he wrote the _Inferno_ he may, owing to their shifty politics, have lost all liking for the family, yet it seems harsh measure that is here dealt to former friends and patrons. [772] _Fonte Branda_: A celebrated fountain in the city of Siena. Near Romena is a spring which is also named Fonte Branda; and this, according to the view now most in favour, was meant by Master Adam. But was it so named in Dante's time? Or was it not so called only when the _Comedy_ had begun to awaken a natural interest in the old coiner, which local ingenuity did its best to meet? The early commentators know nothing of the Casentino Fonte Branda, and, though it is found mentioned under the date of 1539, that does not take us far enough back. In favour of the Sienese fountain is the consideration that it was the richest of any in the Tuscan cities; that it was a great architectural as well as engineering work; and that, although now more than half a century old, it was still the subject of curiosity with people far and near. Besides, Adam has already recalled the brooks of Casentino, and so the mention of the paltry spring at Romena would introduce no fresh idea like that of the abundant waters of the great fountain which daily quenched the thirst of thousands. [773] _Eleven miles_: It will be remembered that the previous Bolgia was twenty-two miles in circumference. [774] _Three carats_: Three carats in twenty-four being of some foreign substance. [775] _Who smoke, etc._: This description of sufferers from high fever, like that of Master Adam with his tympanitis, has the merit, such as it is, of being true to the life. [776] _One, etc._: Potiphar's wife. [777] _Sinon_: Called of Troy, as being known through his conduct at the siege. He pretended to have deserted from the Greeks, and by a false story persuaded the Trojans to admit the fatal wooden horse. [778] _When Trojans, etc._: When King Priam sought to know for what purpose the wooden horse was really constructed. [779] _Narcissus' mirror_: The pool in which Narcissus saw his form reflected. [780] _'Tis shame_: Dante knows that Virgil would have scorned to portray such a scene of low life as this, but he must allow himself a wider licence and here as elsewhere refuses nothing, even in the way of mean detail, calculated to convey to his readers 'a full experience of the Inferno' as he conceived of it--the place 'where all the vileness of the world is cast.' CANTO XXXI. The very tongue that first had caused me pain, Biting till both my cheeks were crimsoned o'er, With healing medicine me restored again. So have I heard, the lance Achilles[781] bore, Which earlier was his father's, first would wound And then to health the wounded part restore. From that sad valley[782] we our backs turned round, Up the encircling rampart making way Nor uttering, as we crossed it, any sound. Here was it less than night and less than day, 10 And scarce I saw at all what lay ahead; But of a trumpet the sonorous bray-- No thunder-peal were heard beside it--led Mine eyes along the line by which it passed, Till on one spot their gaze concentrated. When by the dolorous rout was overcast The sacred enterprise of Charlemagne Roland[783] blew not so terrible a blast. Short time my head was that way turned, when plain I many lofty towers appeared to see. 20 'Master, what town is this?' I asked. 'Since fain Thou art,' he said, 'to pierce the obscurity While yet through distance 'tis inscrutable, Thou must of error needs the victim be. Arriving there thou shalt distinguish well How much by distance was thy sense betrayed; Therefore to swifter course thyself compel.' Then tenderly[784] he took my hand, and said: 'Ere we pass further I would have thee know, That at the fact thou mayst be less dismayed, 30 These are not towers but giants; in a row Set round the brink each in the pit abides, His navel hidden and the parts below.' And even as when the veil of mist divides Little by little dawns upon the sight What the obscuring vapour earlier hides; So, piercing the gross air uncheered by light, As I step after step drew near the bound My error fled, but I was filled with fright. As Montereggion[785] with towers is crowned 40 Which from the walls encircling it arise; So, rising from the pit's encircling mound, Half of their bodies towered before mine eyes-- Dread giants, still by Jupiter defied From Heaven whene'er it thunders in the skies. The face of one already I descried, His shoulders, breast, and down his belly far, And both his arms dependent by his side. When Nature ceased such creatures as these are To form, she of a surety wisely wrought 50 Wresting from Mars such ministers of war. And though she rue not that to life she brought The whale and elephant, who deep shall read Will justify her wisdom in his thought; For when the powers of intellect are wed To strength and evil will, with them made one, The race of man is helpless left indeed. As large and long as is St. Peter's cone[786] At Rome, the face appeared; of every limb On scale like this was fashioned every bone. 60 So that the bank, which covered half of him As might a tunic, left uncovered yet So much that if to his hair they sought to climb Three Frisians[787] end on end their match had met; For thirty great palms I of him could see, Counting from where a man's cloak-clasp is set. _Rafel[788] mai amech zabi almi!_ Out of the bestial mouth began to roll, Which scarce would suit more dulcet psalmody. And then my Leader charged him: 'Stupid soul, 70 Stick to thy horn. With it relieve thy mind When rage or other passions pass control. Feel at thy neck, round which the thong is twined O puzzle-headed wretch! from which 'tis slung; Clipping thy monstrous breast thou shalt it find.' And then to me: 'From his own mouth is wrung Proof of his guilt. 'Tis Nimrod, whose insane Whim hindered men from speaking in one tongue. Leave we him here nor spend our speech in vain; For words to him in any language said, 80 As unto others his, no sense contain.' Turned to the left, we on our journey sped, And at the distance of an arrow's flight We found another huger and more dread. By what artificer thus pinioned tight I cannot tell, but his left arm was bound In front, as at his back was bound the right, By a chain which girt him firmly round and round; About what of his frame there was displayed Below the neck, in fivefold gyre 'twas wound. 90 'Incited by ambition this one made Trial of prowess 'gainst Almighty Jove,' My Leader told, 'and he is thus repaid. 'Tis Ephialtes,[789] mightily who strove What time the giants to the gods caused fright: The arms he wielded then no more will move.' And I to him: 'Fain would I, if I might, On the enormous Briareus set eye, And know the truth by holding him in sight.' 'Antæus[790] thou shalt see,' he made reply, 100 'Ere long, and he can speak, nor is in chains. Us to the depth of all iniquity He shall let down. The one thou'dst see[791] remains Far off, like this one bound and like in make, But in his face far more of fierceness reigns.' Never when earth most terribly did quake Shook any tower so much as what all o'er And suddenly did Ephialtes shake. Terror of death possessed me more and more; The fear alone had served my turn indeed, 110 But that I marked the ligatures he wore. Then did we somewhat further on proceed, Reaching Antæus who for good five ell,[792] His head not counted, from the pit was freed. 'O thou who from the fortune-haunted dell[793]-- Where Scipio of glory was made heir When with his host to flight turned Hannibal-- A thousand lions didst for booty bear Away, and who, hadst thou but joined the host And like thy brethren fought, some even aver 120 The victory to earth's sons had not been lost, Lower us now, nor disobliging show, To where Cocytus[794] fettered is by frost. To Tityus[795] nor to Typhon make us go. To grant what here is longed for he hath power, Cease them to curl thy snout, but bend thee low. He can for wage thy name on earth restore; He lives, and still expecteth to live long, If Grace recall him not before his hour.' So spake my Master. Then his hands he swung 130 Downward and seized my Leader in all haste-- Hands in whose grip even Hercules once was wrung. And Virgil when he felt them round him cast Said: 'That I may embrace thee, hither tend,' And in one bundle with him made me fast. And as to him that under Carisend[796] Stands on the side it leans to, while clouds fly Counter its slope, the tower appears to bend; Even so to me who stood attentive by Antæus seemed to stoop, and I, dismayed, 140 Had gladly sought another road to try. But us in the abyss he gently laid, Where Lucifer and Judas gulfed remain; Nor to it thus bent downward long time stayed, But like a ship's mast raised himself again. FOOTNOTES: [781] _Achilles_: The rust upon his lance had virtue to heal the wound. [782] _From that sad valley_: Leaving the Tenth and last Bolgia they climb the inner bank of it and approach the Ninth and last Circle, which consists of the pit of the Inferno. [783] _Roland_: Charles the Great, on his march north after defeating the Saracens at Saragossa, left Roland to bring up his rear-guard. The enemy fell on this in superior strength, and slew the Christians almost to a man. Then Roland, mortally wounded, sat down under a tree in Roncesvalles and blew upon his famous horn a blast so loud that it was heard by Charles at a distance of several miles.--The _Chansons de Geste_ were familiarly known to Italians of all classes. [784] _Then tenderly, etc._: The wound inflicted by his reproof has been already healed, but Virgil still behaves to Dante with more than his wonted gentleness. He will have him assured of his sympathy now that they are about to descend into the 'lowest depth of all wickedness.' [785] _Montereggioni_: A fortress about six miles from Siena, of which ample ruins still exist. It had no central keep, but twelve towers rose from its circular wall like spikes from the rim of a coronet. They had been added by the Sienese in 1260, and so were comparatively new in Dante's time.--As the towers stood round Montereggioni so the giants at regular intervals stand round the central pit. They have their foothold within the enclosing mound; and thus, to one looking at them from without, they are hidden by it up to their middle. As the embodiment of superhuman impious strength and pride they stand for warders of the utmost reach of Hell. [786] _St. Peter's cone_: The great pine cone of bronze, supposed to have originally crowned the mausoleum of Hadrian, lay in Dante's time in the forecourt of St Peter's. When the new church was built it was removed to the gardens of the Vatican, where it still remains. Its size, it will be seen, is of importance as helping us to a notion of the stature of the giants; and, though the accounts of its height are strangely at variance with one another, I think the measurement made specially for Philalethes may be accepted as substantially correct. According to that, the cone is ten palms long--about six feet. Allowing something for the neck, down to 'where a man clasps his cloak' (line 66), and taking the thirty palms as eighteen feet, we get twenty-six feet or so for half his height. The giants vary in bulk; whether they do so in height is not clear. We cannot be far mistaken if we assume them to stand from fifty to sixty feet high. Virgil and Dante must throw their heads well back to look up into the giant's face; and Virgil must raise his voice as he speaks.--With regard to the height of the cone it may be remarked that Murray's Handbook for Rome makes it eleven feet high; Gsell-Fels two and a half metres, or eight feet and three inches. It is so placed as to be difficult of measurement. [787] _Three Frisians_: Three very tall men, as Dante took Frisians to be, if standing one on the head of the other would not have reached his hair. [788] _Rafel, etc._: These words, like the opening line of the Seventh Canto, have, to no result, greatly exercised the ingenuity of scholars. From what follows it is clear that Dante meant them to be meaningless. Part of Nimrod's punishment is that he who brought about the confusion of tongues is now left with a language all to himself. It seems strange that commentators should have exhausted themselves in searching for a sense in words specially invented to have none.--In his _De Vulg. El._, i. 7, Dante enlarges upon the confusion of tongues, and speaks of the tower of Babel as having been begun by men on the persuasion of a giant. [789] _Ephialtes_: One of the giants who in the war with the gods piled Ossa on Pelion. [790] _Antæus_: Is to be asked to lift them over the wall, because, unlike Nimrod, he can understand what is said to him, and, unlike Ephialtes, is not bound. Antæus is free-handed because he took no part in the war with the gods. [791] _The one thou'dst see_: Briareus. Virgil here gives Dante to know what is the truth about Briareus (see line 97, etc.). He is not, as he was fabled, a monster with a hundred hands, but is like Ephialtes, only fiercer to see. Hearing himself thus made light of Ephialtes trembles with anger, like a tower rocking in an earthquake. [792] _Five ell_: Five ells make about thirty palms, so that Antæus is of the same stature as that assigned to Nimrod at line 65. This supports the view that the 'huger' of line 84 may apply to breadth rather than to height. [793] _The fortune-haunted dell_: The valley of the Bagrada near Utica, where Scipio defeated Hannibal and won the surname of Africanus. The giant Antæus had, according to the legend, lived in that neighbourhood, with the flesh of lions for his food and his dwelling in a cave. He was son of the Earth, and could not be vanquished so long as he was able to touch the ground; and thus ere Hercules could give him a mortal hug he needed to swing him aloft. In the _Monarchia_, ii. 10, Dante refers to the combat between Hercules and Antæus as an instance of the wager of battle corresponding to that between David and Goliath. Lucan's _Pharsalia_, a favourite authority with Dante, supplies him with these references to Scipio and Antæus. [794] _Cocytus_: The frozen lake fed by the waters of Phlegethon. See Canto xiv. at the end. [795] _Tityus, etc._: These were other giants, stated by Lucan to be less strong than Antæus. This introduction of their names is therefore a piece of flattery to the monster. A light contemptuous turn is given by Virgil to his flattery when in the following sentence he bids Antæus not curl his snout, but at once comply with the demand for aid. There is something genuinely Italian in the picture given of the giants in this Canto, as of creatures whose intellect bears no proportion to their bulk and brute strength. Mighty hunters like Nimrod, skilled in sounding the horn but feeble in reasoned speech, Frisians with great thews and long of limb, and German men-at-arms who traded in their rude valour, to the subtle Florentine in whom the ferment of the Renaissance was beginning to work were all specimens of Nature's handicraft that had better have been left unmade, were it not that wiser people could use them as tools. [796] _Carisenda_: A tower still standing in Bologna, built at the beginning of the twelfth century, and, like many others of its kind in the city, erected not for strength but merely in order to dignify the family to whom it belonged. By way of further distinction to their owners, some of these towers were so constructed as to lean from the perpendicular. Carisenda, like its taller neighbour the Asinelli, still supplies a striking feature to the near and distant views of Bologna. What is left of it hangs for more than two yards off the plumb. In the half-century after Dante's time it had, according to Benvenuto, lost something of its height. It would therefore as the poet saw it seem to be bending down even more than it now does to any one standing under it on the side it slopes to, when a cloud is drifting over it in the other direction. CANTO XXXII. Had I sonorous rough rhymes at command, Such as would suit the cavern terrible Rooted on which all the other ramparts stand, The sap of fancies which within me swell Closer I'd press; but since I have not these, With some misgiving I go on to tell. For 'tis no task to play with as you please, Of all the world the bottom to portray, Nor one that with a baby speech[797] agrees. But let those ladies help me with my lay 10 Who helped Amphion[798] walls round Thebes to pile, And faithful to the facts my words shall stay. O 'bove all creatures wretched, for whose vile Abode 'tis hard to find a language fit, As sheep or goats ye had been happier! While We still were standing in the murky pit-- Beneath the giant's feet[799] set far below-- And at the high wall I was staring yet, When this I heard: 'Heed to thy steps[800] bestow, Lest haply by thy soles the heads be spurned 20 Of wretched brothers wearied in their woe.' Before me, as on hearing this I turned, Beneath my feet a frozen lake,[801] its guise Rather of glass than water, I discerned. In all its course on Austrian Danube lies No veil in time of winter near so thick, Nor on the Don beneath its frigid skies, As this was here; on which if Tabernicch[802] Or Mount Pietrapana[803] should alight Not even the edge would answer with a creak. 30 And as the croaking frog holds well in sight Its muzzle from the pool, what time of year[804] The peasant girl of gleaning dreams at night; The mourning shades in ice were covered here, Seen livid up to where we blush[805] with shame. In stork-like music their teeth chattering were. With downcast face stood every one of them: To cold from every mouth, and to despair From every eye, an ample witness came. And having somewhat gazed around me there 40 I to my feet looked down, and saw two pressed So close together, tangled was their hair, 'Say, who are you with breast[806] thus strained to breast?' I asked; whereon their necks they backward bent, And when their upturned faces lay at rest Their eyes, which earlier were but moistened, sent Tears o'er their eyelids: these the frost congealed And fettered fast[807] before they further went. Plank set to plank no rivet ever held More firmly; wherefore, goat-like, either ghost 50 Butted the other; so their wrath prevailed. And one who wanted both ears, which the frost Had bitten off, with face still downward thrown, Asked: 'Why with us art thou so long engrossed? If who that couple are thou'dst have made known-- The vale down which Bisenzio's floods decline Was once their father Albert's[808] and their own. One body bore them: search the whole malign Caïna,[809] and thou shalt not any see More worthy to be fixed in gelatine; 60 Not he whose breast and shadow equally Were by one thrust of Arthur's lance[810] pierced through: Nor yet Focaccia;[811] nor the one that me With his head hampers, blocking out my view, Whose name was Sassol Mascheroni:[812] well Thou must him know if thou art Tuscan too. And that thou need'st not make me further tell-- I'm Camicion de' Pazzi,[813] and Carlin[814] I weary for, whose guilt shall mine excel.' A thousand faces saw I dog-like grin, 70 Frost-bound; whence I, as now, shall always shake Whenever sight of frozen pools I win. While to the centre[815] we our way did make To which all things converging gravitate, And me that chill eternal caused to quake; Whether by fortune, providence, or fate, I know not, but as 'mong the heads I went I kicked one full in the face; who therefore straight 'Why trample on me?' snarled and made lament, 'Unless thou com'st to heap the vengeance high 80 For Montaperti,[816] why so virulent 'Gainst me?' I said: 'Await me here till I By him, O Master, shall be cleared of doubt;[817] Then let my pace thy will be guided by.' My Guide delayed, and I to him spake out, While he continued uttering curses shrill: 'Say, what art thou, at others thus to shout?' 'But who art thou, that goest at thy will Through Antenora,[818] trampling on the face Of others? 'Twere too much if thou wert still 90 In life.' 'I live, and it may help thy case,' Was my reply, 'if thou renown wouldst gain, Should I thy name[819] upon my tablets place.' And he: 'I for the opposite am fain. Depart thou hence, nor work me further dool; Within this swamp thou flatterest all in vain.' Then I began him by the scalp to pull, And 'Thou must tell how thou art called,' I said, 'Or soon thy hair will not be plentiful.' And he: 'Though every hair thou from me shred 100 I will not tell thee, nor my face turn round; No, though a thousand times thou spurn my head.' His locks ere this about my fist were wound, And many a tuft I tore, while dog-like wails Burst from him, and his eyes still sought the ground. Then called another: 'Bocca, what now ails? Is't not enough thy teeth go chattering there, But thou must bark? What devil thee assails?' 'Ah! now,' said I, 'thou need'st not aught declare, Accursed traitor; and true news of thee 110 To thy disgrace I to the world will bear.' 'Begone, tell what thou wilt,' he answered me; 'But, if thou issue hence, not silent keep[820] Of him whose tongue but lately wagged so free. He for the Frenchmen's money[821] here doth weep. Him of Duera saw I, mayst thou tell, Where sinners shiver in the frozen deep. Shouldst thou be asked who else within it dwell-- Thou hast the Beccheria[822] at thy side; Across whose neck the knife at Florence fell. 120 John Soldanieri[823] may be yonder spied With Ganellon,[824] and Tribaldell[825] who threw Faenza's gates, when slept the city, wide.' Him had we left, our journey to pursue, When frozen in a hole[826] a pair I saw; One's head like the other's hat showed to the view. And, as their bread men hunger-driven gnaw, The uppermost tore fiercely at his mate Where nape and brain-pan to a junction draw. No worse by Tydeus[827] in his scornful hate 130 Were Menalippus' temples gnawed and hacked Than skull and all were torn by him irate. 'O thou who provest by such bestial act Hatred of him who by thy teeth is chewed, Declare thy motive,' said I, 'on this pact-- That if with reason thou with him hast feud, Knowing your names and manner of his crime I in the world[828] to thee will make it good; If what I speak with dry not ere the time.' FOOTNOTES: [797] _A baby speech_: 'A tongue that cries _mamma_ and _papa_' For his present purpose, he complains, he has not in Italian an adequate supply of rough high-sounding rhymes; but at least he will use only the best words that can be found. In another work (_De Vulg. El._ ii. 7) he instances _mamma_ and _babbo_ as words of a kind to be avoided by all who would write nobly in Italian. [798] _Amphion_: Who with his music charmed rocks from the mountain and heaped them in order for walls to Thebes. [799] _The giant's feet_: Antæus. A bank slopes from where the giants stand inside the wall down to the pit which is filled with the frozen Cocytus. This is the Ninth and inmost Circle, and is divided into four concentric rings--Caïna, Antenora, Ptolomæa, and Judecca--where traitors of different kinds are punished. [800] _Thy steps_: Dante alone is addressed, the speaker having seen him set heavily down upon the ice by Antæus. [801] _A frozen lake_: Cocytus. See _Inf._ xiv. 119. [802] _Tabernicch_: It is not certain what mountain is here meant; probably Yavornick near Adelsberg in Carniola. It is mentioned, not for its size, but the harshness of its name. [803] _Pietrapana_: A mountain between Modena and Lucca, visible from Pisa: Petra Apuana. [804] _Time of year_: At harvest-time, when in the warm summer nights the wearied gleaner dreams of her day's work. [805] _To where we blush_: The bodies of the shades are seen buried in the clear glassy ice, out of which their heads and necks stand free--as much as 'shows shame,' that is, blushes. [806] _With breast, etc._: As could be seen through the clear ice. [807] _Fettered fast_: Binding up their eyes. In the punishment of traitors is symbolised the hardness and coldness of their hearts to all the claims of blood, country, or friendship. [808] _Their father Albert's_: Albert, of the family of the Counts Alberti, lord of the upper valley of the Bisenzio, near Florence. His sons, Alexander and Napoleon, slew one another in a quarrel regarding their inheritance. [809] _Caïna_: The outer ring of the Ninth Circle, and that in which are punished those treacherous to their kindred.--Here a place is reserved for Gianciotto Malatesta, the husband of Francesca (_Inf._ v. 107). [810] _Arthur's lance_: Mordred, natural son of King Arthur, was slain by him in battle as a rebel and traitor. 'And the history says that after the lance-thrust Girflet plainly saw a ray of the sun pass through the hole of the wound.'--_Lancelot du Lac_. [811] _Focaccia_: A member of the Pistoiese family of Cancellieri, in whose domestic feuds the parties of Whites and Blacks took rise. He assassinated one of his relatives and cut off the hand of another. [812] _Sassol Mascheroni_: Of the Florentine family of the Toschi. He murdered his nephew, of whom by some accounts he was the guardian. For this crime he was punished by being rolled through the streets of Florence in a cask and then beheaded. Every Tuscan would be familiar with the story of such a punishment. [813] _Camicion de' Pazzi_: To distinguish the Pazzi to whom Camicione belonged from the Pazzi of Florence they were called the Pazzi of Valdarno, where their possessions lay. Like his fellow-traitors he had slain a kinsman. [814] _Carlin_: Also one of the Pazzi of Valdarno. Like all the spirits in this circle Camicione is eager to betray the treachery of others, and prophesies the guilt of his still living relative, which is to cast his own villany into the shade. In 1302 or 1303 Carlino held the castle of Piano de Trevigne in Valdarno, where many of the exiled Whites of Florence had taken refuge, and for a bribe he betrayed it to the enemy. [815] _The centre_: The bottom of Inferno is the centre of the earth, and, on the system of Ptolemy, the central point of the universe. [816] _Montaperti_: See _Inf._ x. 86. The speaker is Bocca, of the great Florentine family of the Abati, who served as one of the Florentine cavaliers at Montaperti. When the enemy was charging towards the standard of the Republican cavalry Bocca aimed a blow at the arm of the knight who bore it and cut off his hand. The sudden fall of the flag disheartened the Florentines, and in great measure contributed to the defeat. [817] _Cleared of doubt_: The mention of Montaperti in this place of traitors suggests to Dante the thought of Bocca. He would fain be sure as to whether he has the traitor at his feet. Montaperti was never very far from the thoughts of the Florentine of that day. It is never out of Bocca's mind. [818] _Antenora_: The second ring of the Ninth Circle, where traitors to their country are punished, named after Antenor the Trojan prince who, according to the belief of the middle ages, betrayed his native city to the Greeks. [819] _Should I thy name, etc._: 'Should I put thy name among the other notes.' It is the last time that Dante is to offer such a bribe; and here the offer is most probably ironical. [820] _Not silent keep, etc._: Like all the other traitors Bocca finds his only pleasure in betraying his neighbours. [821] _The Frenchmen's money_: He who had betrayed the name of Bocca was Buoso of Duera, one of the Ghibeline chiefs of Cremona. When Guy of Montfort was leading an army across Lombardy to recruit Charles of Anjou in his war against Manfred in 1265 (_Inf._ xxviii. 16 and _Purg._ iii.), Buoso, who had been left to guard the passage of the Oglio, took a bribe to let the French army pass. [822] _Beccheria_: Tesauro of the Pavian family Beccheria, Abbot of Vallombrosa and legate in Florence of Pope Alexander IV. He was accused of conspiring against the Commonwealth along with the exiled Ghibelines (1258). All Europe was shocked to hear that a great churchman had been tortured and beheaded by the Florentines. The city was placed under Papal interdict, proclaimed by the Archbishop of Pisa from the tower of S. Pietro in Vincoli at Rome. Villani seems to think the Abbot was innocent of the charge brought against him (_Cron._ vi. 65), but he always leans to the indulgent view when a priest is concerned. [823] _Soldanieri_: Deserted from the Florentine Ghibelines after the defeat of Manfred. [824] _Ganellon_: Whose treacherous counsel led to the defeat of Roland at Roncesvalles. [825] _Tribaldello_: A noble of Faenza, who, as one account says, to revenge himself for the loss of a pig, sent a cast of the key of the city gate to John of Apia, then prowling about Romagna in the interest of the French Pope, Martin IV. He was slain at the battle of Forlì in 1282 (_Inf._ xxvii. 43). [826] _Frozen in a hole, etc._: The two are the Count Ugolino and the Archbishop Roger. [827] _Tydeus_: One of the Seven against Thebes, who, having been mortally wounded by Menalippus the Theban, whom he slew, got his friends to bring him the head of his foe and gnawed at it with his teeth. Dante found the incident in his favourite author Statius (_Theb._ viii.). [828] _I in the world, etc._: Dante has learned from Bocca that the prospect of having their memory refreshed on earth has no charm for the sinners met with here. The bribe he offers is that of loading the name of a foe with ignominy--but only if from the tale it shall be plain that the ignominy is deserved. CANTO XXXIII. His mouth uplifting from the savage feast, The sinner[829] rubbed and wiped it free of gore On the hair of the head he from behind laid waste; And then began: 'Thou'dst have me wake once more A desperate grief, of which to think alone, Ere I have spoken, wrings me to the core. But if my words shall be as seed that sown May fructify unto the traitor's shame Whom thus I gnaw, I mingle speech[830] and groan. Of how thou earnest hither or thy name 10 I nothing know, but that a Florentine[831] In very sooth thou art, thy words proclaim. Thou then must know I was Count Ugolin, The Archbishop Roger[832] he. Now hearken well Why I prove such a neighbour. How in fine, And flowing from his ill designs, it fell That I, confiding in his words, was caught Then done to death, were waste of time[833] to tell. But that of which as yet thou heardest nought Is how the death was cruel which I met: 20 Hearken and judge if wrong to me he wrought. Scant window in the mew whose epithet Of Famine[834] came from me its resident, And cooped in which shall many languish yet, Had shown me through its slit how there were spent Full many moons,[835] ere that bad dream I dreamed When of my future was the curtain rent. Lord of the hunt and master this one seemed, Chasing the wolf and wolf-cubs on the height[836] By which from Pisan eyes is Lucca hemmed. 30 With famished hounds well trained and swift of flight, Lanfranchi[837] and Gualandi in the van, And Sismond he had set. Within my sight Both sire and sons--nor long the chase--began To grow (so seemed it) weary as they fled; Then through their flanks fangs sharp and eager ran. When I awoke before the morning spread I heard my sons[838] all weeping in their sleep-- For they were with me--and they asked for bread. Ah! cruel if thou canst from pity keep 40 At the bare thought of what my heart foreknew; And if thou weep'st not, what could make thee weep? Now were they 'wake, and near the moment drew At which 'twas used to bring us our repast; But each was fearful[839] lest his dream came true. And then I heard the under gate[840] made fast Of the horrible tower, and thereupon I gazed In my sons' faces, silent and aghast. I did not weep, for I to stone was dazed: They wept, and darling Anselm me besought: 50 "What ails thee, father? Wherefore thus amazed?" And yet I did not weep, and answered not The whole day, and that night made answer none, Till on the world another sun shone out. Soon as a feeble ray of light had won Into our doleful prison, made aware Of the four faces[841] featured like my own, Both of my hands I bit at in despair; And they, imagining that I was fain To eat, arose before me with the prayer: 60 "O father, 'twere for us an easier pain If thou wouldst eat us. Thou didst us array In this poor flesh: unclothe us now again." I calmed me, not to swell their woe. That day And the next day no single word we said. Ah! pitiless earth, that didst unyawning stay! When we had reached the fourth day, Gaddo, spread Out at my feet, fell prone; and made demand: "Why, O my father, offering us no aid?" There died he. Plain as I before thee stand 70 I saw the three as one by one they failed, The fifth day and the sixth; then with my hand, Blind now, I groped for each of them, and wailed On them for two days after they were gone. Famine[842] at last, more strong than grief, prevailed,' When he had uttered this, his eyes all thrown Awry, upon the hapless skull he fell With teeth that, dog-like, rasped upon the bone. Ah, Pisa! byword of the folk that dwell In the sweet country where the Si[843] doth sound, 80 Since slow thy neighbours to reward thee well Let now Gorgona and Capraia[844] mound Themselves where Arno with the sea is blent, Till every one within thy walls be drowned. For though report of Ugolino went That he betrayed[845] thy castles, thou didst wrong Thus cruelly his children to torment. These were not guilty, for they were but young, Thou modern Thebes![846] Brigata and young Hugh, And the other twain of whom above 'tis sung. 90 We onward passed to where another crew[847] Of shades the thick-ribbed ice doth fettered keep; Their heads not downward these, but backward threw. Their very weeping will not let them weep, And grief, encountering barriers at their eyes, Swells, flowing inward, their affliction deep; For the first tears that issue crystallise, And fill, like vizor fashioned out of glass, The hollow cup o'er which the eyebrows rise. And though, as 'twere a callus, now my face 100 By reason of the frost was wholly grown Benumbed and dead to feeling, I could trace (So it appeared), a breeze against it blown, And asked: 'O Master, whence comes this? So low As where we are is any vapour[848] known?' And he replied: 'Thou ere long while shalt go Where touching this thine eye shall answer true, Discovering that which makes the wind to blow.' Then from the cold crust one of that sad crew Demanded loud: 'Spirits, for whom they hold 110 The inmost room, so truculent were you, Back from my face let these hard veils be rolled, That I may vent the woe which chokes my heart, Ere tears again solidify with cold.' And I to him: 'First tell me who thou art If thou'dst have help; then if I help not quick To the bottom[849] of the ice let me depart.' He answered: 'I am Friar Alberic[850]-- He of the fruit grown in the orchard fell-- And here am I repaid with date for fig.' 120 'Ah!' said I to him, 'art thou dead as well?' 'How now my body fares,' he answered me, 'Up in the world, I have no skill to tell; For Ptolomæa[851] has this quality-- The soul oft plunges hither to its place Ere it has been by Atropos[852] set free. And that more willingly from off my face Thou mayst remove the glassy tears, know, soon As ever any soul of man betrays As I betrayed, the body once his own 130 A demon takes and governs until all The span allotted for his life be run. Into this tank headlong the soul doth fall; And on the earth his body yet may show Whose shade behind me wintry frosts enthral. But thou canst tell, if newly come below: It is Ser Branca d'Oria,[853] and complete Is many a year since he was fettered so.' 'It seems,' I answered, 'that thou wouldst me cheat, For Branca d'Oria never can have died: 140 He sleeps, puts clothes on, swallows drink and meat.' 'Or e'er to the tenacious pitchy tide Which boils in Malebranche's moat had come The shade of Michael Zanche,' he replied, 'That soul had left a devil in its room Within its body; of his kinsmen one[854] Treacherous with him experienced equal doom. But stretch thy hand and be its work begun Of setting free mine eyes.' This did not I. Twas highest courtesy to yield him none.[855] 150 Ah, Genoese,[856] strange to morality! Ye men infected with all sorts of sin! Out of the world 'tis time that ye should die. Here, to Romagna's blackest soul[857] akin, I chanced on one of you; for doing ill His soul o'erwhelmed Cocytus' floods within, Though in the flesh he seems surviving still. NOTE ON THE COUNT UGOLINO. Ugolino della Gherardesca, Count of Donoratico, a wealthy noble and a man fertile in political resource, was deeply engaged in the affairs of Pisa at a critical period of her history. He was born in the first half of the thirteenth century. By giving one of his daughters in marriage to the head of the Visconti of Pisa--not to be confounded with those of Milan--he came under the suspicion of being Guelf in his sympathies; the general opinion of Pisa being then, as it always had been, strongly Ghibeline. When driven into exile, as he was along with the Visconti, he improved the occasion by entering into close relations with the leading Guelfs of Tuscany, and in 1278 a free return for him to Pisa was made by them a condition of peace with that city. He commanded one of the divisions of the Pisan fleet at the disastrous battle of Meloria in 1284, when Genoa wrested from her rival the supremacy of the Western Mediterranean, and carried thousands of Pisan citizens into a captivity which lasted many years. Isolated from her Ghibeline allies, and for the time almost sunk in despair, the city called him to the government with wellnigh dictatorial powers; and by dint of crafty negotiations in detail with the members of the league formed against Pisa, helped as was believed by lavish bribery, he had the glory of saving the Commonwealth from destruction though he could not wholly save it from loss. This was in 1285. He soon came to be suspected of being in a secret alliance with Florence and of being lukewarm in the negotiations for the return of the prisoners in Genoa, all with a view to depress the Ghibeline element in the city that he might establish himself as an absolute tyrant with the greater ease. In order still further to strengthen his position he entered into a family compact with his Guelf grandson Nino (_Purg._ viii. 53), now at the head of the Visconti. But without the support of the people it was impossible for him to hold his ground against the Ghibeline nobles, who resented the arrogance of his manners and were embittered by the loss of their own share in the government; and these contrived that month by month the charges of treachery brought against him should increase in virulence. He had, by deserting his post, caused the defeat at Meloria, it was said; and had bribed the other Tuscan cities to favour him, by ceding to them distant Pisan strongholds. His fate was sealed when, having quarrelled with his grandson Nino, he sought alliance with the Archbishop Roger who now led the Ghibeline opposition. With Ugo's connivance an onslaught was planned upon the Guelfs. To preserve an appearance of impartiality he left the city for a neighbouring villa. On returning to enjoy his riddance from a rival he was invited to a conference, at which he resisted a proposal that he should admit partners with him in the government. On this the Archbishop's party raised the cry of treachery; the bells rang out for a street battle, in which he was worsted; and with his sons he had to take refuge in the Palace of the People. There he stood a short siege against the Ghibeline families and the angry mob; and in the same palace he was kept prisoner for twenty days. Then, with his sons and grandsons, he was carried in chains to the tower of the Gualandi, which stood where seven ways met in the heart of Pisa. This was in July 1288. The imprisonment lasted for months, and seems to have been thus prolonged with the view of extorting a heavy ransom. It was only in the following March that the Archbishop ordered his victims to be starved to death; for, being a churchman, says one account, he would not shed blood. Not even a confessor was allowed to Ugo and his sons. After the door of the tower had been kept closed for eight days it was opened, and the corpses, still fettered, were huddled into a tomb in the Franciscan church.--The original authorities are far from being agreed as to the details of Ugo's overthrow and death.--For the matter of this note I am chiefly indebted to the careful epitome of the Pisan history of that time by Philalethes in his note on this Canto (_Göttliche Comödie_). FOOTNOTES: [829] _The sinner_: Count Ugolino. See note at the end of the Canto. [830] _Mingle speech, etc._: A comparison of these words with those of Francesca (_Inf._ v. 124) will show the difference in moral tone between the Second Circle of Inferno and the Ninth. [831] _A Florentine_: So Farinata (_Inf._ x. 25) recognises Dante by his Florentine speech. The words heard by Ugo are those at xxxii. 133. [832] _The Archbishop Roger_: Ruggieri, of the Tuscan family of the Ubaldini, to which the Cardinal of _Inf._ x. 120 also belonged. Towards the end of his life he was summoned to Rome to give an account of his evil deeds, and on his refusal to go was declared a rebel to the Church. Ugolino was a traitor to his country; Roger, having entered into some sort of alliance with Ugolino, was a traitor to him. This has led some to suppose that while Ugolino is in Antenora he is so close to the edge of it as to be able to reach the head of Roger, who, as a traitor to his friend, is fixed in Ptolomæa. Against this view is the fact that they are described as being in the same hole (xxxii. 125), and also that in Ptolomæa the shades are set with head thrown back, and with only the face appearing above the ice, while Ugo is described as biting his foe at where the skull joins the nape. From line 91 it is clear that Ptolomæa lay further on than where Roger is. Like Ugo he is therefore here as a traitor to his country. [833] _Were waste, etc._: For Dante knows it already, all Tuscany being familiar with the story of Ugo's fate. [834] _Whose epithet of Famine_: It was called the Tower of Famine. Its site is now built over. Buti, the old Pisan commentator of Dante, says it was called the Mew because the eagles of the Republic were kept in it at moulting-time. But this may have been an after-thought to give local truth to Dante's verse, which it does at the expense of the poetry. [835] _Many moons_: The imprisonment having already lasted for eight months. [836] _The height, etc._: Lucca is about twelve miles from Pisa, Mount Giuliano rising between them. [837] _Lanfranchi, etc._: In the dream, these, the chief Ghibeline families of Pisa, are the huntsmen, Roger being master of the hunt, and the populace the hounds. Ugo and his sons and grandsons are the wolf and wolf-cubs. In Ugo's dream of himself as a wolf there may be an allusion to his having engaged in the Guelf interest. [838] _My sons_: According to Dante, taken literally, four of Ugo were imprisoned with him. It would have hampered him to explain that two were grandsons--Anselmuccio and Nino, called the Brigata at line 89, grandsons by their mother of King Enzo, natural son of Frederick II.--the sons being Gaddo and Uguccione, the latter Ugo's youngest son. [839] _Each was fearful, etc._: All the sons had been troubled by dreams of famine. Had their rations been already reduced? [840] _The under gate, etc._: The word translated _made fast_ (_chiavare_) may signify either to nail up or to lock. The commentators and chroniclers differ as to whether the door was locked, nailed, or built up. I would suggest that the lower part of the tower was occupied by a guard, and that the captives had not been used to hear the main door locked. Now, when they hear the great key creaking in the lock, they know that the tower is deserted. [841] _The four faces, etc._: Despairing like his own, or possibly that, wasted by famine, the faces of the young men had become liker than ever to Ugo's own time-worn face. [842] _Famine, etc._: This line, quite without reason, has been held to mean that Ugo was driven by hunger to eat the flesh of his children. The meaning is, that poignant though his grief was it did not shorten his sufferings from famine. [843] _Where the Si, etc._: Italy, _Si_ being the Italian for _Yes_. In his _De Vulg. El._, i. 8, Dante distinguishes the Latin languages--French, Italian, etc.--by their words of affirmation, and so terms Italian the language of _Si_. But Tuscany may here be meant, where, as a Tuscan commentator says, the _Si_ is more sweetly pronounced than in any other part of Italy. In Canto xviii. 61 the Bolognese are distinguished as the people who say _Sipa_. If Pisa be taken as being specially the opprobrium of Tuscany the outburst against Genoa at the close of the Canto gains in distinctness and force. [844] _Gorgona and Capraia_: Islands not far from the mouth of the Arno. [845] _That he betrayed, etc._: Dante seems here to throw doubt on the charge. At the height of her power Pisa was possessed of many hundreds of fortified stations in Italy and scattered over the Mediterranean coasts. The charge was one easy to make and difficult to refute. It seems hard on Ugo that he should get the benefit of the doubt only after he has been, for poetical ends, buried raging in Cocytus. [846] _Modern Thebes_: As Thebes was to the race of Cadmus, so was Pisa to that of Ugolino. [847] _Another crew_: They are in Ptolomæa, the third division of the circle, and that assigned to those treacherous to their friends, allies, or guests. Here only the faces of the shades are free of the ice. [848] _Is any vapour_: Has the sun, so low down as this, any influence upon the temperature, producing vapours and wind? In Dante's time wind was believed to be the exhalation of a vapour. [849] _To the bottom, etc._: Dante is going there in any case, and his promise is nothing but a quibble. [850] _Friar Alberic_: Alberigo of the Manfredi, a gentleman of Faenza, who late in life became one of the Merry Friars. See _Inf._ xxiii. 103. In the course of a dispute with his relative Manfred he got a hearty box on the ear from him. Feigning to have forgiven the insult he invited Manfred with a youthful son to dinner in his house, having first arranged that when they had finished their meat, and he called for fruit, armed men should fall on his guests. 'The fruit of Friar Alberigo' passed into a proverb. Here he is repaid with a date for a fig--gets more than he bargained for. [851] _Ptolomæa_: This division is named from the Hebrew Ptolemy, who slew his relatives at a banquet, they being then his guests (1 Maccab. xvi.). [852] _Atropos_: The Fate who cuts the thread of life and sets the soul free from the body. [853] _Branca d'Oria_: A Genoese noble who in 1275 slew his father-in-law Michael Zanche (_Inf._ xxii. 88) while the victim sat at table as his invited guest.--This mention of Branca is of some value in helping to ascertain when the _Inferno_ was finished. He was in imprisonment and exile for some time before and up to 1310. In 1311 he was one of the citizens of Genoa heartiest in welcoming the Emperor Henry to their city. Impartial as Dante was, we can scarcely think that he would have loaded with infamy one who had done what he could to help the success of Henry, on whom all Dante's hopes were long set, and by their reception of whom on his descent into Italy he continued to judge his fellow-countrymen. There is considerable reason to believe that the _Inferno_ was published in 1309; this introduction of Branca helps to prove that at least it was published before 1311. If this was so, then Branca d'Oria lived long enough to read or hear that for thirty-five years his soul had been in Hell.--It is significant of the detestation in which Dante held any breach of hospitality, that it is as a treacherous host and not as a treacherous kinsman that Branca is punished--in Ptolomæa and not in Caïna. Cast as the poet was on the hospitality of the world, any disloyalty to its obligations came home to him. For such disloyalty he has invented one of the most appalling of the fierce retributions with the vision of which he satisfied his craving for vengeance upon prosperous sin.--It may be that the idea of this demon-possession of the traitor is taken from the words, 'and after the sop Satan entered into Judas.' [854] _Of his kinsmen one_: A cousin or nephew of Branca was engaged with him in the murder of Michael Zanche. The vengeance came on them so speedily that their souls were plunged in Ptolomæa ere Zanche breathed his last. [855] _To yield him none_: Alberigo being so unworthy of courtesy. See note on 117. But another interpretation of the words has been suggested which saves Dante from the charge of cruelty and mean quibbling; namely, that he did not clear the ice from the sinner's eyes because then he would have been seen to be a living man--one who could take back to the world the awful news that Alberigo's body was the dwelling-place of a devil. [856] _Ah, Genoese, etc._: The Genoese, indeed, held no good character. One of their annalists, under the date of 1293, describes the city as suffering from all kinds of crime. [857] _Romagna's blackest soul_: Friar Alberigo. CANTO XXXIV. '_Vexilla_[858] _Regis prodeunt Inferni_ Towards where we are; seek then with vision keen,' My Master bade, 'if trace of him thou spy.' As, when the exhalations dense have been, Or when our hemisphere grows dark with night, A windmill from afar is sometimes seen, I seemed to catch of such a structure sight; And then to 'scape the blast did backward draw Behind my Guide--sole shelter in my plight. Now was I where[859] (I versify with awe) 10 The shades were wholly covered, and did show Visible as in glass are bits of straw. Some stood[860] upright and some were lying low, Some with head topmost, others with their feet; And some with face to feet bent like a bow. But we kept going on till it seemed meet Unto my Master that I should behold The creature once[861] of countenance so sweet. He stepped aside and stopped me as he told: 'Lo, Dis! And lo, we are arrived at last 20 Where thou must nerve thee and must make thee bold,' How I hereon stood shivering and aghast, Demand not, Reader; this I cannot write; So much the fact all reach of words surpassed. I was not dead, yet living was not quite: Think for thyself, if gifted with the power, What, life and death denied me, was my plight. Of that tormented realm the Emperor Out of the ice stood free to middle breast; And me a giant less would overtower 30 Than would his arm a giant. By such test Judge then what bulk the whole of him must show,[862] Of true proportion with such limb possessed. If he was fair of old as hideous now, And yet his brows against his Maker raised, Meetly from him doth all affliction flow. O how it made me horribly amazed When on his head I saw three faces[863] grew! The one vermilion which straight forward gazed; And joining on to it were other two, 40 One rising up from either shoulder-bone, Till to a junction on the crest they drew. 'Twixt white and yellow seemed the right-hand one; The left resembled them whose country lies Where valleywards the floods of Nile flow down. Beneath each face two mighty wings did rise, Such as this bird tremendous might demand: Sails of sea-ships ne'er saw I of such size. Not feathered were they, but in style were planned Like a bat's wing:[864] by them a threefold breeze-- 50 For still he flapped them--evermore was fanned, And through its depths Cocytus caused to freeze. Down three chins tears for ever made descent From his six eyes; and red foam mixed with these. In every mouth there was a sinner rent By teeth that shred him as a heckle[865] would; Thus three at once compelled he to lament. To the one in front 'twas little to be chewed Compared with being clawed and clawed again, Till his back-bone of skin was sometimes nude.[866] 60 'The soul up yonder in the greater pain Is Judas 'Scariot, with his head among The teeth,' my Master said, 'while outward strain His legs. Of the two whose heads are downward hung, Brutus is from the black jowl pendulous: See how he writhes, yet never wags his tongue. The other, great of thew, is Cassius:[867] But night is rising[868] and we must be gone; For everything hath now been seen by us.' Then, as he bade, I to his neck held on 70 While he the time and place of vantage chose; And when the wings enough were open thrown He grasped the shaggy ribs and clutched them close, And so from tuft to tuft he downward went Between the tangled hair and crust which froze. We to the bulging haunch had made descent, To where the hip-joint lies in it; and then My Guide, with painful twist and violent, Turned round his head to where his feet had been, And like a climber closely clutched the hair: 80 I thought to Hell[869] that we returned again. 'Hold fast to me; it needs by such a stair,' Panting, my Leader said, like man foredone, 'That we from all that wretchedness repair.' Right through a hole in a rock when he had won, The edge of it he gave me for a seat And deftly then to join me clambered on. I raised mine eyes, expecting they would meet With Lucifer as I beheld him last, But saw instead his upturned legs[870] and feet. 90 If in perplexity I then was cast, Let ignorant people think who do not see What point[871] it was that I had lately passed. 'Rise to thy feet,' my Master said to me; 'The way is long and rugged the ascent, And at mid tierce[872] the sun must almost be.' 'Twas not as if on palace floors we went: A dungeon fresh from nature's hand was this; Rough underfoot, and of light indigent. 'Or ever I escape from the abyss, 100 O Master,' said I, standing now upright, 'Correct in few words where I think amiss. Where lies the ice? How hold we him in sight Set upside down? The sun, how had it skill In so short while to pass to morn from night?'[873] And he: 'In fancy thou art standing, still, On yon side of the centre, where I caught The vile worm's hair which through the world doth drill. There wast thou while our downward course I wrought; But when I turned, the centre was passed by 110 Which by all weights from every point is sought. And now thou standest 'neath the other sky, Opposed to that which vaults the great dry ground And 'neath whose summit[874] there did whilom die The Man[875] whose birth and life were sinless found. Thy feet are firm upon the little sphere, On this side answering to Judecca's round. 'Tis evening yonder when 'tis morning here; And he whose tufts our ladder rungs supplied. Fixed as he was continues to appear. 120 Headlong from Heaven he fell upon this side; Whereon the land, protuberant here before, For fear of him did in the ocean hide, And 'neath our sky emerged: land, as of yore[876] Still on this side, perhaps that it might shun His fall, heaved up, and filled this depth no more.' From Belzebub[877] still widening up and on, Far-stretching as the sepulchre,[878] extends A region not beheld, but only known By murmur of a brook[879] which through it wends, 130 Declining by a channel eaten through The flinty rock; and gently it descends. My Guide and I, our journey to pursue To the bright world, upon this road concealed Made entrance, and no thought of resting knew. He first, I second, still ascending held Our way until the fair celestial train Was through an opening round to me revealed: And, issuing thence, we saw the stars[880] again. FOOTNOTES: [858] _Vexilla, etc._: '_The banners of the King of Hell advance._' The words are adapted from a hymn of the Cross used in Holy Week; and they prepare us to find in Lucifer the opponent of 'the Emperor who reigns on high' (_Inf._ i. 124). It is somewhat odd that Dante should have put a Christian hymn into Virgil's mouth. [859] _Now was I where_: In the fourth and inner division or ring of the Ninth Circle. Here are punished those guilty of treachery to their lawful lords or to their benefactors. From Judas Iscariot, the arch-traitor, it takes the name of Judecca. [860] _Some stood, etc._: It has been sought to distinguish the degrees of treachery of the shades by means of the various attitudes assigned to them. But it is difficult to make more out of it than that some are suffering more than others. All of them are the worst of traitors, hard-hearted and cold-hearted, and now they are quite frozen in the ice, sealed up even from the poor relief of intercourse with their fellow-sinners. [861] _The creature once, etc._: Lucifer, guilty of treachery against the Highest, at _Purg._ xii. 25 described as 'created noble beyond all other creatures.' Virgil calls him Dis, the name used by him for Pluto in the _Æneid_, and the name from which that of the City of Unbelief is taken (_Inf._ viii. 68). [862] _Judge then what bulk_: The arm of Lucifer was as much longer than the stature of one of the giants as a giant was taller than Dante. We have seen (_Inf._ xxxi. 58) that the giants were more than fifty feet in height--nine times the stature of a man. If a man's arm be taken as a third of his stature, then Satan is twenty-seven times as tall as a giant, that is, he is fourteen hundred feet or so. For a fourth of this, or nearly so--from the middle of the breast upwards--he stands out of the ice, that is, some three hundred and fifty feet. It seems almost too great a height for Dante's purpose; and yet on the calculations of some commentators his stature is immensely greater--from three to five thousand feet. [863] _Three faces_: By the three faces are represented the three quarters of the world from which the subjects of Lucifer are drawn: vermilion or carnation standing for Europe, yellow for Asia, and black for Africa. Or the faces may symbolise attributes opposed to the Wisdom, Power, and Love of the Trinity (_Inf._ iii. 5). See also note on line 1. [864] _A bat's wing_: Which flutters and flaps in dark and noisome places. The simile helps to bring more clearly before us the dim light and half-seen horrors of the Judecca. [865] _A heckle_: Or brake; the instrument used to clear the fibre of flax from the woody substance mixed with it. [866] _Sometimes nude_: We are to imagine that the frame of Judas is being for ever renewed and for ever mangled and torn. [867] _Cassius_: It has been surmised that Dante here confounds the pale and lean Cassius who was the friend of Brutus with the L. Cassius described as corpulent by Cicero in the Third Catiline Oration. Brutus and Cassius are set with Judas in this, the deepest room of Hell, because, as he was guilty of high treason against his Divine Master, so they were guilty of it against Julius Cæsar, who, according to Dante, was chosen and ordained by God to found the Roman Empire. As the great rebel against the spiritual authority Judas has allotted to him the fiercer pain. To understand the significance of this harsh treatment of the great Republicans it is necessary to bear in mind that Dante's devotion to the idea of the Empire was part of his religion, and far surpassed in intensity all we can now well imagine. In the absence of a just and strong Emperor the Divine government of the world seemed to him almost at a stand. [868] _Night is rising_: It is Saturday evening, and twenty-four hours since they entered by the gate of Inferno. [869] _I thought to Hell, etc._: Virgil, holding on to Lucifer's hairy sides, descends the dark and narrow space between him and the ice as far as to his middle, which marks the centre of the earth. Here he swings himself round so as to have his feet to the centre as he emerges from the pit to the southern hemisphere. Dante now feels that he is being carried up, and, able to see nothing in the darkness, deems they are climbing back to the Inferno. Virgil's difficulty in turning himself round and climbing up the legs of Lucifer arises from his being then at the 'centre to which all weights tend from every part.' Dante shared the erroneous belief of the time, that things grew heavier the nearer they were to the centre of the earth. [870] _His upturned legs_: Lucifer's feet are as far above where Virgil and Dante are as was his head above the level of the Judecca. [871] _What point, etc._: The centre of the earth. Dante here feigns to have been himself confused--a fiction which helps to fasten attention on the wonderful fact that if we could make our way through the earth we should require at the centre to reverse our posture. This was more of a wonder in Dante's time than now. [872] _Mid tierce_: The canonical day was divided into four parts, of which Tierce was the first and began at sunrise. It is now about half-past seven in the morning. The night was beginning when they took their departure from the Judecca: the day is now as far advanced in the southern hemisphere as they have spent time on the passage. The journey before them is long indeed, for they have to ascend to the surface of the earth. [873] _To morn from night_: Dante's knowledge of the time of day is wholly derived from what Virgil tells him. Since he began his descent into the Inferno he has not seen the sun. [874] _'Neath whose summit_: Jerusalem is in the centre of the northern hemisphere--an opinion founded perhaps on _Ezekiel_ v. 5: 'Jerusalem I have set in the midst of the nations and countries round about her.' In the _Convito_, iii. 5, we find Dante's belief regarding the distribution of land and sea clearly given: 'For those I write for it is enough to know that the Earth is fixed and does not move, and that, with the ocean, it is the centre of the heavens. The heavens, as we see, are for ever revolving around it as a centre; and in these revolutions they must of necessity have two fixed poles.... Of these one is visible to almost all the dry land of the Earth; and that is our north pole [star]. The other, that is, the south, is out of sight of almost all the dry land.' [875] _The Man_: The name of Christ is not mentioned in the _Inferno_. [876] _Land, as of yore, etc._: On the fall of Lucifer from the southern sky all the dry land of that hemisphere fled before him under the ocean and took refuge in the other; that is, as much land emerged in the northern hemisphere as sank in the southern. But the ground in the direct line of his descent to the centre of the earth heaped itself up into the Mount of Purgatory--the only dry land left in the southern hemisphere. The Inferno was then also hollowed out; and, as Mount Calvary is exactly antipodal to Purgatory, we may understand that on the fall of the first rebels the Mount of Reconciliation for the human race, which is also that of Purification, rose out of the very realms of darkness and sin.--But, as Todeschini points out, the question here arises of whether the Inferno was not created before the earth. At _Parad_. vii. 124, the earth, with the air and fire and water, is described as 'corruptible and lasting short while;' but the Inferno is to endure for aye, and was made before all that is not eternal (_Inf._ iii. 8). [877] _Belzebub_: Called in the Gospel the prince of the devils. It may be worth mentioning here that Dante sees in Purgatory (_Purg._ viii. 99) a serpent which he says may be that which tempted Eve. The identification of the great tempter with Satan is a Miltonic, or at any rate a comparatively modern idea. [878] _The sepulchre_: The Inferno, tomb of Satan and all the wicked. [879] _A brook_: Some make this to be the same as Lethe, one of the rivers of the Earthly Paradise. It certainly descends from the Mount of Purgatory. [880] _The stars_: Each of the three divisions of the Comedy closes with 'the stars.' These, as appears from _Purg._ i. are the stars of dawn. It was after sunrise when they began their ascent to the surface of the earth, and so nearly twenty-four hours have been spent on the journey--the time it took them to descend through Inferno. It is now the morning of Easter Sunday--that is, of the true anniversary of the Resurrection although not of the day observed that year by the Church. See _Inf._ xxi. 112. INDEX OF PROPER NAMES AND PRINCIPAL SUBJECTS OF THE INFERNO. Abati, Bocca degli, xxxii. 106. ---- Buoso, xxv. 140. Abbagliato, xxix. 132. Abel, iv. 56. Abraham, iv. 58. Absalom, xxviii. 137. Accorso, Francis d', xv. 110. Acheron, iii. 78, xiv. 116. Achilles, v. 65, xii. 71, xxvi. 62, xxxi. 4. Acquacheta, xvi. 97. Acre, xxvii. 89. Adam, iii. 115, iv. 55. ---- Master, xxx. 61, etc. Adige, xii. 5. Ægina, xxix. 58. Æneas, ii. 32, iv. 122, xxvi. 93. Æsop, xxiii. 4. Agnello Brunelleschi, xxv. 68. Ahithophel, xxviii. 138. Alardo, xxviii. 18. Alberigo, Friar, xxxiii. 118. Alberto of Siena, xxix. 110. ---- degli Alberti, xxxii. 57. Alchemists, xxix. 43, etc. Aldobrandi, Tegghiaio, vi. 79, xvi. 42. Alecto, ix. 47. Alexander, Count of Romena, xxx. 77. ---- degli Alberti, xxxii. 55. ---- xii. 107, xiv. 31. Alessio Interminei, xviii. 122. Ali, xxviii. 32. Alichino, xxi. 118, xxii. 112. Alps, xiv. 30. Amphiaraüs, xx. 34. Amphion, xxxii. 11. Anastasius, Pope, xi. 8. Anaxagoras, iv. 138. Anchises, i. 74. Andrea, Jacopo da Sant', xiii. 133. Angels, fallen, iii. 37. Anger, those guilty of, vii. 110, etc. Angiolello, xxviii. 77. Annas, xxiii. 121. Anselmuccio, xxxiii. 50. Antæus, xxxi. 100. Antenora, xxxii. 89. Antiochus, xix. 86. Apennines, xvi. 96, xxvii. 29. Apocalypse, xix. 106. Apulia, xxviii. 8. Apulians, xxviii. 16. Aquarius, xxiv. 2. Arachne, xvii. 18. Arbia, x. 86. Aretines, xxii. 5, xxix. 109, xxx. 31. Arethusa, xxv. 99. Argenti, Philip, viii. 61. Argives, xxviii. 84. Ariadne, xii. 20. Aristotle, iv. 131. Arles, ix. 112. Arno, xiii. 147, xv. 113, xxiii. 95, xxx. 65, xxxiii. 83. Arrigo, vi. 80. Arrogance, viii. 46, etc. Arsenal of Venice, xxi. 7. Arthur, King, xxxii. 62. Aruns, xx. 46. Asciano, Caccia d', xxix. 130. Asdente, xx. 118. Athamas, xxx. 4. Athens, xii. 17. Atropos, xxxiii. 126. Attila, xii. 134, xiii. 149. Augustus, i. 71. Aulis, xx. III. Austrian, xxxii. 25. Avarice, i. 49. ---- those guilty of, vii. 25, etc. Aventine, xxv. 26. Averroës, iv. 144. Avicenna, iv. 143. Bacchiglione, xv. 113. Bacchus, xx. 59. Baptism, iv. 36. Baptist, St John, xiii. 143, xxx. 74. Barbariccia, xxi. 120, xxii. 29, 59, 145. Barrators, xxi. xxii. Beatrice, ii. 70, 103, x. 131, xii. 88, xv. 90. Beccheria, Abbot, xxxii. 119. Bello, Geri del, xxix. 27. Belzebub, xxxiv. 127. Benacus, xx. 63, etc. Benedict, Abbey of St., xvi. 100. Bergamese, xx. 71. Bertrand de Born, xxviii. 134. Bianchi, the party of the, vi. 65, xxiv. 150. Bisensio, xxxii. 56. Blacks, the party of the, vi. 65, xxiv. 143. Blasphemy, xiv. 46, etc. Bocca degli Abati, xxxii. 106. Bologna, xxiii. 142. Bolognese, xviii. 58, xxiii. 104. Bonatti, Guido, xx. 118. Boniface VII., xix. 53, xxvii. 70, 85. Bonturo, xxi. 41. Born, Bertrand de, xxviii. 134. Borsieri, William, xvi. 70. Branca Doria, xxxiii. 137, 140. Branda, Fonte, xxx. 78. Brenta, xv. 7. Brescia, xx. 69. Brescians, xx. 71. Briareus, xxxi. 98. Bridge of St. Angelo, xviii. 29. Brigata, xxxiii. 89. Bruges, xv. 5. Brunelleschi, Agnello, xxv. 68. Brunetto Latini, xv. 30, etc. Brutus, Lucius Junius, iv. 127. ---- Marcus Junius, xxxiv. 65. Buiamonte, xvii. 72. Bulicamë, xiv. 79. Buoso da Duera, xxxii. 116. ---- degli Abati, xxv. 140. ---- Donati, xxx. 45. Caccia D' Asciano, xxix. 130. Caccianimico Venedico, xviii. 50. Cacus, xxv. 25. Cadmus, xxv. 98. Cadsand, xv. 5. Cæsar, Frederick II, xiii. 65. ---- Julius, i. 70, iv. 123, xxviii. 97. Cahors, xi. 49. Caiaphas, xxiii. 115. Cain, xx. 125. Caïna, v. 107, xxxii. 59. Caitiffs, iii. 35. Calcabrina, xxi. 118, xxii. 133. Calchas, xx. 110. Camicion de' Pazzi, xxxii. 68. Camilla, i. 107, iv. 124. Camonica, Val, xx. 65. Cancellieri, xxxii. 63. Capaneus, xiv. 63, xxv. 15. Capocchio, xxix. 136, xxx. 28. Capraia, xxxiii. 82. Caprona, xxi. 94. Cardinal, the Octavian Ubaldini, x. 120. Cardinals, vii. 47. Carisenda, xxxi. 136. Carlino de' Pazzi, xxxii. 68. Carnal sinners, v. Carrarese, xx. 48. Casalodi, xx. 95. Casentino, xxx. 65. Cassero, Guido del, xxviii. 77. Cassius, xxxiv. 67. Castle of St. Angelo, xviii. 31. Catalano, Friar, xxiii. 104, 114. Cato of Utica, xiv. 15. Cattolica, xxviii. 80. Caurus, xi. 114. Cavalcanti, Cavalcante, x. 53. ---- Francesco, xxv. 151. ---- Gianni, xxx. 32, 42. ---- Guido, x. 63. Cecina, xiii. 9. Celestine V., iii. 59, xxvii. 105. Centaurs, xii. 56, etc., xxv. 17. Centre of the universe, xxxiv. 110. Ceperano, xxviii. 16. Cerberus, vi. 13, ix. 98. Cervia, xxvii. 41. Cesena, xxvii. 52. Ceuta, xxvi. 111. Chaos, xii. 43. Charlemagne, xxxi. 17. Charles's Wain, xi. 114. Charon, iii. 94, etc. Charybdis, vii. 22. Cherubim, Black, xxvii. 113. Chiana, Val di, xxix. 46. Chiarentana, xv. 9. Chiron, xii. 65, etc. Christ, iv. 53, xxxiv. 115. Ciacco, vi. 52. Cianfa de' Donati, xxv. 43. Circe, xxvi. 91. Ciriatto, xxi. 122, xxii. 55. City of Dis, viii. 68, etc. Clement V., xix. 83. Cleopatra, v. 63. Clergy, vii. 46, xv. 106. Cocytus, xiv. 119, xxxi. 123, xxxiii. 156, xxxiv. 52. Coiners, false, xxix. Colchians, xviii. 87. Cologne, xxiii. 63. Colonna, family, xxvii. 86. Comedy, the, xvi. 128. Constantine, xix. 115, xxvii. 94. Cord, Dante's, xvi. 106. Cornelia, iv. 128. Corneto, xiii. 8. ---- Rinier da, xii. 136. Counsellors, false, xxvi. xxvii. Counterfeiters of all kinds, xxix. xxx. Crete, xii. 12, xiv. 95. Crucifixion, xxi. 112. Curio, xxviii. 93, etc. Cyclopes, xiv. 55. Cyprus, xxviii. 82. Dædalus, xvii. 111, xxix. 116. Damietta, xiv. 104. Danube, xxxii. 25. David, iv. 58, xxviii. 137. Deidamia, xxvi. 61. Dejanira, xii. 68. Democritus, iv. 136. Demons, viii. 82, etc., xxi. 29, etc., xxxiii. 131. Dido, v. 61, 85. Diogenes, iv. 137. Diomedes, xxvi. 56. Dionysius, xii. 107. Dioscorides, iv. 139. Dis (Satan), xi. 65, xii. 38, xxxiv. 20. ---- City of, viii. 68, etc. Dolcino, Fra, xxviii. 55. Don, xxxii. 27. Donati, Buoso, xxx. 45. ---- Cianfa, xxv. 43. Doria, Branca, xxxiii. 137, 140. Duera, Buoso, xxxii. 116. Duke of Athens, ix. 54, xii. 17. Elder of Lucca, xxi. 38. Electra, iv. 121. Elijah, xxvi. 35. Elisha, xxvi. 34. Empedocles, iv. 137. Ephialtes, xxxi. 94, 108. Epicurus, x. 13. Erichtho, ix. 23. Erinnyes, ix. 45. Este, Obizzo d', xii. 111. Eteocles, xxvi. 54. Ethiopia, xxiv. 89, xxxii. 44. Euclid, iv. 142. Euryalus, i. 108. Eurypylus, xx. 112. Ezzelino, xii. 110. Faenza, xxvii. 49, xxxiii. 123. False coiners, xxix. xxx. ---- counsellors, xxvi. xxvii. Fano, xxviii. 76. Farfarello, xxi. 123, xxii. 94. Farinata, vi. 79, x. 32. Fishes, the, xi. 113. Flatterers, xviii. Flemings, xv. 4. Florence, x. 92, xiii. 143, xvi. 75, xxiii. 95, xxiv. 144, xxvi. 1, xxxii. 120. Florentines, viii. 62, xv. 61, xvi. 73, xvii. 70, xxxiii. 11. Florin, xxx. 89. Focara, xxviii. 89. Foccaccia, xxxii. 63. Forlì, xvi. 99, xxvii. 43. Fortune, vii. 62, etc. France, xix. 87. Francesca da Rimini, v. 116. Francis d'Accorso, xv. 110. Francis of Assisi, xxvii. 112. Frederick II., x. 119, xiii. 59, 68, xxiii. 66. French, xxvii. 44, xxix. 123, xxxii. 115. Friars, Merry--Frati Godenti, xxiii. 103. ---- Minor, xxiii. 3. Frisians, xxxi. 64. Fucci, Vanni, xxiv. 125. Furies, ix. 38. Gaddo, xxxiii. 67. Gaeta, xxvi. 92. Galen, iv. 143. Galahad, v. 137. Gallura, Gomita of, xxii. 81. Ganellone, xxxii. 122. Garda, xx. 65. Gardingo, xxiii. 108. Gate of Inferno, iii. 1. ---- St. Peter, i. 134. Gaville, xxv. 151. Genesis, xi. 107. Genoese, xxxiii. 151. Geri del Bello, xxix. 27. Germany, xvii. 21, xx. 61. Geryon, xvii. 97, etc. Ghisola, xviii. 55. Gianni Schicchi, xxx. 32, 42. ---- del Soldanieri, xxxii. 121. Giants, xxxi. Gibraltar, xxvi. 107. Gloomy, the, vii. 118. Gluttons, vi. Godenti, Frati, xxiii. 103. Gomita, Fra, xxii. 81. Gorgon, ix. 56. Gorgona, xxxiii. 82. Governo, xx. 78. Greece, xx. 108. Greeks, xxvi. 75, xxx. 98, 122. Greyhound, i. 101. Griffolino, xxix. 109, xxx. 31. Gualandi, xxxiii. 32. Gualdrada, xvi. 37. Guidi, Counts, xxx. 76. Guido Bonatti, xx. 118. ---- Cavalcanti, x. 63. ---- del Cassero, xxviii. 77. Guido of Montefeltro, xxvii. 4, etc. ---- of Romena, xxx. 76. Guidoguerra, xvi. 38. Guiscard, Robert, xxviii. 14. Guy of Montfort, xii. 119. Hannibal, xxxi. 117. Harpies, xiii. 10, etc. Hautefort, xxix. 29. Heathen, the virtuous, iv. 37. Hector, iv. 122. Hecuba, xxx. 16. Helen, v. 64. Henry of England, the Young King, xxviii. 135. Heraclitus, iv. 139. Hercules, xxv. 32, xxvi. 108, xxxi. 132. Heretics, x. and xxviii. Hippocrates, iv. 143. Homer, iv. 88. Homicides, xii. Horace, iv. 89. Hypocrites, xxiii. Hypsipyle, xviii. 92. Icarus, xvii. 109. Ida, xiv. 98. Ilion, i. 75. Imola, xxvii. 49. India, xiv. 32. Infants, unbaptized, iv. 29. Infidels, x. Interminei, Alessio, xviii. 122. Irascible, the, vii. and viii. Isaac, iv. 59. Israel, iv. 59. Italy, i. 106, ix. 114, xx. 63. Jacopo da Sant' Andrea (James of St. Andrews), xiii. 133. ---- (James) Rusticucci, vi. 80, xvi. 44. Jason, xviii. 86. ---- Hebrew, xix. 85. Jehoshaphat, x. 11. Jerusalem, xxxiv. 114. Jesus Christ, iv. 53, xxxiv. 115. Jews, xxiii. 123, xxvii. 87. John Baptist, St., xiii. 143, xxx. 74. ---- ---- Church of, xix. 17. John, St., Evangelist, xix. 106. Joseph, xxx. 97. Jove, xiv. 52, xxxi. 44, 92. Jubilee, year of, xviii. 29. Judas Iscariot, ix. 27, xix. 96, xxxi. 143, xxxiv. 62. Judecca, xxxiv. 117. Julia, iv. 128. Julius Cæsar, i. 70, iv. 123, xxviii. 97. Juno, xxx. 1. Jupiter, xiv. 52, xxxi. 44, 92. Lamone, xxvii. 49. Lancelot, v. 128. Lanfranchi, xxxiii. 32. Lano, xiii. 120. Lateran, xxvii. 86. Latian land, xxvii. 26, xxviii. 71. Latians (Italians), xxii. 66, xxvii. 33, xxix. 88, 91. Latinus, King, iv. 125. Latini, Brunetto, xv. 30, etc. Lavinia, iv. 126. Learchus, xxx. 10. Lemnos, xviii. 88. Leopard, i. 32. Lethe, xiv. 130, 136. Libicocco, xxi. 121, xxii. 70. Libya, xxiv. 85. Limbo, iv. 24, etc. Linus, iv. 141. Lion, i. 45. Livy, xxviii. 12. Loderingo, Friar, xxiii. 104. Logodoro, xxii. 89. Lombard, i. 68, xxii. 99. ---- dialect, xxvii. 20. Lombardy, xxviii. 74. Lucan, iv. 90, xxv. 94. Lucca, xviii. 122, xxi. 38, xxxiii. 30. Lucia, ii. 97, 100. Lucifer, xxxi. 143, xxxiv. 89. Lucretia, iv. 128. Luni, xx. 47. Maccabees, xix. 86. Magra, Val di, xxiv. 145. Magus, Simon, xix. 1. Mahomet, xxviii. 31, etc. Mainardo Pagani, xxvii. 50. Majorca, xxviii. 82. Malacoda, xxi. 76, xxiii. 140. Malatestas of Rimini, v. 97, xxvii. 46, xxviii. 85. Malebolge, xviii. 1, xxi. 5, xxiv. 37, xxix. 41. Malebranche, xxi. 37, xxii. 100, xxiii. 23. Manfredi, Alberigo, xxxiii. 118. Manto, xx. 55. Mantua, xx. 93. Mantuans, i. 69, ii. 58. Marcabò, xxviii. 75. Marcia, iv. 128. Maremma, xxv. 19, xxix. 48. Marquis of Este, xviii. 56. Mars, xiii. 144, xxiv. 145, xxxi. 51. Mascheroni, Sassol, xxxii. 65. Matthias, Apostle, xix. 95. Medea, xviii. 96. Medicina, Pier da, xxviii. 73. Medusa, ix. 52. Megæra, ix. 46. Menalippus, xxxii. 131. Messenger of heaven, ix. 85. Michael, Archangel, vii. 11. ---- Scott, xx. 116. ---- Zanche, xxii. 88, xxxiii. 144. Mincio, xx. 77. Minos, v. 4, xiii. 96, xx. 36, xxvii. 124, xxix. 120. Minotaur, xii. 12, 25. Mongibello, xiv. 56. Montagna, xxvii. 47. Montaperti, x. 85, xxxii. 81. Montereggione, xxxi. 40. Montfort, Guy of, xii. 119. Montone, xvi. 94. Moon, the, x. 80, xx. 127. Mordred, xxxii. 61. Morocco, xxvi. 104. Mosca, vi. 80, xxviii. 106. Moses, iv. 57. Mozzi, Andrea de', xv. 112. Murderers, xii. Myrrha, xxx. 38. Napoleone Degli Alberti, xxxii. 55. Narcissus, xxx. 128. Nasidius, xxv. 95. Navarre, xxii. 48. Navarese, xxii. 121. Neptune, xxviii 83. Neri, vi. 65, xxiv. 143. Nessus, xii. 67, etc., xiii. 1. Nicholas of Siena, xxix. 127. ---- III., Pope, xix. 31. Nile, xxxiv. 45. Nimrod, xxxi. 77. Ninus, v. 59. Nisus, i. 108. Novarese, xxviii. 59. Obizzo d'Este, xii. 111. Ordelaffi, xxvii. 45. Orpheus, iv. 140. Orsini, xix. 70. Ovid, iv. 90, xxv. 97. Paduans, xv. 7, xvii. 70. Pagani, Mainardo, xxvii. 50. Palestrina, xxvii. 102. Palladium, xxvi. 63. Panders, xviii. Paris, v. 67. Pasiphaë, xii. 13. Patriarchs, iv. 55. Paul, Apostle, ii. 32. Pazzi, Camicion de', xxxii. 68. ---- Rinier de', xii. 137. Peculators, xxi. xxii. Penelope, xxvi. 96. Pennine Alps, xx. 66. Penthesilea, iv. 125. Perillus, xxvii. 8. Peschiera, xx. 70. Peter, Apostle, i. 134, ii. 24, xix. 91, 94. Peter's, St., Church, xviii. 32, xxxi. 59. Phaëthon, xvii. 106. Phalaris, xxvii. 7. Pharisees, xxiii. 116, xxvii. 85. Philip Argenti, viii. 61. ---- the Fair, xix. 87. Phlegethon, xiv. 116, 131. Phlegra, xiv. 58. Phlegyas, viii. 19, 24. Phoenix, xxiv. 107. Pholus, xii. 72. Photinus, xi. 9. Piceno, Campo, xxiv. 148. Pier da Medicina, xxviii. 73. ---- delle Vigne, xiii. 58. Pietrapana, xxxii. 29. Pinamonte, xx. 96. Pine cone of St. Peter's, xxxi. 59. Pisa, xxxiii. 79. Pisans, xxxiii. 30. Pistoia, xxiv. 126, 143, xxv. 10. Plato, iv. 134. Plutus, vi. 115, vii. 2. Po, v. 98, xx. 78. Pola, ix. 113. Pole, South, xxvi. 127. Polenta, v. 97, xxvii. 42. Polydorus, xxx. 18. Polynices, xxvi. 54. Polyxena, xxx. 17. Pope Anastasius, xi. 8. ---- Boniface VIII., xix. 53, xxvii. 70, 85. Pope Celestine V., iii. 59, xxvii. 105. ---- Clement V., xix. 83. ---- Nicholas III., xix. 31. ---- Sylvester, xix. 117, xxvii. 95. Popes, ii. 24, vii. 47, xix. 104. Potiphar's wife, xxx. 97. Prato, xxvi. 9. Priam, xxx. 15. Priest, the High, Boniface VIII., xxvii. 70. Priscian, xv. 109. Prodigals, xiii. 115, xxix. 125. Proserpine, ix. 44, x. 80. Ptolemy, iv. 142. Ptolomæa, xxxiii. 124. Puccio Sciancato, xxv. 148. Pyrrhus, xii. 135. Quarnaro, ix. 113. Rachel, ii. 102, iv. 60. Ravenna, v. 97, xxvii. 40. Red Sea, xxiv. 90. Refusal, the great, iii. 60. Reno, xviii. 61. Rhea, xiv. 100. Rhone, ix. 112. Rimini, xxviii. 86. Rinier da Corneto, xii. 136. ---- Pazzo, xii. 137. Robbers, xii. 137. Robert Guiscard, xxviii. 14. Roger, the Archbishop, xxxiii. 14. Roland, xxxi. 18. Romagna, xxvii. 28, 37, xxxiii. 154. Roman Church, xix. 57. Romans, xv. 77, xviii. 28, xxvi. 60, xxviii. 10. Rome, i. 71, ii. 20, xiv. 105, xxxi. 59. Romena, xxx. 73. Roncesvalles, xxxi. 17. Rubicante, xxi. 123, xxii. 40. Rusticucci, Jacopo, vi. 80, xvi. 44. Sabellus, xxv. 95. Saladin, iv. 129. Santerno, xxvii. 49. Saracens, xxvii. 87. Sardinia, xxii. 90, xxix. 48. Sassol Mascheroni, xxxii. 65. Satan, vii. 1. _See_ Dis. Saturn, xiv. 96. Savena, xviii. 60. Savio, xxvii. 52. Scarmiglione, xxi. 105. Schicchi, Gianni, xxx. 32. Schismatics, xxviii. Sciancatto, Puccio, xxv. 148. Scipio, xxxi. 116. Scott, Michael, xx. 116. Seducers, xviii. Semele, xxx. 1. Semiramis, v. 58. Seneca, iv. 141. Serchio, xxi. 49. Serpents, xxiv. 83, etc. Seven Kings against Thebes, xiv. 68. Seville, xx. 126, xxvi. 110. Sichæus, v. 62. Sicilian Bull, xxvii. 7. Sicily, xii. 108. Siena, xxix. 110, 129. Sienese, xxix. 122. Silvius, ii. 13. Simon Magus, xix. 1. Simoniacs, xix. Sinon, xxx. 98. Sismondi, xxxiii. 33. Socrates, iv. 135. Sodom, xi. 49. Soldanieri, Gianni del, xxii. 121. Soothsayers, xx. Soracte, xxvii. 94. Spain, xxvi. 102. Spendthrifts, vii. Statue of Time, xiv. 103. ---- Mars, xiii. 147. Stricca, xxix. 125. Strophades, xiii. 11. Styx, vii. 106, ix. 81, xiv. 116. Suicides, xiii. Sultan, v. 60, xxvii. 90. Sylvester, Pope, xix. 117, xxvii. 95. Tabernicch, xxxii. 28. Tagliacozzo, xxviii. 17. Tarquin, iv. 127. Tartars, xvii. 16. Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, vi. 79, xvi. 42. Thais, xviii. 133. Thales, iv. 137. Thames, xii. 120. Thebes, xiv. 69, xx. 32, 59, xxv. 15, xxx. 2, 23, xxxii. 11. ---- modern, Pisa, xxxiii. 89. Theseus, ix. 54, xii. 17. Thibault, xxii. 52. Thieves, xxiv. xxv. Tiber, xxvii. 30. Time, statue of, xiv. 103. Tiresias, xx. 40. Tirol, xx. 62. Tisiphone, ix. 48. Tityus, xxxi. 124. Tombs, the red-hot, ix. 116, etc. Toppo, xiii. 121. Traitors, xxxii., etc. _Treasure_ of B. Latini, xv. 119. Trent, xii. 5, xx. 68. Tribaldello, xxxii. 122. Tristam, v. 67. Trojan Furies, xxx. 22. Trojans, xxviii. 10, xxx. 14. Troy, i. 74, xxx. 98. Tully, iv. 140. Turks, xvii. 16. Turnus, i. 108. Tuscan, xxii. 99, xxiii. 76, 91, xxiv. 122, xxviii. 108, xxxii. 66. Tydeus, xxxii. 130. Tyrants, xii. 103, etc. Typhon, xxxi. 124. Ubaldini, the Cardinal Octavian, x. 120. ---- Archbishop Roger, xxxiii. 14. Uberti, Farinata, vi. 79, x. 32. Ugolino, xxxii. 125, etc. Uguccione, xxxiii. 89. Ulysses, xxvi. 55, etc. Unbelievers, x. Urbino, xxvii. 30. Usurers, xvii. 45. Usury, xi. 95. Val Camonica, xx. 65. Valdichiana, xxix. 46. Valdimagra, xxiv. 145. Vanni Fucci, xxiv. 125. Veltro, the, i. 101. Vendetta, the, and Dante, xxix. 32. Venetians, xxi. 7. Vercelli, xxviii. 75. Verona, xv. 122, xx. 68. Verucchio, xxvii. 46. Vigne, Pier delle, xiii. 58. Violent, the, against others, xii.; against themselves, xiii.; against God and Nature, xiv., etc. Virgil, i. 79. And elsewhere in the _Inferno_ mentioned by name, though usually by some title, as, _e.g._ Master, Leader, or Lord. Viso, Monte, xvi. 95. Vitaliano, xvii. 68. Volto, the Santo, xxi. 48. Wain, Charles's, xi. 114. Wanton, the, v. Whites, the party of the, vi. 65, xxiv. 150. Witches and wizards, xx. Wolf, i. 49. Wrathful, the, vii. 110. Zanche, Michael, xxii. 88, xxxiii. 144. Zeno, iv. 138. Zita, Santa, xxi. 38. Edinburgh University Press: T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY. 
8788	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL OR THE INFERNO Part 10 Cantos 32 - 34 CANTO XXXII COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. A space I look'd around, then at my feet Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye, Whose bosoms thus together press," said I, "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent, And when their looks were lifted up to me, Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there. Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd. And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft, Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves. They from one body issued; and throughout Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade More worthy in congealment to be fix'd, Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia, No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be, Well knowest who he was: and to cut short All further question, in my form behold What once was Camiccione. I await Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on Toward the middle, at whose point unites All heavy substance, and I trembling went Through that eternal chillness, I know not If will it were or destiny, or chance, But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike With violent blow against the face of one. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that I will not tell nor show thee who I am, Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes Drawn in and downward, when another cried, "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright? What devil wrings thee?"--"Now," said I, "be dumb, Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee True tidings will I bear."--"Off," he replied, "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold. 'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd, Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd What other shade was with them, at thy side Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd The biting axe of Florence. Farther on, If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides, With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him Who op'd Faenza when the people slept." We now had left him, passing on our way, When I beheld two spirits by the ice Pent in one hollow, that the head of one Was cowl unto the other; and as bread Is raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost Did so apply his fangs to th' other's brain, Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd, Than on that skull and on its garbage he. "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that, wherewith I speak be moist so long." CANTO XXXIII HIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast, That sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head, Which he behind had mangled, then began: "Thy will obeying, I call up afresh Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words, That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear Fruit of eternal infamy to him, The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be I know not, nor how here below art come: But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth Count Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en And after murder'd, need is not I tell. What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate Within that mew, which for my sake the name Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, Already through its opening sev'ral moons Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep, That from the future tore the curtain off. This one, methought, as master of the sport, Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs Inquisitive and keen, before him rang'd Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. After short course the father and the sons Seem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold; And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up The' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word I look'd upon the visage of my sons. I wept not: so all stone I felt within. They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried: "Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet I shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day Nor the next night, until another sun Came out upon the world. When a faint beam Had to our doleful prison made its way, And in four countenances I descry'd The image of my own, on either hand Through agony I bit, and they who thought I did it through desire of feeding, rose O' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, 'And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth! Why open'dst not upon us? When we came To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet Outstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help For me, my father!' There he died, and e'en Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth: "Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope Over them all, and for three days aloud Call'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame Of all the people, who their dwelling make In that fair region, where th' Italian voice Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack To punish, from their deep foundations rise Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee May perish in the waters! What if fame Reported that thy castles were betray'd By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou To stretch his children on the rack. For them, Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd, Where others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice Not on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd. There very weeping suffers not to weep; For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds Impediment, and rolling inward turns For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears Hang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show, Under the socket brimming all the cup. Now though the cold had from my face dislodg'd Each feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd Some breath of wind I felt. "Whence cometh this," Said I, "my master? Is not here below All vapour quench'd?"--"'Thou shalt be speedily," He answer'd, "where thine eye shall tell thee whence The cause descrying of this airy shower." Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd: "O souls so cruel! that the farthest post Hath been assign'd you, from this face remove The harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief Impregnate at my heart, some little space Ere it congeal again!" I thus replied: "Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid; And if I extricate thee not, far down As to the lowest ice may I descend!" "The friar Alberigo," answered he, "Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date More luscious for my fig."--"Hah!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou too dead!"--"How in the world aloft It fareth with my body," answer'd he, "I am right ignorant. Such privilege Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd. And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, As I did, yields her body to a fiend Who after moves and governs it at will, Till all its time be rounded; headlong she Falls to this cistern. And perchance above Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st, If thou but newly art arriv'd below. The years are many that have pass'd away, Since to this fastness Branca Doria came." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." He thus: "Not yet unto that upper foss By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd, When this one left a demon in his stead In his own body, and of one his kin, Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth Thy hand, and ope mine eyes." I op'd them not. Ill manners were best courtesy to him. Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way, With every foulness stain'd, why from the earth Are ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, As for his doings even now in soul Is in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem In body still alive upon the earth. CANTO XXXIV "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain Record the marvel) where the souls were all Whelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid, Others stood upright, this upon the soles, That on his head, a third with face to feet Arch'd like a bow. When to the point we came, Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see The creature eminent in beauty once, He from before me stepp'd and made me pause. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." How frozen and how faint I then became, Ask me not, reader! for I write it not, Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. I was not dead nor living. Think thyself If quick conception work in thee at all, How I did feel. That emperor, who sways The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice Stood forth; and I in stature am more like A giant, than the giants are in his arms. Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits With such a part. If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight! How passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy Upon his head three faces: one in front Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest; The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left To look on, such as come from whence old Nile Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth Two mighty wings, enormous as became A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they, But were in texture like a bat, and these He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam. At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three Were in this guise tormented. But far more Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit, Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide, "Is Judas, he that hath his head within And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears So large of limb. But night now re-ascends, And it is time for parting. All is seen." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. Soon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh Upon the swelling of the haunches turns, My leader there with pain and struggling hard Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before, And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts, That into hell methought we turn'd again. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. "Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet. The way is long, and much uncouth the road; And now within one hour and half of noon The sun returns." It was no palace-hall Lofty and luminous wherein we stood, But natural dungeon where ill footing was And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss I sep'rate," thus when risen I began, "My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free From error's thralldom. Where is now the ice? How standeth he in posture thus revers'd? And how from eve to morn in space so brief Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world. Thou wast on th' other side, so long as I Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass That point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd Under the hemisphere opposed to that, Which the great continent doth overspread, And underneath whose canopy expir'd The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd. Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere, Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn Here rises, when there evening sets: and he, Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd, As at the first. On this part he fell down From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before, Through fear of him did veil her with the sea, And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance To shun him was the vacant space left here By what of firm land on this side appears, That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath, From Belzebub as distant, as extends The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight, But by the sound of brooklet, that descends This way along the hollow of a rock, Which, as it winds with no precipitous course, The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climbed, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. 
8790	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Part 1 Cantos 1 - 4 CANTO I O'er better waves to speed her rapid course The light bark of my genius lifts the sail, Well pleas'd to leave so cruel sea behind; And of that second region will I sing, In which the human spirit from sinful blot Is purg'd, and for ascent to Heaven prepares. Here, O ye hallow'd Nine! for in your train I follow, here the deadened strain revive; Nor let Calliope refuse to sound A somewhat higher song, of that loud tone, Which when the wretched birds of chattering note Had heard, they of forgiveness lost all hope. Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread O'er the serene aspect of the pure air, High up as the first circle, to mine eyes Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I 'scap'd Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom, That had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief. The radiant planet, that to love invites, Made all the orient laugh, and veil'd beneath The Pisces' light, that in his escort came. To the right hand I turn'd, and fix'd my mind On the' other pole attentive, where I saw Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays Seem'd joyous. O thou northern site, bereft Indeed, and widow'd, since of these depriv'd! As from this view I had desisted, straight Turning a little tow'rds the other pole, There from whence now the wain had disappear'd, I saw an old man standing by my side Alone, so worthy of rev'rence in his look, That ne'er from son to father more was ow'd. Low down his beard and mix'd with hoary white Descended, like his locks, which parting fell Upon his breast in double fold. The beams Of those four luminaries on his face So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear Deck'd it, that I beheld him as the sun. "Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream, Forth from th' eternal prison-house have fled?" He spoke and moved those venerable plumes. "Who hath conducted, or with lantern sure Lights you emerging from the depth of night, That makes the infernal valley ever black? Are the firm statutes of the dread abyss Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain'd, That thus, condemn'd, ye to my caves approach?" My guide, then laying hold on me, by words And intimations given with hand and head, Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay Due reverence; then thus to him replied. "Not of myself I come; a Dame from heaven Descending, had besought me in my charge To bring. But since thy will implies, that more Our true condition I unfold at large, Mine is not to deny thee thy request. This mortal ne'er hath seen the farthest gloom. But erring by his folly had approach'd So near, that little space was left to turn. Then, as before I told, I was dispatch'd To work his rescue, and no way remain'd Save this which I have ta'en. I have display'd Before him all the regions of the bad; And purpose now those spirits to display, That under thy command are purg'd from sin. How I have brought him would be long to say. From high descends the virtue, by whose aid I to thy sight and hearing him have led. Now may our coming please thee. In the search Of liberty he journeys: that how dear They know, who for her sake have life refus'd. Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds, That in the last great day will shine so bright. For us the' eternal edicts are unmov'd: He breathes, and I am free of Minos' power, Abiding in that circle where the eyes Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look Prays thee, O hallow'd spirit! to own her shine. Then by her love we' implore thee, let us pass Through thy sev'n regions; for which best thanks I for thy favour will to her return, If mention there below thou not disdain." "Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found," He then to him rejoin'd, "while I was there, That all she ask'd me I was fain to grant. Now that beyond the' accursed stream she dwells, She may no longer move me, by that law, Which was ordain'd me, when I issued thence. Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst, Moves and directs thee; then no flattery needs. Enough for me that in her name thou ask. Go therefore now: and with a slender reed See that thou duly gird him, and his face Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence. For not with eye, by any cloud obscur'd, Would it be seemly before him to come, Who stands the foremost minister in heaven. This islet all around, there far beneath, Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed Produces store of reeds. No other plant, Cover'd with leaves, or harden'd in its stalk, There lives, not bending to the water's sway. After, this way return not; but the sun Will show you, that now rises, where to take The mountain in its easiest ascent." He disappear'd; and I myself uprais'd Speechless, and to my guide retiring close, Toward him turn'd mine eyes. He thus began; "My son! observant thou my steps pursue. We must retreat to rearward, for that way The champain to its low extreme declines." The dawn had chas'd the matin hour of prime, Which deaf before it, so that from afar I spy'd the trembling of the ocean stream. We travers'd the deserted plain, as one Who, wander'd from his track, thinks every step Trodden in vain till he regain the path. When we had come, where yet the tender dew Strove with the sun, and in a place, where fresh The wind breath'd o'er it, while it slowly dried; Both hands extended on the watery grass My master plac'd, in graceful act and kind. Whence I of his intent before appriz'd, Stretch'd out to him my cheeks suffus'd with tears. There to my visage he anew restor'd That hue, which the dun shades of hell conceal'd. Then on the solitary shore arriv'd, That never sailing on its waters saw Man, that could after measure back his course, He girt me in such manner as had pleas'd Him who instructed, and O, strange to tell! As he selected every humble plant, Wherever one was pluck'd, another there Resembling, straightway in its place arose. CANTO II Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd, That covers, with the most exalted point Of its meridian circle, Salem's walls, And night, that opposite to him her orb Sounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropp'd When she reigns highest: so that where I was, Aurora's white and vermeil-tinctur'd cheek To orange turn'd as she in age increas'd. Meanwhile we linger'd by the water's brink, Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought Journey, while motionless the body rests. When lo! as near upon the hour of dawn, Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beam Glares down in west, over the ocean floor; So seem'd, what once again I hope to view, A light so swiftly coming through the sea, No winged course might equal its career. From which when for a space I had withdrawn Thine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide, Again I look'd and saw it grown in size And brightness: thou on either side appear'd Something, but what I knew not of bright hue, And by degrees from underneath it came Another. My preceptor silent yet Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern'd, Open'd the form of wings: then when he knew The pilot, cried aloud, "Down, down; bend low Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands: Now shalt thou see true Ministers indeed. "Lo how all human means he sets at naught! So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail Except his wings, between such distant shores. Lo how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd, Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes, That not like mortal hairs fall off or change!" As more and more toward us came, more bright Appear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down. He drove ashore in a small bark so swift And light, that in its course no wave it drank. The heav'nly steersman at the prow was seen, Visibly written blessed in his looks. Within a hundred spirits and more there sat. "In Exitu Israel de Aegypto;" All with one voice together sang, with what In the remainder of that hymn is writ. Then soon as with the sign of holy cross He bless'd them, they at once leap'd out on land, The swiftly as he came return'd. The crew, There left, appear'd astounded with the place, Gazing around as one who sees new sights. From every side the sun darted his beams, And with his arrowy radiance from mid heav'n Had chas'd the Capricorn, when that strange tribe Lifting their eyes towards us: "If ye know, Declare what path will Lead us to the mount." Them Virgil answer'd. "Ye suppose perchance Us well acquainted with this place: but here, We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst We came, before you but a little space, By other road so rough and hard, that now The' ascent will seem to us as play." The spirits, Who from my breathing had perceiv'd I liv'd, Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude Flock round a herald, sent with olive branch, To hear what news he brings, and in their haste Tread one another down, e'en so at sight Of me those happy spirits were fix'd, each one Forgetful of its errand, to depart, Where cleans'd from sin, it might be made all fair. Then one I saw darting before the rest With such fond ardour to embrace me, I To do the like was mov'd. O shadows vain Except in outward semblance! thrice my hands I clasp'd behind it, they as oft return'd Empty into my breast again. Surprise I needs must think was painted in my looks, For that the shadow smil'd and backward drew. To follow it I hasten'd, but with voice Of sweetness it enjoin'd me to desist. Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it, To talk with me, it would a little pause. It answered: "Thee as in my mortal frame I lov'd, so loos'd forth it I love thee still, And therefore pause; but why walkest thou here?" "Not without purpose once more to return, Thou find'st me, my Casella, where I am Journeying this way;" I said, "but how of thee Hath so much time been lost?" He answer'd straight: "No outrage hath been done to me, if he Who when and whom he chooses takes, me oft This passage hath denied, since of just will His will he makes. These three months past indeed, He, whose chose to enter, with free leave Hath taken; whence I wand'ring by the shore Where Tyber's wave grows salt, of him gain'd kind Admittance, at that river's mouth, tow'rd which His wings are pointed, for there always throng All such as not to Archeron descend." Then I: "If new laws have not quite destroy'd Memory and use of that sweet song of love, That while all my cares had power to 'swage; Please thee with it a little to console My spirit, that incumber'd with its frame, Travelling so far, of pain is overcome." "Love that discourses in my thoughts." He then Began in such soft accents, that within The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide And all who came with him, so well were pleas'd, That seem'd naught else might in their thoughts have room. Fast fix'd in mute attention to his notes We stood, when lo! that old man venerable Exclaiming, "How is this, ye tardy spirits? What negligence detains you loit'ring here? Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, That from your eyes the sight of God conceal." As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food Collected, blade or tares, without their pride Accustom'd, and in still and quiet sort, If aught alarm them, suddenly desert Their meal, assail'd by more important care; So I that new-come troop beheld, the song Deserting, hasten to the mountain's side, As one who goes yet where he tends knows not. Nor with less hurried step did we depart. CANTO III Them sudden flight had scatter'd over the plain, Turn'd tow'rds the mountain, whither reason's voice Drives us; I to my faithful company Adhering, left it not. For how of him Depriv'd, might I have sped, or who beside Would o'er the mountainous tract have led my steps He with the bitter pang of self-remorse Seem'd smitten. O clear conscience and upright How doth a little fling wound thee sore! Soon as his feet desisted (slack'ning pace), From haste, that mars all decency of act, My mind, that in itself before was wrapt, Its thoughts expanded, as with joy restor'd: And full against the steep ascent I set My face, where highest to heav'n its top o'erflows. The sun, that flar'd behind, with ruddy beam Before my form was broken; for in me His rays resistance met. I turn'd aside With fear of being left, when I beheld Only before myself the ground obscur'd. When thus my solace, turning him around, Bespake me kindly: "Why distrustest thou? Believ'st not I am with thee, thy sure guide? It now is evening there, where buried lies The body, in which I cast a shade, remov'd To Naples from Brundusium's wall. Nor thou Marvel, if before me no shadow fall, More than that in the sky element One ray obstructs not other. To endure Torments of heat and cold extreme, like frames That virtue hath dispos'd, which how it works Wills not to us should be reveal'd. Insane Who hopes, our reason may that space explore, Which holds three persons in one substance knit. Seek not the wherefore, race of human kind; Could ye have seen the whole, no need had been For Mary to bring forth. Moreover ye Have seen such men desiring fruitlessly; To whose desires repose would have been giv'n, That now but serve them for eternal grief. I speak of Plato, and the Stagyrite, And others many more." And then he bent Downwards his forehead, and in troubled mood Broke off his speech. Meanwhile we had arriv'd Far as the mountain's foot, and there the rock Found of so steep ascent, that nimblest steps To climb it had been vain. The most remote Most wild untrodden path, in all the tract 'Twixt Lerice and Turbia were to this A ladder easy' and open of access. "Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?" My master said and paus'd, "so that he may Ascend, who journeys without aid of wine?" And while with looks directed to the ground The meaning of the pathway he explor'd, And I gaz'd upward round the stony height, Of spirits, that toward us mov'd their steps, Yet moving seem'd not, they so slow approach'd. I thus my guide address'd: "Upraise thine eyes, Lo that way some, of whom thou may'st obtain Counsel, if of thyself thou find'st it not!" Straightway he look'd, and with free speech replied: "Let us tend thither: they but softly come. And thou be firm in hope, my son belov'd." Now was that people distant far in space A thousand paces behind ours, as much As at a throw the nervous arm could fling, When all drew backward on the messy crags Of the steep bank, and firmly stood unmov'd As one who walks in doubt might stand to look. "O spirits perfect! O already chosen!" Virgil to them began, "by that blest peace, Which, as I deem, is for you all prepar'd, Instruct us where the mountain low declines, So that attempt to mount it be not vain. For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves." As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose To ground, and what the foremost does, that do The others, gath'ring round her, if she stops, Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern; So saw I moving to advance the first, Who of that fortunate crew were at the head, Of modest mien and graceful in their gait. When they before me had beheld the light From my right side fall broken on the ground, So that the shadow reach'd the cave, they stopp'd And somewhat back retir'd: the same did all, Who follow'd, though unweeting of the cause. "Unask'd of you, yet freely I confess, This is a human body which ye see. That the sun's light is broken on the ground, Marvel not: but believe, that not without Virtue deriv'd from Heaven, we to climb Over this wall aspire." So them bespake My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin'd; "Turn, and before you there the entrance lies," Making a signal to us with bent hands. Then of them one began. "Whoe'er thou art, Who journey'st thus this way, thy visage turn, Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen." I tow'rds him turn'd, and with fix'd eye beheld. Comely, and fair, and gentle of aspect, He seem'd, but on one brow a gash was mark'd. When humbly I disclaim'd to have beheld Him ever: "Now behold!" he said, and show'd High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake. "I am Manfredi, grandson to the Queen Costanza: whence I pray thee, when return'd, To my fair daughter go, the parent glad Of Aragonia and Sicilia's pride; And of the truth inform her, if of me Aught else be told. When by two mortal blows My frame was shatter'd, I betook myself Weeping to him, who of free will forgives. My sins were horrible; but so wide arms Hath goodness infinite, that it receives All who turn to it. Had this text divine Been of Cosenza's shepherd better scann'd, Who then by Clement on my hunt was set, Yet at the bridge's head my bones had lain, Near Benevento, by the heavy mole Protected; but the rain now drenches them, And the wind drives, out of the kingdom's bounds, Far as the stream of Verde, where, with lights Extinguish'd, he remov'd them from their bed. Yet by their curse we are not so destroy'd, But that the eternal love may turn, while hope Retains her verdant blossoms. True it is, That such one as in contumacy dies Against the holy church, though he repent, Must wander thirty-fold for all the time In his presumption past; if such decree Be not by prayers of good men shorter made Look therefore if thou canst advance my bliss; Revealing to my good Costanza, how Thou hast beheld me, and beside the terms Laid on me of that interdict; for here By means of those below much profit comes." CANTO IV When by sensations of delight or pain, That any of our faculties hath seiz'd, Entire the soul collects herself, it seems She is intent upon that power alone, And thus the error is disprov'd which holds The soul not singly lighted in the breast. And therefore when as aught is heard or seen, That firmly keeps the soul toward it turn'd, Time passes, and a man perceives it not. For that, whereby he hearken, is one power, Another that, which the whole spirit hash; This is as it were bound, while that is free. This found I true by proof, hearing that spirit And wond'ring; for full fifty steps aloft The sun had measur'd unobserv'd of me, When we arriv'd where all with one accord The spirits shouted, "Here is what ye ask." A larger aperture ofttimes is stopp'd With forked stake of thorn by villager, When the ripe grape imbrowns, than was the path, By which my guide, and I behind him close, Ascended solitary, when that troop Departing left us. On Sanleo's road Who journeys, or to Noli low descends, Or mounts Bismantua's height, must use his feet; But here a man had need to fly, I mean With the swift wing and plumes of high desire, Conducted by his aid, who gave me hope, And with light furnish'd to direct my way. We through the broken rock ascended, close Pent on each side, while underneath the ground Ask'd help of hands and feet. When we arriv'd Near on the highest ridge of the steep bank, Where the plain level open'd I exclaim'd, "O master! say which way can we proceed?" He answer'd, "Let no step of thine recede. Behind me gain the mountain, till to us Some practis'd guide appear." That eminence Was lofty that no eye might reach its point, And the side proudly rising, more than line From the mid quadrant to the centre drawn. I wearied thus began: "Parent belov'd! Turn, and behold how I remain alone, If thou stay not."--" My son!" He straight reply'd, "Thus far put forth thy strength;" and to a track Pointed, that, on this side projecting, round Circles the hill. His words so spurr'd me on, That I behind him clamb'ring, forc'd myself, Till my feet press'd the circuit plain beneath. There both together seated, turn'd we round To eastward, whence was our ascent: and oft Many beside have with delight look'd back. First on the nether shores I turn'd my eyes, Then rais'd them to the sun, and wond'ring mark'd That from the left it smote us. Soon perceiv'd That Poet sage now at the car of light Amaz'd I stood, where 'twixt us and the north Its course it enter'd. Whence he thus to me: "Were Leda's offspring now in company Of that broad mirror, that high up and low Imparts his light beneath, thou might'st behold The ruddy zodiac nearer to the bears Wheel, if its ancient course it not forsook. How that may be if thou would'st think; within Pond'ring, imagine Sion with this mount Plac'd on the earth, so that to both be one Horizon, and two hemispheres apart, Where lies the path that Phaeton ill knew To guide his erring chariot: thou wilt see How of necessity by this on one He passes, while by that on the' other side, If with clear view shine intellect attend." "Of truth, kind teacher!" I exclaim'd, "so clear Aught saw I never, as I now discern Where seem'd my ken to fail, that the mid orb Of the supernal motion (which in terms Of art is called the Equator, and remains Ever between the sun and winter) for the cause Thou hast assign'd, from hence toward the north Departs, when those who in the Hebrew land Inhabit, see it tow'rds the warmer part. But if it please thee, I would gladly know, How far we have to journey: for the hill Mounts higher, than this sight of mine can mount." He thus to me: "Such is this steep ascent, That it is ever difficult at first, But, more a man proceeds, less evil grows. When pleasant it shall seem to thee, so much That upward going shall be easy to thee. As in a vessel to go down the tide, Then of this path thou wilt have reach'd the end. There hope to rest thee from thy toil. No more I answer, and thus far for certain know." As he his words had spoken, near to us A voice there sounded: "Yet ye first perchance May to repose you by constraint be led." At sound thereof each turn'd, and on the left A huge stone we beheld, of which nor I Nor he before was ware. Thither we drew, find there were some, who in the shady place Behind the rock were standing, as a man Thru' idleness might stand. Among them one, Who seem'd to me much wearied, sat him down, And with his arms did fold his knees about, Holding his face between them downward bent. "Sweet Sir!" I cry'd, "behold that man, who shows Himself more idle, than if laziness Were sister to him." Straight he turn'd to us, And, o'er the thigh lifting his face, observ'd, Then in these accents spake: "Up then, proceed Thou valiant one." Straight who it was I knew; Nor could the pain I felt (for want of breath Still somewhat urg'd me) hinder my approach. And when I came to him, he scarce his head Uplifted, saying "Well hast thou discern'd, How from the left the sun his chariot leads." His lazy acts and broken words my lips To laughter somewhat mov'd; when I began: "Belacqua, now for thee I grieve no more. But tell, why thou art seated upright there? Waitest thou escort to conduct thee hence? Or blame I only shine accustom'd ways?" Then he: "My brother, of what use to mount, When to my suffering would not let me pass The bird of God, who at the portal sits? Behooves so long that heav'n first bear me round Without its limits, as in life it bore, Because I to the end repentant Sighs Delay'd, if prayer do not aid me first, That riseth up from heart which lives in grace. What other kind avails, not heard in heaven?"' Before me now the Poet up the mount Ascending, cried: "Haste thee, for see the sun Has touch'd the point meridian, and the night Now covers with her foot Marocco's shore." 
392	----	Gerusalemme Liberata ("Jerusalem Delivered") by Torquato Tasso (1544-1595) Published 1581 in Parma, Italy. Translated by Edward Fairfax (1560-1635); translation first published in London, 1600. FIRST BOOK THE ARGUMENT. God sends his angel to Tortosa down, Godfrey unites the Christian Peers and Knights; And all the Lords and Princes of renown Choose him their Duke, to rule the wares and fights. He mustereth all his host, whose number known, He sends them to the fort that Sion hights; The aged tyrant Juda's land that guides, In fear and trouble, to resist provides. I The sacred armies, and the godly knight, That the great sepulchre of Christ did free, I sing; much wrought his valor and foresight, And in that glorious war much suffered he; In vain 'gainst him did Hell oppose her might, In vain the Turks and Morians armed be: His soldiers wild, to brawls and mutinies prest, Reduced he to peace, so Heaven him blest. II O heavenly Muse, that not with fading bays Deckest thy brow by the Heliconian spring, But sittest crowned with stars' immortal rays In Heaven, where legions of bright angels sing; Inspire life in my wit, my thoughts upraise, My verse ennoble, and forgive the thing, If fictions light I mix with truth divine, And fill these lines with other praise than thine. III Thither thou know'st the world is best inclined Where luring Parnass most his sweet imparts, And truth conveyed in verse of gentle kind To read perhaps will move the dullest hearts: So we, if children young diseased we find, Anoint with sweets the vessel's foremost parts To make them taste the potions sharp we give; They drink deceived, and so deceived, they live. IV Ye noble Princes, that protect and save The Pilgrim Muses, and their ship defend From rock of Ignorance and Error's wave, Your gracious eyes upon this labor bend: To you these tales of love and conquest brave I dedicate, to you this work I send: My Muse hereafter shall perhaps unfold Your fights, your battles, and your combats bold. V For if the Christian Princes ever strive To win fair Greece out of the tyrants' hands, And those usurping Ismaelites deprive Of woful Thrace, which now captived stands, You must from realms and seas the Turks forth drive, As Godfrey chased them from Juda's lands, And in this legend, all that glorious deed, Read, whilst you arm you; arm you, whilst you read. VI Six years were run since first in martial guise The Christian Lords warraid the eastern land; Nice by assault, and Antioch by surprise, Both fair, both rich, both won, both conquered stand, And this defended they in noblest wise 'Gainst Persian knights and many a valiant band; Tortosa won, lest winter might them shend, They drew to holds, and coming spring attend. VII The sullen season now was come and gone, That forced them late cease from their noble war, When God Almighty form his lofty throne, Set in those parts of Heaven that purest are (As far above the clear stars every one, As it is hence up to the highest star), Looked down, and all at once this world beheld, Each land, each city, country, town and field. VIII All things he viewed, at last in Syria stayed Upon the Christian Lords his gracious eye, That wondrous look wherewith he oft surveyed Men's secret thoughts that most concealed lie He cast on puissant Godfrey, that assayed To drive the Turks from Sion's bulwarks high, And, full of zeal and faith, esteemed light All worldly honor, empire, treasure, might: IX In Baldwin next he spied another thought, Whom spirits proud to vain ambition move: Tancred he saw his life's joy set at naught, So woe-begone was he with pains of love: Boemond the conquered folk of Antioch brought, The gentle yoke of Christian rule to prove: He taught them laws, statutes and customs new, Arts, crafts, obedience, and religion true; X And with such care his busy work he plied, That to naught else his acting thoughts he bent: In young Rinaldo fierce desires he spied, And noble heart of rest impatient; To wealth or sovereign power he naught applied His wits, but all to virtue excellent; Patterns and rules of skill, and courage bold, He took from Guelpho, and his fathers old. XI Thus when the Lord discovered had, and seen The hidden secrets of each worthy's breast, Out of the hierarchies of angels sheen The gentle Gabriel called he from the rest, 'Twixt God and souls of men that righteous been Ambassador is he, forever blest, The just commands of Heaven's Eternal King, 'Twixt skies and earth, he up and down doth bring. XII To whom the Lord thus spake: "Godfredo find, And in my name ask him, why doth he rest? Why be his arms to ease and peace resigned? Why frees he not Jerusalem distrest? His peers to counsel call, each baser mind Let him stir up; for, chieftain of the rest I choose him here, the earth shall him allow, His fellows late shall be his subjects now." XIII This said, the angel swift himself prepared To execute the charge imposed aright, In form of airy members fair imbared, His spirits pure were subject to our sight, Like to a man in show and shape he fared, But full of heavenly majesty and might, A stripling seemed he thrive five winters old, And radiant beams adorned his locks of gold. XIV Of silver wings he took a shining pair, Fringed with gold, unwearied, nimble, swift; With these he parts the winds, the clouds, the air, And over seas and earth himself doth lift, Thus clad he cut the spheres and circles fair, And the pure skies with sacred feathers clift; On Libanon at first his foot he set, And shook his wings with rory May dews wet. XV Then to Tortosa's confines swiftly sped The sacred messenger, with headlong flight; Above the eastern wave appeared red The rising sun, yet scantly half in sight; Godfrey e'en then his morn-devotions said, As was his custom, when with Titan bright Appeared the angel in his shape divine, Whose glory far obscured Phoebus' shine. XVI "Godfrey," quoth he, "behold the season fit To war, for which thou waited hast so long, Now serves the time, if thou o'erslip not it, To free Jerusalem from thrall and wrong: Thou with thy Lords in council quickly sit; Comfort the feeble, and confirm the strong, The Lord of Hosts their general doth make thee, And for their chieftain they shall gladly take thee. XVII "I, messenger from everlasting Jove, In his great name thus his behests do tell; Oh, what sure hope of conquest ought thee move, What zeal, what love should in thy bosom dwell!" This said, he vanished to those seats above, In height and clearness which the rest excel, Down fell the Duke, his joints dissolved asunder, Blind with the light, and strucken dead with wonder. XVIII But when recovered, he considered more, The man, his manner, and his message said; If erst he wished, now he longed sore To end that war, whereof he Lord was made; Nor swelled his breast with uncouth pride therefore, That Heaven on him above this charge had laid, But, for his great Creator would the same, His will increased: so fire augmenteth flame. XIX The captains called forthwith from every tent, Unto the rendezvous he them invites; Letter on letter, post on post he sent, Entreatance fair with counsel he unites, All, what a noble courage could augment, The sleeping spark of valor what incites, He used, that all their thoughts to honor raised, Some praised, some paid, some counselled, all pleased. XX The captains, soldiers, all, save Boemond, came, And pitched their tents, some in the fields without, Some of green boughs their slender cabins frame, Some lodged were Tortosa's streets about, Of all the host the chief of worth and name Assembled been, a senate grave and stout; Then Godfrey, after silence kept a space, Lift up his voice, and spake with princely grace: XXI "Warriors, whom God himself elected hath His worship true in Sion to restore, And still preserved from danger, harm and scath, By many a sea and many an unknown shore, You have subjected lately to his faith Some provinces rebellious long before: And after conquests great, have in the same Erected trophies to his cross and name. XXII "But not for this our homes we first forsook, And from our native soil have marched so far: Nor us to dangerous seas have we betook, Exposed to hazard of so far sought war, Of glory vain to gain an idle smook, And lands possess that wild and barbarous are: That for our conquests were too mean a prey, To shed our bloods, to work our souls' decay. XXIII "But this the scope was of our former thought,-- Of Sion's fort to scale the noble wall, The Christian folk from bondage to have brought, Wherein, alas, they long have lived thrall, In Palestine an empire to have wrought, Where godliness might reign perpetual, And none be left, that pilgrims might denay To see Christ's tomb, and promised vows to pay. XXIV "What to this hour successively is done Was full of peril, to our honor small, Naught to our first designment, if we shun The purposed end, or here lie fixed all. What boots it us there wares to have begun, Or Europe raised to make proud Asia thrall, If our beginnings have this ending known, Not kingdoms raised, but armies overthrown? XXV "Not as we list erect we empires new On frail foundations laid in earthly mould, Where of our faith and country be but few Among the thousands stout of Pagans bold, Where naught behoves us trust to Greece untrue, And Western aid we far removed behold: Who buildeth thus, methinks, so buildeth he, As if his work should his sepulchre be. XXVI "Turks, Persians conquered, Antiochia won, Be glorious acts, and full of glorious praise, By Heaven's mere grace, not by our prowess done: Those conquests were achieved by wondrous ways, If now from that directed course we run The God of Battles thus before us lays, His loving kindness shall we lose, I doubt, And be a byword to the lands about. XXVII "Let not these blessings then sent from above Abused be, or split in profane wise, But let the issue correspondent prove To good beginnings of each enterprise; The gentle season might our courage move, Now every passage plain and open lies: What lets us then the great Jerusalem With valiant squadrons round about to hem? XXVIII "Lords, I protest, and hearken all to it, Ye times and ages, future, present, past, Hear all ye blessed in the heavens that sit, The time for this achievement hasteneth fast: The longer rest worse will the season fit, Our sureties shall with doubt be overcast. If we forslow the siege I well foresee From Egypt will the Pagans succored be." XXIX This said, the hermit Peter rose and spake, Who sate in counsel those great Lords among: "At my request this war was undertake, In private cell, who erst lived closed long, What Godfrey wills, of that no question make, There cast no doubts where truth is plain and strong, Your acts, I trust, will correspond his speech, Yet one thing more I would you gladly teach. XXX "These strifes, unless I far mistake the thing, And discords raised oft in disordered sort, Your disobedience and ill managing Of actions lost, for want of due support, Refer I justly to a further spring, Spring of sedition, strife, oppression, tort, I mean commanding power to sundry given, In thought, opinion, worth, estate, uneven. XXXI "Where divers Lords divided empire hold, Where causes be by gifts, not justice tried, Where offices be falsely bought and sold, Needs must the lordship there from virtue slide. Of friendly parts one body then uphold, Create one head, the rest to rule and guide: To one the regal power and sceptre give, That henceforth may your King and Sovereign live." XXXII And therewith stayed his speech. O gracious Muse, What kindling motions in their breasts do fry? With grace divine the hermit's talk infuse, That in their hearts his words may fructify; By this a virtuous concord they did choose, And all contentions then began to die; The Princes with the multitude agree, That Godfrey ruler of those wars should be. XXXIII This power they gave him, by his princely right, All to command, to judge all, good and ill, Laws to impose to lands subdued by might, To maken war both when and where he will, To hold in due subjection every wight, Their valors to be guided by his skill; This done, Report displays her tell-tale wings, And to each ear the news and tidings brings. XXXIV She told the soldiers, who allowed him meet And well deserving of that sovereign place. Their first salutes and acclamations sweet Received he, with love and gentle grace; After their reverence done with kind regreet Requited was, with mild and cheerful face, He bids his armies should the following day On those fair plains their standards proud display. XXXV The golden sun rose from the silver wave, And with his beams enamelled every green, When up arose each warrior bold and brave, Glistering in filed steel and armor sheen, With jolly plumes their crests adorned they have, And all tofore their chieftain mustered been: He from a mountain cast his curious sight On every footman and on every knight. XXXVI My mind, Time's enemy, Oblivion's foe, Disposer true of each noteworthy thing, Oh, let thy virtuous might avail me so, That I each troop and captain great may sing, That in this glorious war did famous grow, Forgot till now by Time's evil handling: This work, derived from my treasures dear, Let all times hearken, never age outwear. XXXVII The French came foremost battailous and bold, Late led by Hugo, brother to their King, From France the isle that rivers four infold With rolling streams descending from their spring, But Hugo dead, the lily fair of gold, Their wonted ensign they tofore them bring, Under Clotharius great, a captain good, And hardy knight ysprong of princes' blood. XXXVIII A thousand were they in strong armors clad, Next whom there marched forth another band, That number, nature, and instruction had, Like them to fight far off or charge at hand, All valiant Normans by Lord Robert lad, The native Duke of that renowned land, Two bishops next their standards proud upbare, Called Reverend William, and Good Ademare. XXXIX Their jolly notes they chanted loud and clear On merry mornings at the mass divine, And horrid helms high on their heads they bear When their fierce courage they to war incline: The first four hundred horsemen gathered near To Orange town, and lands that it confine: But Ademare the Poggian youth brought out, In number like, in hard assays as stout. XL Baldwin, his ensign fair, did next dispread Among his Bulloigners of noble fame, His brother gave him all his troops to lead, When he commander of the field became; The Count Carinto did him straight succeed, Grave in advice, well skilled in Mars his game, Four hundred brought he, but so many thrice Led Baldwin, clad in gilden arms of price. XLI Guelpho next them the land and place possest, Whose fortunes good with his great acts agree, By his Italian sire, fro the house of Est, Well could he bring his noble pedigree, A German born with rich possessions blest, A worthy branch sprung from the Guelphian tree. 'Twixt Rhene and Danubie the land contained He ruled, where Swaves and Rhetians whilom reigned. XLII His mother's heritage was this and right, To which he added more by conquest got, From thence approved men of passing might He brought, that death or danger feared not: It was their wont in feasts to spend the night, And pass cold days in baths and houses hot. Five thousand late, of which now scantly are The third part left, such is the chance of war. XLIII The nation then with crisped locks and fair, That dwell between the seas and Arden Wood, Where Mosel streams and Rhene the meadows wear, A battel soil for grain, for pasture good, Their islanders with them, who oft repair Their earthen bulwarks 'gainst the ocean flood, The flood, elsewhere that ships and barks devours, But there drowns cities, countries, towns and towers; XLIV Both in one troop, and but a thousand all, Under another Robert fierce they run. Then the English squadron, soldiers stout and tall, By William led, their sovereign's younger son, These archers be, and with them come withal, A people near the Northern Pole that wone, Whom Ireland sent from loughs and forests hoar, Divided far by sea from Europe's shore. XLV Tancredi next, nor 'mongst them all was one, Rinald except, a prince of greater might, With majesty his noble countenance shone, High were his thoughts, his heart was bold in fight, No shameful vice his worth had overgone, His fault was love, by unadvised sight, Bred in the dangers of adventurous arms, And nursed with griefs, with sorrows, woes, and harms. XLVI Fame tells, that on that ever-blessed day, When Christian swords with Persian blood were dyed, The furious Prince Tancredi from that fray His coward foes chased through forests wide, Till tired with the fight, the heat, the way, He sought some place to rest his wearied side, And drew him near a silver stream that played Among wild herbs under the greenwood shade. XLVII A Pagan damsel there unwares he met, In shining steel, all save her visage fair, Her hair unbound she made a wanton net, To catch sweet breathing from the cooling air. On her at gaze his longing looks he set, Sight, wonder; wonder, love; love bred his care; O love, o wonder; love new born, new bred, Now groan, now armed, this champion captive led. XLVIII Her helm the virgin donned, and but some wight She feared might come to aid him as they fought, Her courage earned to have assailed the knight; Yet thence she fled, uncompanied, unsought, And left her image in his heart ypight; Her sweet idea wandered through his thought, Her shape, her gesture, and her place in mind He kept, and blew love's fire with that wind. XLIX Well might you read his sickness in his eyes, Their banks were full, their tide was at the flow, His help far off, his hurt within him lies, His hopes unstrung, his cares were fit to mow; Eight hundred horse (from Champain came) he guies, Champain a land where wealth, ease, pleasure, grow, Rich Nature's pomp and pride, the Tirrhene main There woos the hills, hills woo the valleys plain. L Two hundred Greeks came next, in fight well tried, Not surely armed in steel or iron strong, But each a glaive had pendant by his side, Their bows and quivers at their shoulders hung, Their horses well inured to chase and ride, In diet spare, untired with labor long; Ready to charge, and to retire at will, Though broken, scattered, fled, they skirmish still; LI Tatine their guide, and except Tatine, none Of all the Greeks went with the Christian host; O sin, O shame, O Greece accurst alone! Did not this fatal war affront thy coast? Yet safest thou an idle looker-on, And glad attendest which side won or lost: Now if thou be a bondslave vile become, No wrong is that, but God's most righteous doom. LII In order last, but first in worth and fame, Unfeared in fight, untired with hurt or wound, The noble squadron of adventurers came, Terrors to all that tread on Asian ground: Cease Orpheus of thy Minois, Arthur shame To boast of Lancelot, or thy table round: For these whom antique times with laurel drest, These far exceed them, thee, and all the rest. LIII Dudon of Consa was their guide and lord, And for of worth and birth alike they been, They chose him captain, by their free accord, For he most acts had done, most battles seen; Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, His locks were gray, yet was his courage green, Of worth and might the noble badge he bore, Old scars of grievous wounds received of yore. LIV After came Eustace, well esteemed man For Godfrey's sake his brother, and his own; The King of Norway's heir Gernando than, Proud of his father's title, sceptre, crown; Roger of Balnavill, and Engerlan, For hardy knights approved were and known; Besides were numbered in that warlike train Rambald, Gentonio, and the Gerrards twain. LV Ubaldo then, and puissant Rosimond, Of Lancaster the heir, in rank succeed; Let none forget Obizo of Tuscain land, Well worthy praise for many a worthy deed; Nor those three brethren, Lombards fierce and yond, Achilles, Sforza, and stern Palamede; Nor Otton's shield he conquered in those stowres, In which a snake a naked child devours. LVI Guascher and Raiphe in valor like there was. The one and other Guido, famous both, Germer and Eberard to overpass, In foul oblivion would my Muse be loth, With his Gildippes dear, Edward alas, A loving pair, to war among them go'th In bond of virtuous love together tied, Together served they, and together died. LVII In school of love are all things taught we see, There learned this maid of arms the ireful guise, Still by his side a faithful guard went she, One true-love knot their lives together ties, No would to one alone could dangerous be, But each the smart of other's anguish tries, If one were hurt, the other felt the sore, She lost her blood, he spent his life therefore. LVIII But these and all, Rinaldo far exceeds, Star of his sphere, the diamond of this ring, The nest where courage with sweet mercy breeds: A comet worthy each eye's wondering, His years are fewer than his noble deeds, His fruit is ripe soon as his blossoms spring, Armed, a Mars, might coyest Venus move, And if disarmed, then God himself of Love. LIX Sophia by Adige's flowery bank him bore, Sophia the fair, spouse to Bertoldo great, Fit mother for that pearl, and before The tender imp was weaned from the teat, The Princess Maud him took, in Virtue's lore She brought him up fit for each worthy feat, Till of these wares the golden trump he hears, That soundeth glory, fame, praise in his ears. LX And then, though scantly three times five years old, He fled alone, by many an unknown coast, O'er Aegean Seas by many a Greekish hold, Till he arrived at the Christian host; A noble flight, adventurous, brave, and bold, Whereon a valiant prince might justly boast, Three years he served in field, when scant begin Few golden hairs to deck his ivory chin. LXI The horsemen past, their void-left stations fill The bands on foot, and Reymond them beforn, Of Tholouse lord, from lands near Piraene Hill By Garound streams and salt sea billows worn, Four thousand foot he brought, well armed, and skill Had they all pains and travels to have borne, Stout men of arms and with their guide of power Like Troy's old town defenced with Ilion's tower. LXII Next Stephen of Amboise did five thousand lead, The men he prest from Tours and Blois but late, To hard assays unfit, unsure at need, Yet armed to point in well-attempted plate, The land did like itself the people breed, The soil is gentle, smooth, soft, delicate; Boldly they charge, but soon retire for doubt, Like fire of straw, soon kindled, soon burnt out. LXIII The third Alcasto marched, and with him The boaster brought six thousand Switzers bold, Audacious were their looks, their faces grim, Strong castles on the Alpine clifts they hold, Their shares and coulters broke, to armors trim They change that metal, cast in warlike mould, And with this band late herds and flocks that guide, Now kings and realms he threatened and defied. LXIV The glorious standard last to Heaven they sprad, With Peter's keys ennobled and his crown, With it seven thousand stout Camillo had, Embattailed in walls of iron brown: In this adventure and occasion, glad So to revive the Romans' old renown, Or prove at least to all of wiser thought, Their hearts were fertile land although unwrought. LXV But now was passed every regiment, Each band, each troop, each person worth regard When Godfrey with his lords to counsel went, And thus the Duke his princely will declared: "I will when day next clears the firmament, Our ready host in haste be all prepared, Closely to march to Sion's noble wall, Unseen, unheard, or undescried at all. LXVI "Prepare you then for travel strong and light, Fierce to the combat, glad to victory." And with that word and warning soon was dight, Each soldier, longing for near coming glory, Impatient be they of the morning bright, Of honor so them pricked the memory: But yet their chieftain had conceived a fear Within his heart, but kept it secret there. LXVII For he by faithful spial was assured, That Egypt's King was forward on his way, And to arrive at Gaza old procured, A fort that on the Syrian frontiers lay, Nor thinks he that a man to wars inured Will aught forslow, or in his journey stay, For well he knew him for a dangerous foe: An herald called he then, and spake him so: LXVIII "A pinnace take thee swift as shaft from bow, And speed thee, Henry, to the Greekish main, There should arrive, as I by letters know From one that never aught reports in vain, A valiant youth in whom all virtues flow, To help us this great conquest to obtain, The Prince of Danes he is, and brings to war A troop with him from under the Arctic star. LXIX "And for I doubt the Greekish monarch sly Will use with him some of his wonted craft, To stay his passage, or divert awry Elsewhere his forces, his first journey laft, My herald good and messenger well try, See that these succors be not us beraft, But send him thence with such convenient speed As with his honor stands and with our need. LXX "Return not thou, but Legier stay behind, And move the Greekish Prince to send us aid, Tell him his kingly promise doth him bind To give us succors, by his covenant made." This said, and thus instruct, his letters signed The trusty herald took, nor longer stayed, But sped him thence to done his Lord's behest, And thus the Duke reduced his thoughts to rest. LXXI Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred, And bridegroom-like forth stept the glorious sun, When trumpets loud and clarions shrill were heard, And every one to rouse him fierce begun, Sweet music to each heart for war prepared, The soldiers glad by heaps to harness run; So if with drought endangered be their grain, Poor ploughmen joy when thunders promise rain. LXXII Some shirts of mail, some coats of plate put on, Some donned a cuirass, some a corslet bright, And halbert some, and some a habergeon, So every one in arms was quickly dight, His wonted guide each soldier tends upon, Loose in the wind waved their banners light, Their standard royal toward Heaven they spread, The cross triumphant on the Pagans dead. LXXIII Meanwhile the car that bears the lightning brand Upon the eastern hill was mounted high, And smote the glistering armies as they stand, With quivering beams which dazed the wondering eye, That Phaeton-like it fired sea and land, The sparkles seemed up to the skies to fly, The horses' neigh and clattering armors' sound Pursue the echo over dale and down. LXXIV Their general did with due care provide To save his men from ambush and from train, Some troops of horse that lightly armed ride He sent to scour the woods and forests main, His pioneers their busy work applied To even the paths and make the highways plain, They filled the pits, and smoothed the rougher ground, And opened every strait they closed found. LXXV They meet no forces gathered by their foe, No towers defenced with rampire, moat, or wall, No stream, no wood, no mountain could forslow Their hasty pace, or stop their march at all; So when his banks the prince of rivers, Po, Doth overswell, he breaks with hideous fall The mossy rocks and trees o'ergrown with age, Nor aught withstands his fury and his rage. LXXVI The King of Tripoli in every hold Shut up his men, munition and his treasure, The straggling troops sometimes assail he would, Save that he durst not move them to displeasure; He stayed their rage with presents, gifts and gold, And led them through his land at ease and leisure, To keep his realm in peace and rest he chose, With what conditions Godfrey list impose. LXXVII Those of Mount Seir, that neighboreth by east The Holy City, faithful folk each one, Down from the hill descended most and least, And to the Christian Duke by heaps they gone, And welcome him and his with joy and feast; On him they smile, on him they gaze alone, And were his guides, as faithful from that day As Hesperus, that leads the sun his way. LXXVIII Along the sands his armies safe they guide By ways secure, to them well known before, Upon the tumbling billows fraughted ride The armed ships, coasting along the shore, Which for the camp might every day provide To bring munition good and victuals store: The isles of Greece sent in provision meet, And store of wine from Scios came and Crete. LXXIX Great Neptune grieved underneath the load Of ships, hulks, galleys, barks and brigantines, In all the mid-earth seas was left no road Wherein the Pagan his bold sails untwines, Spread was the huge Armado, wide and broad, From Venice, Genes, and towns which them confines, From Holland, England, France and Sicil sent, And all for Juda ready bound and bent. LXXX All these together were combined, and knit With surest bonds of love and friendship strong, Together sailed they fraught with all things fit To service done by land that might belong, And when occasion served disbarked it, Then sailed the Asian coasts and isles along; Thither with speed their hasty course they plied, Where Christ the Lord for our offences died. LXXXI The brazen trump of iron-winged fame, That mingleth faithful troth with forged lies, Foretold the heathen how the Christians came, How thitherward the conquering army hies, Of every knight it sounds the worth and name, Each troop, each band, each squadron it descries, And threat'neth death to those, fire, sword and slaughter, Who held captived Israel's fairest daughter. LXXXII The fear of ill exceeds the evil we fear, For so our present harms still most annoy us, Each mind is prest and open every ear To hear new tidings though they no way joy us, This secret rumor whispered everywhere About the town, these Christians will destroy us, The aged king his coming evil that knew, Did cursed thoughts in his false heart renew. LXXXIII This aged prince ycleped Aladine, Ruled in care, new sovereign of this state, A tyrant erst, but now his fell engine His graver are did somewhat mitigate, He heard the western lords would undermine His city's wall, and lay his towers prostrate, To former fear he adds a new-come doubt, Treason he fears within, and force without. LXXXIV For nations twain inhabit there and dwell Of sundry faith together in that town, The lesser part on Christ believed well, On Termagent the more and on Mahown, But when this king had made this conquest fell, And brought that region subject to his crown, Of burdens all he set the Paynims large, And on poor Christians laid the double charge. LXXXV His native wrath revived with this new thought, With age and years that weakened was of yore, Such madness in his cruel bosom wrought, That now than ever blood he thirsteth more? So stings a snake that to the fire is brought, Which harmless lay benumbed with cold before, A lion so his rage renewed hath, Though fame before, if he be moved to wrath. LXXXVI "I see," quoth he, "some expectation vain, In these false Christians, and some new content, Our common loss they trust will be their gain, They laugh, we weep; they joy while we lament; And more, perchance, by treason or by train, To murder us they secretly consent, Or otherwise to work us harm and woe, To ope the gates, and so let in our foe. LXXXVII "But lest they should effect their cursed will, Let us destroy this serpent on his nest; Both young and old, let us this people kill, The tender infants at their mothers' breast, Their houses burn, their holy temples fill With bodies slain of those that loved them best, And on that tomb they hold so much in price, Let's offer up their priests in sacrifice." LXXXVIII Thus thought the tyrant in his traitorous mind, But durst not follow what he had decreed, Yet if the innocents some mercy find, From cowardice, not truth, did that proceed, His noble foes durst not his craven kind Exasperate by such a bloody deed. For if he need, what grace could then be got, If thus of peace he broke or loosed the knot? LXXXIX His villain heart his cursed rage restrained, To other thoughts he bent his fierce desire, The suburbs first flat with the earth he plained, And burnt their buildings with devouring fire, Loth was the wretch the Frenchman should have gained Or help or ease, by finding aught entire, Cedron, Bethsaida, and each watering else Empoisoned he, both fountains, springs, and wells. XC So wary wise this child of darkness was; The city's self he strongly fortifies, Three sides by site it well defenced has, That's only weak that to the northward lies; With mighty bars of long enduring brass, The steel-bound doors and iron gates he ties, And, lastly, legions armed well provides Of subjects born, and hired aid besides. SECOND BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismeno conjures, but his charms are vain; Aladine will kill the Christians in his ire: Sophronia and Olindo would be slain To save the rest, the King grants their desire; Clorinda hears their fact and fortunes plain, Their pardon gets and keeps them from the fire: Argantes, when Aletes' speeches are Despised, defies the Duke to mortal war. I While thus the tyrant bends his thoughts to arms, Ismeno gan tofore his sight appear, Ismen dead bones laid in cold graves that warms And makes them speak, smell, taste, touch, see, and hear; Ismen with terror of his mighty charms, That makes great Dis in deepest Hell to fear, That binds and looses souls condemned to woe, And sends the devils on errands to and fro. II A Christian once, Macon he now adores, Nor could he quite his wonted faith forsake, But in his wicked arts both oft implores Help from the Lord, and aid from Pluto black; He, from deep caves by Acheron's dark shores, Where circles vain and spells he used to make, To advise his king in these extremes is come, Achitophel so counselled Absalom. III "My liege," he says, "the camp fast hither moves, The axe is laid unto this cedar's root, But let us work as valiant men behoves, For boldest hearts good fortune helpeth out; Your princely care your kingly wisdom proves, Well have you labored, well foreseen about; If each perform his charge and duty so, Nought but his grave here conquer shall your foe. IV "From surest castle of my secret cell I come, partaker of your good and ill, What counsel sage, or magic's sacred spell May profit us, all that perform I will: The sprites impure from bliss that whilom fell Shall to your service bow, constrained by skill; But how we must begin this enterprise, I will your Highness thus in brief advise. V "Within the Christian's church from light of skies, An hidden alter stands, far out of sight, On which the image consecrated lies Of Christ's dear mother, called a virgin bright, An hundred lamps aye burn before her eyes, She in a slender veil of tinsel dight, On every side great plenty doth behold Of offerings brought, myrrh, frankincense and gold. VI "This idol would I have removed away From thence, and by your princely hand transport, In Macon's sacred temple safe it lay, Which then I will enchant in wondrous sort, That while the image in that church doth stay, No strength of arms shall win this noble fort, Of shake this puissant wall, such passing might Have spells and charms, if they be said aright." VII Advised thus, the king impatient Flew in his fury to the house of God, The image took, with words unreverent Abused the prelates, who that deed forbode, Swift with his prey, away the tyrant went, Of God's sharp justice naught he feared the rod, But in his chapel vile the image laid, On which the enchanter charms and witchcraft said. VIII When Phoebus next unclosed his wakeful eye, Up rose the sexton of that place profane, And missed the image, where it used to lie, Each where he sough in grief, in fear, in vain; Then to the king his loss he gan descry, Who sore enraged killed him for his pain; And straight conceived in his malicious wit, Some Christian bade this great offence commit. IX But whether this were act of mortal hand, Or else the Prince of Heaven's eternal pleasure, That of his mercy would this wretch withstand, Nor let so vile a chest hold such a treasure, As yet conjecture hath not fully scanned; By godliness let us this action measure, And truth of purest faith will fitly prove That this rare grace came down from Heaven above. X With busy search the tyrant gan to invade Each house, each hold, each temple and each tent To them the fault or faulty one bewrayed Or hid, he promised gifts or punishment, His idle charms the false enchanter said, But in this maze still wandered and miswent, For Heaven decreed to conceal the same, To make the miscreant more to feel his shame. XI But when the angry king discovered not What guilty hand this sacrilege had wrought, His ireful courage boiled in vengeance hot Against the Christians, whom he faulters thought; All ruth, compassion, mercy he forgot, A staff to beat that dog he long had sought, "Let them all die," quoth he, "kill great and small, So shall the offender perish sure withal. XII "To spill the wine with poison mixed with spares? Slay then the righteous with the faulty one, Destroy this field that yieldeth naught but tares, With thorns this vineyard all is over-gone, Among these wretches is not one, that cares For us, our laws, or our religion; Up, up, dear subjects, fire and weapon take, Burn, murder, kill these traitors for my sake." XIII This Herod thus would Bethlem's infants kill, The Christians soon this direful news receave, The trump of death sounds in their hearing shrill, Their weapon, faith; their fortress, was the grave; They had no courage, time, device, or will, To fight, to fly, excuse, or pardon crave, But stood prepared to die, yet help they find, Whence least they hope, such knots can Heaven unbind. XIV Among them dwelt, her parents' joy and pleasure, A maid, whose fruit was ripe, not over-yeared, Her beauty was her not esteemed treasure; The field of love with plough of virtue eared, Her labor goodness; godliness her leisure; Her house the heaven by this full moon aye cleared, For there, from lovers' eyes withdrawn, alone With virgin beams this spotless Cynthia shone. XV But what availed her resolution chaste, Whose soberest looks were whetstones to desire? Nor love consents that beauty's field lie waste, Her visage set Olindo's heart on fire, O subtle love, a thousand wiles thou hast, By humble suit, by service, or by hire, To win a maiden's hold, a thing soon done, For nature framed all women to be won. XVI Sophronia she, Olindo hight the youth, Both or one town, both in one faith were taught, She fair, he full of bashfulness and truth, Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought, He durst not speak by suit to purchase ruth, She saw not, marked not, wist not what he sought, Thus loved, thus served he long, but not regarded, Unseen, unmarked, unpitied, unrewarded. XVII To her came message of the murderment, Wherein her guiltless friends should hopeless starve, She that was noble, wise, as fair and gent, Cast how she might their harmless lives preserve, Zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment, From maiden shame yet was she loth to swerve: Yet had her courage ta'en so sure a hold, That boldness, shamefaced; shame had made her bold. XVIII And forth she went, a shop for merchandise Full of rich stuff, but none for sale exposed, A veil obscured the sunshine of her eyes, The rose within herself her sweetness closed, Each ornament about her seemly lies, By curious chance, or careless art, composed; For what the most neglects, most curious prove, So Beauty's helped by Nature, Heaven, and Love. XIX Admired of all, on went this noble maid, Until the presence of the king she gained, Nor for he swelled with ire was she afraid, But his fierce wrath with fearless grace sustained, "I come," quoth she, "but be thine anger stayed, And causeless rage 'gainst faultless souls restrained-- I come to show thee, and to bring thee both, The wight whose fact hath made thy heart so wroth." XX Her molest boldness, and that lightning ray Which her sweet beauty streamed on his face, Had struck the prince with wonder and dismay, Changed his cheer, and cleared his moody grace, That had her eyes disposed their looks to play, The king had snared been in love's strong lace; But wayward beauty doth not fancy move, A frown forbids, a smile engendereth love. XXI It was amazement, wonder and delight, Although not love, that moved his cruel sense; "Tell on," quoth he, "unfold the chance aright, Thy people's lives I grant for recompense." Then she, "Behold the faulter here in sight, This hand committed that supposed offence, I took the image, mine that fault, that fact, Mine be the glory of that virtuous act." XXII This spotless lamb thus offered up her blood, To save the rest of Christ's selected fold, O noble lie! was ever truth so good? Blest be the lips that such a leasing told: Thoughtful awhile remained the tyrant wood, His native wrath he gan a space withhold, And said, "That thou discover soon I will, What aid? what counsel had'st thou in that ill?" XXIII "My lofty thoughts," she answered him, "envied Another's hand should work my high desire, The thirst of glory can no partner bide, With mine own self I did alone conspire." "On thee alone," the tyrant then replied, "Shall fall the vengeance of my wrath and ire." "'Tis just and right," quoth she, "I yield consent, Mine be the honor, mine the punishment." XXIV The wretch of new enraged at the same, Asked where she hid the image so conveyed: "Not hid," quoth she, "but quite consumed with flame, The idol is of that eternal maid, For so at least I have preserved the same, With hands profane from being eft betrayed. My Lord, the thing thus stolen demand no more, Here see the thief that scorneth death therefor. XXV "And yet no theft was this, yours was the sin, I brought again what you unjustly took." This heard, the tyrant did for rage begin To whet his teeth, and bend his frowning look, No pity, youth; fairness, no grace could win; Joy, comfort, hope, the virgin all forsook; Wrath killed remorse, vengeance stopped mercy's breath Love's thrall to hate, and beauty's slave to death. XXVI Ta'en was the damsel, and without remorse, The king condemned her guiltless to the fire, Her veil and mantle plucked they off by force, And bound her tender arms in twisted wire: Dumb was the silver dove, while from her corse These hungry kites plucked off her rich attire, And for some deal perplexed was her sprite, Her damask late, now changed to purest white. XXVII The news of this mishap spread far and near, The people ran, both young and old, to gaze; Olindo also ran, and gan to fear His lady was some partner in this case; But when he found her bound, stript from her gear, And vile tormentors ready saw in place, He broke the throng, and into presence brast; And thus bespake the king in rage and haste: XXXVIII "Not so, not so this grief shall bear away From me the honor of so noble feat, She durst not, did not, could not so convey The massy substance of that idol great, What sleight had she the wardens to betray? What strength to heave the goddess from her seat? No, no, my Lord, she sails but with my wind." Ah, thus he loved, yet was his love unkind! XXIX He added further: "Where the shining glass, Lets in the light amid your temple's side, By broken by-ways did I inward pass, And in that window made a postern wide, Nor shall therefore this ill-advised lass Usurp the glory should this fact betide, Mine be these bonds, mine be these flames so pure, O glorious death, more glorious sepulture!" XXX Sophronia raised her modest looks from ground, And on her lover bent her eyesight mild, "Tell me, what fury? what conceit unsound Presenteth here to death so sweet a child? Is not in me sufficient courage found, To bear the anger of this tyrant wild? Or hath fond love thy heart so over-gone? Wouldst thou not live, nor let me die alone?" XXXI Thus spake the nymph, yet spake but to the wind, She could not alter his well-settled thought; O miracle! O strife of wondrous kind! Where love and virtue such contention wrought, Where death the victor had for meed assigned; Their own neglect, each other's safety sought; But thus the king was more provoked to ire, Their strife for bellows served to anger's fire. XXXII He thinks, such thoughts self-guiltiness finds out, They scorned his power, and therefore scorned the pain, "Nay, nay," quoth he, "let be your strife and doubt, You both shall win, and fit reward obtain." With that the sergeants hent the young man stout, And bound him likewise in a worthless chain; Then back to back fast to a stake both ties, Two harmless turtles dight for sacrifice. XXXIII About the pile of fagots, sticks and hay, The bellows raised the newly-kindled flame, When thus Olindo, in a doleful lay, Begun too late his bootless plaints to frame: "Be these the bonds? Is this the hoped-for day, Should join me to this long-desired dame? Is this the fire alike should burn our hearts? Ah, hard reward for lovers' kind desarts! XXXIV "Far other flames and bonds kind lovers prove, But thus our fortune casts the hapless die, Death hath exchanged again his shafts with love, And Cupid thus lets borrowed arrows fly. O Hymen, say, what fury doth thee move To lend thy lamps to light a tragedy? Yet this contents me that I die for thee, Thy flames, not mine, my death and torment be. XXXV "Yet happy were my death, mine ending blest, My torments easy, full of sweet delight, It this I could obtain, that breast to breast Thy bosom might receive my yielded sprite; And thine with it in heaven's pure clothing drest, Through clearest skies might take united flight." Thus he complained, whom gently she reproved, And sweetly spake him thus, that so her loved: XXXVI "Far other plaints, dear friend, tears and laments The time, the place, and our estates require; Think on thy sins, which man's old foe presents Before that judge that quits each soul his hire, For his name suffer, for no pain torments Him whose just prayers to his throne aspire: Behold the heavens, thither thine eyesight bend, Thy looks, sighs, tears, for intercessors send." XXXVII The Pagans loud cried out to God and man, The Christians mourned in silent lamentation, The tyrant's self, a thing unused, began To feel his heart relent, with mere compassion, But not disposed to ruth or mercy than He sped him thence home to his habitation: Sophronia stood not grieved nor discontented, By all that saw her, but herself, lamented. XXXVIII The lovers standing in this doleful wise, A warrior bold unwares approached near, In uncouth arms yclad and strange disguise, From countries far, but new arrived there, A savage tigress on her helmet lies, The famous badge Clorinda used to bear; That wonts in every warlike stowre to win, By which bright sign well known was that fair inn. XXXIX She scorned the arts these silly women use, Another thought her nobler humor fed, Her lofty hand would of itself refuse To touch the dainty needle or nice thread, She hated chambers, closets, secret news, And in broad fields preserved her maidenhead: Proud were her looks, yet sweet, though stern and stout, Her dam a dove, thus brought an eagle out. XL While she was young, she used with tender hand The foaming steed with froary bit to steer, To tilt and tourney, wrestle in the sand, To leave with speed Atlanta swift arear, Through forests wild, and unfrequented land To chase the lion, boar, or rugged bear, The satyrs rough, the fauns and fairies wild, She chased oft, oft took, and oft beguiled. XLI This lusty lady came from Persia late, She with the Christians had encountered eft, And in their flesh had opened many a gate, By which their faithful souls their bodies left, Her eye at first presented her the state Of these poor souls, of hope and help bereft, Greedy to know, as is the mind of man, Their cause of death, swift to the fire she ran. XLII The people made her room, and on them twain Her piercing eyes their fiery weapons dart, Silent she saw the one, the other 'plain, The weaker body lodged the nobler heart: Yet him she saw lament, as if his pain Were grief and sorrow for another's smart, And her keep silence so, as if her eyes Dumb orators were to entreat the skies. XLIII Clorinda changed to ruth her warlike mood, Few silver drops her vermeil cheeks depaint; Her sorrow was for her that speechless stood, Her silence more prevailed than his complaint. She asked an aged man, seemed grave and good, "Come say me, sir," quoth she, "what hard constraint Would murder here love's queen and beauty's king? What fault or fare doth to this death them bring?" XLIV Thus she inquired, and answer short he gave, But such as all the chance at large disclosed, She wondered at the case, the virgin brave, That both were guiltless of the fault supposed, Her noble thought cast how she might them save, The means on suit or battle she reposed. Quick to the fire she ran, and quenched it out, And thus bespake the sergeants and the rout: XLV "Be there not one among you all that dare In this your hateful office aught proceed, Till I return from court, nor take you care To reap displeasure for not making speed." To do her will the men themselves prepare, In their faint hearts her looks such terror breed; To court she went, their pardon would she get, But on the way the courteous king she met. XLVI "Sir King," quoth she, "my name Clorinda hight, My fame perchance has pierced your ears ere now, I come to try my wonted power and might, And will defend this land, this town, and you, All hard assays esteem I eath and light, Great acts I reach to, to small things I bow, To fight in field, or to defend this wall, Point what you list, I naught refuse at all." XLVII To whom the king, "What land so far remote From Asia's coasts, or Phoebus' glistering rays, O glorious virgin, that recordeth not Thy fame, thine honor, worth, renown, and praise? Since on my side I have thy succors got, I need not fear in these my aged days, For in thine aid more hope, more trust I have, Than in whole armies of these soldiers brave. XLVIII "Now, Godfrey stays too long; he fears, I ween; Thy courage great keeps all our foes in awe; For thee all actions far unworthy been, But such as greatest danger with them draw: Be you commandress therefore, Princess, Queen Of all our forces: be thy word a law." This said, the virgin gan her beaver vail, And thanked him first, and thus began her tale. XLIX "A thing unused, great monarch, may it seem, To ask reward for service yet to come; But so your virtuous bounty I esteem, That I presume for to intreat this groom And silly maid from danger to redeem, Condemned to burn by your unpartial doom, I not excuse, but pity much their youth, And come to you for mercy and for ruth. L "Yet give me leave to tell your Highness this, You blame the Christians, them my thoughts acquite, Nor be displeased, I say you judge amiss, At every shot look not to hit the white, All what the enchanter did persuade you, is Against the lore of Macon's sacred rite, For us commandeth mighty Mahomet No idols in his temple pure to set. LI "To him therefore this wonder done refar, Give him the praise and honor of the thing, Of us the gods benign so careful are Lest customs strange into their church we bring: Let Ismen with his squares and trigons war, His weapons be the staff, the glass, the ring; But let us manage war with blows like knights, Our praise in arms, our honor lies in fights." LII The virgin held her peace when this was said; And though to pity he never framed his thought, Yet, for the king admired the noble maid, His purpose was not to deny her aught: "I grant them life," quoth he, "your promised aid Against these Frenchmen hath their pardon bought: Nor further seek what their offences be, Guiltless, I quit; guilty, I set them free." LIII Thus were they loosed, happiest of humankind, Olindo, blessed be this act of thine, True witness of thy great and heavenly mind, Where sun, moon, stars, of love, faith, virtue, shine. So forth they went and left pale death behind, To joy the bliss of marriage rites divine, With her he would have died, with him content Was she to live that would with her have brent. LIV The king, as wicked thoughts are most suspicious, Supposed too fast this tree of virtue grew, O blessed Lord! why should this Pharaoh vicious, Thus tyrannize upon thy Hebrews true? Who to perform his will, vile and malicious, Exiled these, and all the faithful crew, All that were strong of body, stout of mind, But kept their wives and children pledge behind. LV A hard division, when the harmless sheep Must leave their lambs to hungry wolves in charge, But labor's virtues watching, ease her sleep, Trouble best wind that drives salvation's barge, The Christians fled, whither they took no keep, Some strayed wild among the forests large, Some to Emmaus to the Christian host, And conquer would again their houses lost. LVI Emmaus is a city small, that lies From Sion's walls distant a little way, A man that early on the morn doth rise, May thither walk ere third hour of the day. Oh, when the Christian lord this town espies How merry were their hearts? How fresh? How gay? But for the sun inclined fast to west, That night there would their chieftain take his rest. LVII Their canvas castles up they quickly rear, And build a city in an hour's space. When lo, disguised in unusual gear, Two barons bold approachen gan the place; Their semblance kind, and mild their gestures were, Peace in their hands, and friendship in their face, From Egypt's king ambassadors they come, Them many a squire attends, and many a groom. LVIII The first Aletes, born in lowly shed, Of parents base, a rose sprung from a brier, That now his branches over Egypt spread, No plant in Pharaoh's garden prospered higher; With pleasing tales his lord's vain ears he fed, A flatterer, a pick-thank, and a liar: Cursed be estate got with so many a crime, Yet this is oft the stair by which men climb. LIX Argantes called is that other knight, A stranger came he late to Egypt land, And there advanced was to honor's height, For he was stout of courage, strong of hand, Bold was his heart, and restless was his sprite, Fierce, stern, outrageous, keen as sharpened brand, Scorner of God, scant to himself a friend, And pricked his reason on his weapon's end. LX These two entreatance made they might be heard, Nor was their just petition long denied; The gallants quickly made their court of guard, And brought them in where sate their famous guide, Whose kingly look his princely mind declared, Where noblesse, virtue, troth, and valor bide. A slender courtesy made Argantes bold, So as one prince salute another wold; LXI Aletes laid his right hand on his heart, Bent down his head, and cast his eyes full low, And reverence made with courtly grace and art, For all that humble lore to him was know; His sober lips then did he softly part, Whence of pure rhetoric, whole streams outflow, And thus he said, while on the Christian lords Down fell the mildew of his sugared words: LXII "O only worthy, whom the earth all fears, High God defend thee with his heavenly shield, And humble so the hearts of all thy peers, That their stiff necks to thy sweet yoke may yield: These be the sheaves that honor's harvest bears, The seed thy valiant acts, the world the field, Egypt the headland is, where heaped lies Thy fame, worth, justice, wisdom, victories. LXIII "These altogether doth our sovereign hide In secret store-house of his princely thought, And prays he may in long accordance bide, With that great worthy which such wonders wrought, Nor that oppose against the coming tide Of proffered love, for that he is not taught Your Christian faith, for though of divers kind, The loving vine about her elm is twined. LXIV "Receive therefore in that unconquered hand The precious handle of this cup of love, If not religion, virtue be the band 'Twixt you to fasten friendship not to move: But for our mighty king doth understand, You mean your power 'gainst Juda land to prove, He would, before this threatened tempest fell, I should his mind and princely will first tell. LXV "His mind is this, he prays thee be contented To joy in peace the conquests thou hast got, Be not thy death, or Sion's fall lamented, Forbear this land, Judea trouble not, Things done in haste at leisure be repented: Withdraw thine arms, trust not uncertain lot, For oft to see what least we think betide; He is thy friend 'gainst all the world beside. LXVI "True labour in the vineyard of thy Lord, Ere prime thou hast the imposed day-work done, What armies conquered, perished with thy sword? What cities sacked? what kingdoms hast thou won? All ears are mazed while tongues thine acts record, Hands quake for fear, all feet for dread do run, And though no realms you may to thraldom bring, No higher can your praise, your glory spring. LXVII "Thy sign is in his Apogaeon placed, And when it moveth next, must needs descend, Chance in uncertain, fortune double faced, Smiling at first, she frowneth in the end: Beware thine honor be not then disgraced, Take heed thou mar not when thou think'st to mend, For this the folly is of Fortune's play, 'Gainst doubtful, certain; much, 'gainst small to lay. LXVIII "Yet still we sail while prosperous blows the wind, Till on some secret rock unwares we light, The sea of glory hath no banks assigned, They who are wont to win in every fight Still feed the fire that so inflames thy mind To bring more nations subject to thy might; This makes thee blessed peace so light to hold, Like summer's flies that fear not winter's cold. LXIX "They bid thee follow on the path, now made So plain and easy, enter Fortune's gate, Nor in thy scabbard sheathe that famous blade, Till settled by thy kingdom, and estate, Till Macon's sacred doctrine fall and fade, Till woeful Asia all lie desolate. Sweet words I grant, baits and allurements sweet, But greatest hopes oft greatest crosses meet. LXX "For, if thy courage do not blind thine eyes, If clouds of fury hide not reason's beams, Then may'st thou see this desperate enterprise. The field of death, watered with danger's streams; High state, the bed is where misfortune lies, Mars most unfriendly, when most kind he seems, Who climbeth high, on earth he hardest lights, And lowest falls attend the highest flights. LXXI "Tell me if, great in counsel, arms and gold, The Prince of Egypt war 'gainst you prepare, What if the valiant Turks and Persians bold, Unite their forces with Cassanoe's heir? Oh then, what marble pillar shall uphold The falling trophies of your conquest fair? Trust you the monarch of the Greekish land? That reed will break; and breaking, wound your hand. LXXII "The Greekish faith is like that half-cut tree By which men take wild elephants in Inde, A thousand times it hath beguiled thee, As firm as waves in seas, or leaves in wind. Will they, who erst denied you passage free, Passage to all men free, by use and kind, Fight for your sake? Or on them do you trust To spend their blood, that could scarce spare their dust? LXXIII "But all your hope and trust perchance is laid In these strong troops, which thee environ round; Yet foes unite are not so soon dismayed As when their strength you erst divided found: Besides, each hour thy bands are weaker made With hunger, slaughter, lodging on cold ground, Meanwhile the Turks seek succors from our king, Thus fade thy helps, and thus thy cumbers spring. LXXIV "Suppose no weapon can thy valor's pride Subdue, that by no force thou may'st be won, Admit no steel can hurt or wound thy side, And be it Heaven hath thee such favor done: 'Gainst Famine yet what shield canst thou provide? What strength resist? What sleight her wrath can shun? Go, shake the spear, and draw thy flaming blade, And try if hunger so be weaker made. LXXV "The inhabitants each pasture and each plain Destroyed have, each field to waste is laid, In fenced towers bestowed is their grain Before thou cam'st this kingdom to invade, These horse and foot, how canst them sustain? Whence comes thy store? whence thy provision made? Thy ships to bring it are, perchance, assigned, Oh, that you live so long as please the wind! LXXVI "Perhaps thy fortune doth control the wind, Doth loose or bind their blasts in secret cave, The sea, pardie, cruel and deaf by kind, Will hear thy call, and still her raging wave: But if our armed galleys be assigned To aid those ships which Turks and Persians have, Say then, what hope is left thy slender fleet? Dare flocks of crows, a flight of eagles meet? LXXVII "My lord, a double conquest must you make, If you achieve renown by this emprize: For if our fleet your navy chase or take, For want of victuals all your camp then dies; Of if by land the field you once forsake, Then vain by sea were hope of victories. Nor could your ships restore your lost estate: For steed once stolen, we shut the door too late. LXXVIII "In this estate, if thou esteemest light The proffered kindness of the Egyptian king, Then give me leave to say, this oversight Beseems thee not, in whom such virtues spring: But heavens vouchsafe to guide my mind aright, To gentle thoughts, that peace and quiet bring, So that poor Asia her complaints may cease, And you enjoy your conquests got, in peace. LXXIX "Nor ye that part in these adventures have, Part in his glory, partners in his harms, Let not blind Fortune so your minds deceive, To stir him more to try these fierce alarms, But like the sailor 'scaped from the wave From further peril that his person arms By staying safe at home, so stay you all, Better sit still, men say, than rise to fall." LXXX This said Aletes: and a murmur rose That showed dislike among the Christian peers, Their angry gestures with mislike disclose How much his speech offends their noble ears. Lord Godfrey's eye three times environ goes, To view what countenance every warrior bears, And lastly on the Egyptian baron stayed, To whom the duke thus for his answer said: LXXXI "Ambassador, full both of threats and praise, Thy doubtful message hast thou wisely told, And if thy sovereign love us as he says, Tell him he sows to reap an hundred fold, But where thy talk the coming storm displays Of threatened warfare from the Pagans bold: To that I answer, as my cousin is, In plainest phrase, lest my intent thou miss. LXXXII "Know, that till now we suffered have much pain, By lands and seas, where storms and tempests fall, To make the passage easy, safe, and plain That leads us to this venerable wall, That so we might reward from Heaven obtain, And free this town from being longer thrall; Nor is it grievous to so good an end Our honors, kingdoms, lives and goods to spend. LXXXIII "Nor hope of praise, nor thirst of worldly good, Enticed us to follow this emprise, The Heavenly Father keep his sacred brood From foul infection of so great a vice: But by our zeal aye be that plague withstood, Let not those pleasures us to sin entice. His grace, his mercy, and his powerful hand Will keep us safe from hurt by sea and land. LXXXIV "This is the spur that makes our coursers run; This is our harbor, safe from danger's floods; This is our bield, the blustering winds to shun: This is our guide, through forests, deserts, woods; This is our summer's shade, our winter's sun: This is our wealth, our treasure, and our goods: This is our engine, towers that overthrows, Our spear that hurts, our sword that wounds our foes. LXXXV "Our courage hence, our hope, our valor springs, Not from the trust we have in shield or spear, Not from the succors France or Grecia brings, On such weak posts we list no buildings rear: He can defend us from the power of kings, From chance of war, that makes weak hearts to fear; He can these hungry troops with manna feed, And make the seas land, if we passage need. LXXXVI "But if our sins us of his help deprive, Of his high justice let no mercy fall; Yet should our deaths us some contentment give, To die, where Christ received his burial, So might we die, not envying them that live; So would we die, not unrevenged all: Nor Turks, nor Christians, if we perish such, Have cause to joy, or to complain too much. LXXXVII "Think not that wars we love, and strife affect, Or that we hate sweet peace, or rest denay, Think not your sovereign's friendship we reject, Because we list not in our conquests stay: But for it seems he would the Jews protect, Pray him from us that thought aside to lay, Nor us forbid this town and realm to gain, And he in peace, rest, joy, long more may reign." LXXXVIII This answer given, Argantes wild drew nar, Trembling for ire, and waxing pale for rage, Nor could he hold, his wrath increased so far, But thus inflamed bespake the captain sage: "Who scorneth peace shall have his fill of war, I thought my wisdom should thy fury 'suage, But well you show what joy you take in fight, Which makes you prize our love and friendship light." LXXXIX This said, he took his mantle's foremost part, And gan the same together fold and wrap; Then spake again with fell and spiteful heart, So lions roar enclosed in train or trap, "Thou proud despiser of inconstant mart, I bring thee war and peace closed in this lap, Take quickly one, thou hast no time to muse; If peace, we rest, we fight, if war thou choose." XC His semblance fierce and speechless proud, provoke The soldiers all, "War, war," at once to cry, Nor could they tarry till their chieftain spoke, But for the knight was more inflamed hereby, His lap he opened and spread forth his cloak: "To mortal wars," he says, "I you defy;" And this he uttered with fell rage and hate, And seemed of Janus' church to undo the gate. XCI It seemed fury, discord, madness fell Flew from his lap, when he unfolds the same; His glaring eyes with anger's venom swell, And like the brand of foul Alecto flame, He looked like huge Tiphoius loosed from hell Again to shake heaven's everlasting frame, Or him that built the tower of Shinaar, Which threat'neth battle 'gainst the morning star. XCII Godfredo then: "Depart, and bid your king Haste hitherward, or else within short while,-- For gladly we accept the war you bring,-- Let him expect us on the banks of Nile." He entertained them then with banqueting, And gifts presented to those Pagans vile; Aletes had a helmet, rich and gay, Late found at Nice among the conquered prey. XCIII Argant a sword, whereof the web was steel, Pommel, rich stone; hilt gold; approved by touch With rarest workmanship all forged weel, The curious art excelled the substance much: Thus fair, rich, sharp, to see, to have, to feel, Glad was the Paynim to enjoy it such, And said, "How I this gift can use and wield, Soon shall you see, when first we meet in field." XCIV Thus took they congee, and the angry knight Thus to his fellow parleyed on the way, "Go thou by day, but let me walk by night, Go thou to Egypt, I at Sion stay, The answer given thou canst unfold aright, No need of me, what I can do or say, Among these arms I will go wreak my spite; Let Paris court it, Hector loved to fight." XCV Thus he who late arrived a messenger Departs a foe, in act, in word, in thought, The law of nations or the lore of war, If he transgresses or no, he recketh naught, Thus parted they, and ere he wandered far The friendly star-light to the walls him brought: Yet his fell heart thought long that little way, Grieved with each stop, tormented with each stay. XCVI Now spread the night her spangled canopy, And summoned every restless eye to sleep; On beds of tender grass the beasts down lie, The fishes slumbered in the silent deep, Unheard were serpent's hiss and dragon's cry, Birds left to sing, and Philomen to weep, Only that noise heaven's rolling circles kest, Sung lullaby to bring the world to rest. XCVII Yet neither sleep, nor ease, nor shadows dark, Could make the faithful camp or captain rest, They longed to see the day, to hear the lark Record her hymns and chant her carols blest, They yearned to view the walls, the wished mark To which their journeys long they had addressed; Each heart attends, each longing eye beholds What beam the eastern window first unfolds. THIRD BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The camp at great Jerusalem arrives: Clorinda gives them battle, in the breast Of fair Erminia Tancred's love revives, He jousts with her unknown whom he loved best; Argant th' adventurers of their guide deprives, With stately pomp they lay their Lord in chest: Godfrey commands to cut the forest down, And make strong engines to assault the town. I The purple morning left her crimson bed, And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue, Her amber locks she crowned with roses red, In Eden's flowery gardens gathered new. When through the camp a murmur shrill was spread, Arm, arm, they cried; arm, arm, the trumpets blew, Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast, So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast. II Their captain rules their courage, guides their heat, Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein; And yet more easy, haply, were the feat To stop the current near Charybdis main, Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great, Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain; He rules them yet, and ranks them in their haste, For well he knows disordered speed makes waste. III Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings were dight, Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired thereby, For willing minds make heaviest burdens light. But when the gliding sun was mounted high, Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight, Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy, Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet. IV As when a troop of jolly sailors row Some new-found land and country to descry, Through dangerous seas and under stars unknowe, Thrall to the faithless waves, and trothless sky, If once the wished shore begun to show, They all salute it with a joyful cry, And each to other show the land in haste, Forgetting quite their pains and perils past. V To that delight which their first sight did breed, That pleased so the secret of their thought A deep repentance did forthwith succeed That reverend fear and trembling with it brought, Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispreed Upon that town where Christ was sold and bought, Where for our sins he faultless suffered pain, There where he died and where he lived again. VI Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, salt tears Rose from their hearts, with joy and pleasure mixed; For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears, Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixed: Such noise their passions make, as when one hears The hoarse sea waves roar, hollow rocks betwixt; Or as the wind in holts and shady greaves, A murmur makes among the boughs and leaves. VII Their naked feet trod on the dusty way, Following the ensample of their zealous guide, Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes and feathers gay, They quickly doffed, and willing laid aside, Their molten hearts their wonted pride allay, Along their watery cheeks warm tears down slide, And then such secret speech as this, they used, While to himself each one himself accused. VIII "Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss, Thou well of life, whose streams were purple blood That flowed here, to cleanse the soul amiss Of sinful men, behold this brutish flood, That from my melting heart distilled is, Receive in gree these tears, O Lord so good, For never wretch with sin so overgone Had fitter time or greater cause to moan." IX This while the wary watchman looked over, From tops of Sion's towers, the hills and dales, And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover, As when thick mists arise from moory vales. At last the sun-bright shields he gan discover, And glistering helms for violence none that fails, The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, And man and horse amid the dust descries. X Then loud he cries, "O what a dust ariseth! O how it shines with shields and targets clear! Up, up, to arms, for valiant heart despiseth The threatened storm of death and danger near. Behold your foes;" then further thus deviseth, "Haste, haste, for vain delay increaseth fear, These horrid clouds of dust that yonder fly, Your coming foes does hide, and hide the sky." XI The tender children, and the fathers old, The aged matrons, and the virgin chaste, That durst not shake the spear, nor target hold, Themselves devoutly in their temples placed; The rest, of members strong and courage bold, On hardy breasts their harness donned in haste, Some to the walls, some to the gates them dight, Their king meanwhile directs them all aright. XII All things well ordered, he withdrew with speed Up to a turret high, two ports between, That so he might be near at every need, And overlook the lands and furrows green. Thither he did the sweet Erminia lead, That in his court had entertained been Since Christians Antioch did to bondage bring, And slew her father, who thereof was king. XIII Against their foes Clorinda sallied out, And many a baron bold was by her side, Within the postern stood Argantes stout To rescue her, if ill mote her betide: With speeches brave she cheered her warlike rout, And with bold words them heartened as they ride, "Let us by some brave act," quoth she, "this day Of Asia's hopes the groundwork found and lay." XIV While to her folk thus spake the virgin brave, Thereby behold forth passed a Christian band Toward the camp, that herds of cattle drave, For they that morn had forayed all the land; The fierce virago would that booty save, Whom their commander singled hand for hand, A mighty man at arms, who Guardo hight, But far too weak to match with her in fight. XV They met, and low in dust was Guardo laid, 'Twixt either army, from his sell down kest, The Pagans shout for joy, and hopeful said, Those good beginnings would have endings blest: Against the rest on went the noble maid, She broke the helm, and pierced the armed breast, Her men the paths rode through made by her sword, They pass the stream where she had found the ford. XVI Soon was the prey out of their hands recovered, By step and step the Frenchmen gan retire, Till on a little hill at last they hovered, Whose strength preserved them from Clorinda's ire: When, as a tempest that hath long been covered In watery clouds breaks out with sparkling fire, With his strong squadron Lord Tancredi came, His heart with rage, his eyes with courage flame. XVII Mast great the spear was which the gallant bore That in his warlike pride he made to shake, As winds tall cedars toss on mountains hoar: The king, that wondered at his bravery, spake To her, that near him seated was before, Who felt her heart with love's hot fever quake, "Well shouldst thou know," quoth he, "each Christian knight, By long acquaintance, though in armor dight. XVIII "Say, who is he shows so great worthiness, That rides so rank, and bends his lance so fell?" To this the princess said nor more nor less, Her heart with sighs, her eyes with tears, did swell; But sighs and tears she wisely could suppress, Her love and passion she dissembled well, And strove her love and hot desire to cover, Till heart with sighs, and eyes with tears ran over: XIX At last she spoke, and with a crafty sleight Her secret love disguised in clothes of hate: "Alas, too well," she says, "I know that knight, I saw his force and courage proved late, Too late I viewed him, when his power and might Shook down the pillar of Cassanoe's state; Alas what wounds he gives! how fierce, how fell! No physic helps them cure, nor magic's spell. XX "Tancred he hight, O Macon, would he wear My thrall, ere fates him of this life deprive, For to his hateful head such spite I bear, I would him reave his cruel heart on live." Thus said she, they that her complainings hear In other sense her wishes credit give. She sighed withal, they construed all amiss, And thought she wished to kill, who longed to kiss. XXI This while forth pricked Clorinda from the throng And 'gainst Tancredi set her spear in rest, Upon their helms they cracked their lances long, And from her head her gilden casque he kest, For every lace he broke and every thong, And in the dust threw down her plumed crest, About her shoulders shone her golden locks, Like sunny beams, on alabaster rocks. XXII Her looks with fire, her eyes with lightning blaze, Sweet was her wrath, what then would be her smile? Tancred, whereon think'st thou? what dost thou gaze? Hast thou forgot her in so short a while? The same is she, the shape of whose sweet face The God of Love did in thy heart compile, The same that left thee by the cooling stream, Safe from sun's heat, but scorched with beauty's beam. XXIII The prince well knew her, though her painted shield And golden helm he had not marked before, She saved her head, and with her axe well steeled Assailed the knight; but her the knight forbore, 'Gainst other foes he proved him through the field, Yet she for that refrained ne'er the more, But following, "Turn thee," cried, in ireful wise; And so at once she threats to kill him twice. XXIV Not once the baron lifts his armed hand To strike the maid, but gazing on her eyes, Where lordly Cupid seemed in arms to stand, No way to ward or shun her blows he tries; But softly says, "No stroke of thy strong hand Can vanquish Tancred, but thy conquest lies In those fair eyes, which fiery weapons dart, That find no lighting place except this heart." XXV At last resolved, although he hoped small grace, Yet ere he did to tell how much he loved, For pleasing words in women's ears find place, And gentle hearts with humble suits are moved: "O thou," quoth he, "withhold thy wrath a space, For if thou long to see my valor proved, Were it not better from this warlike rout Withdrawn, somewhere, alone to fight it out? XXVI "So singled, may we both our courage try:" Clorinda to that motion yielded glad, And helmless to the forestward gan hie, Whither the prince right pensive wend and sad, And there the virgin gan him soon defy. One blow she strucken, and he warded had, When he cried, "Hold, and ere we prove our might, First hear thou some conditions of the fight." XXVII She stayed, and desperate love had made him bold; "Since from the fight thou wilt no respite give, The covenants be," he said, "that thou unfold This wretched bosom, and my heart out rive, Given thee long since, and if thou, cruel, would I should be dead, let me no longer live, But pierce this breast, that all the world may say, The eagle made the turtle-dove her prey. XXVIII "Save with thy grace, or let thine anger kill, Love hath disarmed my life of all defence; An easy labor harmless blood to spill, Strike then, and punish where is none offence." This said the prince, and more perchance had will To have declared, to move her cruel sense. But in ill time of Pagans thither came A troop, and Christians that pursued the same. XXIX The Pagans fled before their valiant foes, For dread or craft, it skills not that we know, A soldier wild, careless to win or lose, Saw where her locks about the damsel flew, And at her back he proffereth as he goes To strike where her he did disarmed view: But Tancred cried, "Oh stay thy cursed hand," And for to ward the blow lift up his brand. XXX But yet the cutting steel arrived there, Where her fair neck adjoined her noble head, Light was the wound, but through her amber hair The purple drops down railed bloody red, So rubies set in flaming gold appear: But Lord Tancredi, pale with rage as lead, Flew on the villain, who to flight him bound; The smart was his, though she received the wound. XXXI The villain flies, he, full of rage and ire, Pursues, she stood and wondered on them both, But yet to follow them showed no desire, To stray so far she would perchance be loth, But quickly turned her, fierce as flaming fire, And on her foes wreaked her anger wroth, On every side she kills them down amain, And now she flies, and now she turns again. XXXII As the swift ure by Volga's rolling flood Chased through the plains the mastiff curs toforn, Flies to the succor of some neighbor wood, And often turns again his dreadful horn Against the dogs imbrued in sweat and blood, That bite not, till the beast to flight return; Or as the Moors at their strange tennice run, Defenced, the flying balls unhurt to shun: XXXIII So ran Clorinda, so her foes pursued, Until they both approached the city's wall, When lo! the Pagans their fierce wrath renewed, Cast in a ring about they wheeled all, And 'gainst the Christians' backs and sides they showed Their courage fierce, and to new combat fall, When down the hill Argantes came to fight, Like angry Mars to aid the Trojan knight. XXXIV Furious, tofore the foremost of his rank, In sturdy steel forth stept the warrior bold, The first he smote down from his saddle sank, The next under his steel lay on the mould, Under the Saracen's spear the worthies shrank, No breastplate could that cursed tree outhold, When that was broke his precious sword he drew, And whom he hit, he felled, hurt, or slew. XXXV Clorinda slew Ardelio; aged knight, Whose graver years would for no labor yield, His age was full of puissance and might Two sons he had to guard his noble eild, The first, far from his father's care and sight, Called Alicandro wounded lay in field, And Poliphern the younger, by his side, Had he not nobly fought had surely died. XXXVI Tancred by this, that strove to overtake The villain that had hurt his only dear, From vain pursuit at last returned back, And his brave troop discomfit saw well near, Thither he spurred, and gan huge slaughter make, His shock no steed, his blow no knight could bear, For dead he strikes him whom he lights upon, So thunders break high trees on Lebanon. XXXVII Dudon his squadron of adventurers brings, To aid the worthy and his tired crew, Before the residue young Rinaldo flings As swift as fiery lightning kindled new, His argent eagle with her silver wings In field of azure, fair Erminia knew, "See there, sir King," she says, "a knight as bold And brave, as was the son of Peleus old. XXXVIII "He wins the prize in joust and tournament, His acts are numberless, though few his years, If Europe six likes him to war had sent Among these thousand strong of Christian peers, Syria were lost, lost were the Orient, And all the lands the Southern Ocean wears, Conquered were all hot Afric's tawny kings, And all that dwells by Nilus' unknown springs. XXXIX "Rinaldo is his name, his armed fist Breaks down stone walls, when rams and engines fail, But turn your eyes because I would you wist What lord that is in green and golden mail, Dudon he hight who guideth as him list The adventurers' troop whose prowess seld doth fail, High birth, grave years, and practise long in war, And fearless heart, make him renowned far. XL "See that big man that all in brown is bound, Gernando called, the King of Norway's son, A prouder knight treads not on grass or ground, His pride hath lost the praise his prowess won; And that kind pair in white all armed round, Is Edward and Gildippes, who begun Through love the hazard of fierce war to prove, Famous for arms, but famous more for love." XLI While thus they tell their foemen's worthiness, The slaughter rageth in the plain at large. Tancred and young Rinaldo break the press, They bruise the helm, and press the sevenfold targe; The troop by Dudon led performed no less, But in they come and give a furious charge: Argantes' self fell at one single blow, Inglorious, bleeding lay, on earth full low: XLII Nor had the boaster ever risen more, But that Rinaldo's horse e'en then down fell, And with the fall his leg opprest so sore, That for a space there must be algates dwell. Meanwhile the Pagan troops were nigh forlore, Swiftly they fled, glad they escaped so well, Argantes and with him Clorinda stout, For bank and bulwark served to save the rout. XLIII These fled the last, and with their force sustained The Christians' rage, that followed them so near; Their scattered troops to safety well they trained, And while the residue fled, the brunt these bear; Dudon pursued the victory he gained, And on Tigranes nobly broke his spear, Then with his sword headless to ground him cast, So gardeners branches lop that spring too fast. XLIV Algazar's breastplate, of fine temper made, Nor Corban's helmet, forged by magic art, Could save their owners, for Lord Dudon's blade Cleft Corban's head, and pierced Algazar's heart, And their proud souls down to the infernal shade, From Amurath and Mahomet depart; Not strong Argantes thought his life was sure, He could not safely fly, nor fight secure. XLV The angry Pagan bit his lips for teen, He ran, he stayed, he fled, he turned again, Until at last unmarked, unviewed, unseen, When Dudon had Almansor newly slain, Within his side he sheathed his weapon keen, Down fell the worthy on the dusty plain, And lifted up his feeble eyes uneath, Opprest with leaden sleep, of iron death. XLVI Three times he strove to view Heaven's golden ray, And raised him on his feeble elbow thrice, And thrice he tumbled on the lowly lay, And three times closed again his dying eyes, He speaks no word, yet makes his signs to pray; He sighs, he faints, he groans, and then he dies; Argantes proud to spoil the corpse disdained, But shook his sword with blood of Dudon stained. XLVII And turning to the Christian knights, he cried: "Lordlings, behold, this bloody reeking blade Last night was given me by your noble guide, Tell him what proof thereof this day is made, Needs must this please him well that is betide, That I so well can use this martial trade, To whom so rare a gift he did present, Tell him the workman fits the instrument. XLVIII "If further proof thereof he long to see, Say it still thirsts, and would his heart-blood drink; And if he haste not to encounter me, Say I will find him when he least doth think." The Christians at his words enraged be, But he to shun their ire doth safely shrink Under the shelter of the neighbor wall, Well guarded with his troops and soldiers all. XLIX Like storms of hail the stones fell down from high, Cast from their bulwarks, flankers, ports and towers, The shafts and quarries from their engines fly, As thick as falling drops in April showers: The French withdrew, they list not press too nigh, The Saracens escaped all the powers, But now Rinaldo from the earth upleapt, Where by the leg his steed had long him kept; L He came and breathed vengeance from his breast 'Gainst him that noble Dudon late had slain; And being come thus spoke he to the rest, "Warriors, why stand you gazing here in vain? Pale death our valiant leader had opprest, Come wreak his loss, whom bootless you complain. Those walls are weak, they keep but cowards out No rampier can withstand a courage stout. LI "Of double iron, brass or adamant, Or if this wall were built of flaming fire, Yet should the Pagan vile a fortress want To shroud his coward head safe from mine ire; Come follow then, and bid base fear avaunt, The harder work deserves the greater hire;" And with that word close to the walls he starts, Nor fears he arrows, quarries, stones or darts. LII Above the waves as Neptune lift his eyes To chide the winds, that Trojan ships opprest, And with his countenance calmed seas, winds and skies; So looked Rinaldo, when he shook his crest Before those walls, each Pagan fears and flies His dreadful sight, or trembling stayed at least: Such dread his awful visage on them cast. So seem poor doves at goshawks' sight aghast. LIII The herald Ligiere now from Godfrey came, To will them stay and calm their courage hot; "Retire," quoth he, "Godfrey commands the same; To wreak your ire this season fitteth not;" Though loth, Rinaldo stayed, and stopped the flame, That boiled in his hardy stomach hot; His bridled fury grew thereby more fell, So rivers, stopped, above their banks do swell. LIV The hands retire, not dangered by their foes In their retreat, so wise were they and wary, To murdered Dudon each lamenting goes, From wonted use of ruth they list not vary. Upon their friendly arms they soft impose The noble burden of his corpse to carry: Meanwhile Godfredo from a mountain great Beheld the sacred city and her seat. LV Hierusalem is seated on two hills Of height unlike, and turned side to side, The space between, a gentle valley fills, From mount to mount expansed fair and wide. Three sides are sure imbarred with crags and hills, The rest is easy, scant to rise espied: But mighty bulwarks fence that plainer part, So art helps nature, nature strengtheneth art. LVI The town is stored of troughs and cisterns, made To keep fresh water, but the country seems Devoid of grass, unfit for ploughmen's trade, Not fertile, moist with rivers, wells and streams; There grow few trees to make the summer's shade, To shield the parched land from scorching beams, Save that a wood stands six miles from the town,' With aged cedars dark, and shadows brown. LVII By east, among the dusty valleys, glide The silver streams of Jordan's crystal flood; By west, the Midland Sea, with bounders tied Of sandy shores, where Joppa whilom stood; By north Samaria stands, and on that side The golden calf was reared in Bethel wood; Bethlem by south, where Christ incarnate was, A pearl in steel, a diamond set in brass. LVIII While thus the Duke on every side descried The city's strength, the walls and gates about, And saw where least the same was fortified, Where weakest seemed the walls to keep him out; Ermina as he armed rode, him spied, And thus bespake the heathen tyrant stout, "See Godfrey there, in purple clad and gold, His stately port, and princely look behold. LIX "Well seems he born to be with honor crowned, So well the lore he knows of regiment, Peerless in fight, in counsel grave and sound, The double gift of glory excellent, Among these armies is no warrior found Graver in speech, bolder in tournament. Raymond pardie in counsel match him might; Tancred and young Rinaldo like in fight." LX To whom the king: "He likes me well therefore, I knew him whilom in the court of France When I from Egypt went ambassador, I saw him there break many a sturdy lance, And yet his chin no sign of manhood bore; His youth was forward, but with governance, His words, his actions, and his portance brave, Of future virtue, timely tokens gave. LXI "Presages, ah too true:" with that a space He sighed for grief, then said, "Fain would I know The man in red, with such a knightly grace, A worthy lord he seemeth by his show, How like to Godfrey looks he in the face, How like in person! but some-deal more low." "Baldwin," quoth she, "that noble baron hight, By birth his brother, and his match in might. LXII "Next look on him that seems for counsel fit, Whose silver locks betray his store of days, Raymond he hight, a man of wondrous wit, Of Toulouse lord, his wisdom is his praise; What he forethinks doth, as he looks for, hit, His stratagems have good success always: With gilded helm beyond him rides the mild And good Prince William, England's king's dear child. LXIII "With him is Guelpho, as his noble mate, In birth, in acts, in arms alike the rest, I know him well, since I beheld him late, By his broad shoulders and his squared breast: But my proud foe that quite hath ruinate My high estate, and Antioch opprest, I see not, Boemond, that to death did bring Mine aged lord, my father, and my king." LXIV Thus talked they; meanwhile Godfredo went Down to the troops that in the valley stayed, And for in vain he thought the labor spent, To assail those parts that to the mountains laid, Against the northern gate his force he bent, Gainst it he camped, gainst it his engines played; All felt the fury of his angry power, That from those gates lies to the corner tower. LXV The town's third part was this, or little less, Fore which the duke his glorious ensigns spread, For so great compass had that forteress, That round it could not be environed With narrow siege--nor Babel's king I guess That whilom took it, such an army led-- But all the ways he kept, by which his foe Might to or from the city come or go. LXVI His care was next to cast the trenches deep, So to preserve his resting camp by night, Lest from the city while his soldiers sleep They might assail them with untimely flight. This done he went where lords and princes weep With dire complaints about the murdered knight, Where Dudon dead lay slaughtered on the ground. And all the soldiers sat lamenting round. LXVII His wailing friends adorned the mournful bier With woful pomp, whereon his corpse they laid, And when they saw the Bulloigne prince draw near, All felt new grief, and each new sorrow made; But he, withouten show or change of cheer, His springing tears within their fountains stayed, His rueful looks upon the corpse he cast Awhile, and thus bespake the same at last; LXVIII "We need not mourn for thee, here laid to rest, Earth is thy bed, and not the grave the skies Are for thy soul the cradle and the nest, There live, for here thy glory never dies: For like a Christian knight and champion blest Thou didst both live and die: now feed thine eyes With thy Redeemer's sight, where crowned with bliss Thy faith, zeal, merit, well-deserving is. LXIX "Our loss, not thine, provokes these plaints and tears: For when we lost thee, then our ship her mast, Our chariot lost her wheels, their points our spears, The bird of conquest her chief feather cast: But though thy death far from our army hears Her chiefest earthly aid, in heaven yet placed Thou wilt procure its help Divine, so reaps He that sows godly sorrow, joy by heaps. LXX "For if our God the Lord Armipotent Those armed angels in our aid down send That were at Dothan to his prophet sent, Thou wilt come down with them, and well defend Our host, and with thy sacred weapons bent Gainst Sion's fort, these gates and bulwarks rend, That so by hand may win this hold, and we May in these temples praise our Christ for thee." LXXI Thus he complained; but now the sable shade Ycleped night, had thick enveloped The sun in veil of double darkness made; Sleep, eased care; rest, brought complaint to bed: All night the wary duke devising laid How that high wall should best be battered, How his strong engines he might aptly frame, And whence get timber fit to build the same. LXXII Up with the lark the sorrowful duke arose, A mourner chief at Dudon's burial, Of cypress sad a pile his friends compose Under a hill o'ergrown with cedars tall, Beside the hearse a fruitful palm-tree grows, Ennobled since by this great funeral, Where Dudon's corpse they softly laid in ground, The priest sung hymns, the soldiers wept around. LXXIII Among the boughs, they here and there bestow Ensigns and arms, as witness of his praise, Which he from Pagan lords, that did them owe, Had won in prosperous fights and happy frays: His shield they fixed on the hole below, And there this distich under-writ, which says, "This palm with stretched arms, doth overspread The champion Dudon's glorious carcase dead." LXXIV This work performed with advisement good, Godfrey his carpenters, and men of skill In all the camp, sent to an aged wood, With convoy meet to guard them safe from ill. Within a valley deep this forest stood, To Christian eyes unseen, unknown, until A Syrian told the duke, who thither sent Those chosen workmen that for timber went. LXXV And now the axe raged in the forest wild, The echo sighed in the groves unseen, The weeping nymphs fled from their bowers exiled, Down fell the shady tops of shaking treen, Down came the sacred palms, the ashes wild, The funeral cypress, holly ever green, The weeping fir, thick beech, and sailing pine, The married elm fell with his fruitful vine. LXXVI The shooter grew, the broad-leaved sycamore, The barren plantain, and the walnut sound, The myrrh, that her foul sin doth still deplore, The alder owner of all waterish ground, Sweet juniper, whose shadow hurteth sore, Proud cedar, oak, the king of forests crowned; Thus fell the trees, with noise the deserts roar; The beasts, their caves, the birds, their nests forlore. FOURTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Satan his fiends and spirits assembleth all, And sends them forth to work the Christians woe, False Hidraort their aid from hell doth call, And sends Armida to entrap his foe: She tells her birth, her fortune, and her fall, Asks aid, allures and wins the worthies so That they consent her enterprise to prove; She wins them with deceit, craft, beauty, love. I While thus their work went on with lucky speed, And reared rams their horned fronts advance, The Ancient Foe to man, and mortal seed, His wannish eyes upon them bent askance; And when he saw their labors well succeed, He wept for rage, and threatened dire mischance. He choked his curses, to himself he spake, Such noise wild bulls that softly bellow make. II At last resolving in his damned thought To find some let to stop their warlike feat, He gave command his princes should be brought Before the throne of his infernal seat. O fool! as if it were a thing of naught God to resist, or change his purpose great, Who on his foes doth thunder in his ire, Whose arrows hailstones he and coals of fire. III The dreary trumpet blew a dreadful blast, And rumbled through the lands and kingdoms under, Through wasteness wide it roared, and hollows vast, And filled the deep with horror, fear and wonder, Not half so dreadful noise the tempests cast, That fall from skies with storms of hail and thunder, Not half so loud the whistling winds do sing, Broke from the earthen prisons of their King. IV The peers of Pluto's realm assembled been Amid the palace of their angry King, In hideous forms and shapes, tofore unseen, That fear, death, terror and amazement bring, With ugly paws some trample on the green, Some gnaw the snakes that on their shoulders hing, And some their forked tails stretch forth on high, And tear the twinkling stars from trembling sky. V There were Silenus' foul and loathsome route, There Sphinxes, Centaurs, there were Gorgons fell, There howling Scillas, yawling round about, There serpents hiss, there seven-mouthed Hydras yell, Chimera there spues fire and brimstone out, And Polyphemus blind supporteth hell, Besides ten thousand monsters therein dwells Misshaped, unlike themselves, and like naught else. VI About their princes each took his wonted seat On thrones red-hot, ybuilt of burning brass, Pluto in middest heaved his trident great, Of rusty iron huge that forged was, The rocks on which the salt sea billows beat, And Atlas' tops, the clouds in height that pass, Compared to his huge person mole-hills be, So his rough front, his horns so lifted he. VII The tyrant proud frowned from his lofty cell, And with his looks made all his monsters tremble, His eyes, that full of rage and venom swell, Two beacons seem, that men to arms assemble, His feltered locks, that on his bosom fell, On rugged mountains briars and thorns resemble, His yawning mouth, that foamed clotted blood, Gaped like a whirlpool wide in Stygian flood. VIII And as Mount Etna vomits sulphur out, With cliffs of burning crags, and fire and smoke, So from his mouth flew kindled coals about, Hot sparks and smells that man and beast would choke, The gnarring porter durst not whine for doubt; Still were the Furies, while their sovereign spoke, And swift Cocytus stayed his murmur shrill, While thus the murderer thundered out his will: IX "Ye powers infernal, worthier far to sit About the sun, whence you your offspring take, With me that whilom, through the welkin flit, Down tumbled headlong to this empty lake; Our former glory still remember it, Our bold attempts and war we once did make Gainst him, that rules above the starry sphere, For which like traitors we lie damned here. X "And now instead of clear and gladsome sky, Of Titan's brightness, that so glorious is, In this deep darkness lo we helpless lie, Hopeless again to joy our former bliss, And more, which makes my griefs to multiply, That sinful creature man, elected is; And in our place the heavens possess he must, Vile man, begot of clay, and born of dust. XI "Nor this sufficed, but that he also gave His only Son, his darling to be slain, To conquer so, hell, death, sin and the grave, And man condemned to restore again, He brake our prisons and would algates save The souls there here should dwell in woe and pain, And now in heaven with him they live always With endless glory crowned, and lasting praise. XII "But why recount I thus our passed harms? Remembrance fresh makes weakened sorrows strong, Expulsed were we with injurious arms From those due honors, us of right belong. But let us leave to speak of these alarms, And bend our forces gainst our present wrong: Ah! see you not, how he attempted hath To bring all lands, all nations to his faith? XIII "Then, let us careless spend the day and night, Without regard what haps, what comes or goes, Let Asia subject be to Christians' might, A prey he Sion to her conquering foes, Let her adore again her Christ aright, Who her before all nations whilom chose; In brazen tables he his lore ywrit, And let all tongues and lands acknowledge it. XIV "So shall our sacred altars all be his, Our holy idols tumbled in the mould, To him the wretched man that sinful is Shall pray, and offer incense, myrrh and gold; Our temples shall their costly deckings miss, With naked walls and pillars freezing cold, Tribute of souls shall end, and our estate, Or Pluto reign in kingdoms desolate. XV "Oh, he not then the courage perished clean, That whilom dwelt within your haughty thought, When, armed with shining fire and weapons keen, Against the angels of proud Heaven we fought, I grant we fell on the Phlegrean green, Yet good our cause was, though our fortune naught; For chance assisteth oft the ignobler part, We lost the field, yet lost we not our heart. XVI "Go then, my strength, my hope, my Spirits go, These western rebels with your power withstand, Pluck up these weeds, before they overgrow The gentle garden of the Hebrews' land, Quench out this spark, before it kindles so That Asia burn, consumed with the brand. Use open force, or secret guile unspied; For craft is virtue gainst a foe defied. XVII "Among the knights and worthies of their train, Let some like outlaws wander uncouth ways, Let some be slain in field, let some again Make oracles of women's yeas and nays, And pine in foolish love, let some complain On Godfrey's rule, and mutinies gainst him raise, Turn each one's sword against his fellow's heart, Thus kill them all or spoil the greatest part." XVIII Before his words the tyrant ended had, The lesser devils arose with ghastly roar, And thronged forth about the world to gad, Each land they filled, river, stream and shore, The goblins, fairies, fiends and furies mad, Ranged in flowery dales, and mountains hoar, And under every trembling leaf they sit, Between the solid earth and welkin flit. XIX About the world they spread forth far and wide, Filling the thoughts of each ungodly heart With secret mischief, anger, hate and pride, Wounding lost souls with sin's empoisoned dart. But say, my Muse, recount whence first they tried To hurt the Christian lords, and from what part, Thou knowest of things performed so long agone, This latter age hears little truth or none. XX The town Damascus and the lands about Ruled Hidraort, a wizard grave and sage, Acquainted well with all the damned rout Of Pluto's reign, even from his tender age; Yet of this war he could not figure out The wished ending, or success presage, For neither stars above, nor powers of hell, Nor skill, nor art, nor charm, nor devil could tell. XXI And yet he thought,--Oh, vain conceit of man, Which as thou wishest judgest things to come!-- That the French host to sure destruction ran, Condemned quite by Heaven's eternal doom: He thinks no force withstand or vanquish can The Egyptian strength, and therefore would that some Both of the prey and glory of the fight Upon this Syrian folk would haply light. XXII But for he held the Frenchmen's worth in prize, And feared the doubtful gain of bloody war, He, that was closely false and slyly war, Cast how he might annoy them most from far: And as he gan upon this point devise,-- As counsellors in ill still nearest are,-- At hand was Satan, ready ere men need, If once they think, to make them do, the deed. XXIII He counselled him how best to hunt his game, What dart to cast, what net, what toil to pitch, A niece he had, a nice and tender dame, Peerless in wit, in nature's blessings rich, To all deceit she could her beauty frame, False, fair and young, a virgin and a witch; To her he told the sum of this emprise, And praised her thus, for she was fair and wise: XXIV "My dear, who underneath these locks of gold, And native brightness of thy lovely hue, Hidest grave thoughts, ripe wit, and wisdom old, More skill than I, in all mine arts untrue, To thee my purpose great I must unfold, This enterprise thy cunning must pursue, Weave thou to end this web which I begin, I will the distaff hold, come thou and spin. XXV "Go to the Christians' host, and there assay All subtle sleights that women use in love, Shed brinish tears, sob, sigh, entreat and pray, Wring thy fair hands, cast up thine eyes above, For mourning beauty hath much power, men say, The stubborn hearts with pity frail to move; Look pale for dread, and blush sometime for shame, In seeming truth thy lies will soonest frame. XXVI "Take with the bait Lord Godfrey, if thou may'st; Frame snares of look, strains of alluring speech; For if he love, the conquest then thou hast, Thus purposed war thou may'st with ease impeach, Else lead the other Lords to deserts waste, And hold them slaves far from their leader's reach:" Thus taught he her, and for conclusion, saith, "All things are lawful for our lands and faith." XXVII The sweet Armida took this charge on hand, A tender piece, for beauty, sex and age, The sun was sunken underneath the land, When she began her wanton pilgrimage, In silken weeds she trusteth to withstand, And conquer knights in warlike equipage, Of their night ambling dame the Syrians prated, Some good, some bad, as they her loved or hated. XXVIII Within few days the nymph arrived there Where puissant Godfrey had his tents ypight; Upon her strange attire, and visage clear, Gazed each soldier, gazed every knight: As when a comet doth in skies appear, The people stand amazed at the light; So wondered they and each at other sought, What mister wight she was, and whence ybrought. XXIX Yet never eye to Cupid's service vowed Beheld a face of such a lovely pride; A tinsel veil her amber locks did shroud, That strove to cover what it could not hide, The golden sun behind a silver cloud, So streameth out his beams on every side, The marble goddess, set at Cnidos, naked She seemed, were she unclothed, or that awaked. XXX The gamesome wind among her tresses plays, And curleth up those growing riches short; Her spareful eye to spread his beams denays, But keeps his shot where Cupid keeps his fort; The rose and lily on her cheek assays To paint true fairness out in bravest sort, Her lips, where blooms naught but the single rose, Still blush, for still they kiss while still they close. XXXI Her breasts, two hills o'erspread with purest snow, Sweet, smooth and supple, soft and gently swelling, Between them lies a milken dale below, Where love, youth, gladness, whiteness make their dwelling, Her breasts half hid, and half were laid to show, So was the wanton clad, as if this much Should please the eye, the rest unseen, the touch. XXXII As when the sunbeams dive through Tagus' wave, To spy the store-house of his springtime gold, Love-piercing thought so through her mantle drave, And in her gentle bosom wandered bold; It viewed the wondrous beauty virgins have, And all to fond desire with vantage told, Alas! what hope is left, to quench his fire That kindled is by sight, blown by desire. XXXIII Thus passed she, praised, wished, and wondered at, Among the troops who there encamped lay, She smiled for joy, but well dissembled that, Her greedy eye chose out her wished prey; On all her gestures seeming virtue sat, Toward the imperial tent she asked the way: With that she met a bold and lovesome knight, Lord Godfrey's youngest brother, Eustace hight. XXXIV This was the fowl that first fell in the snare, He saw her fair, and hoped to find her kind; The throne of Cupid had an easy stair, His bark is fit to sail with every wind, The breach he makes no wisdom can repair: With reverence meet the baron low inclined, And thus his purpose to the virgin told, For youth, use, nature, all had made him bold. XXXV "Lady, if thee beseem a stile so low, In whose sweet looks such sacred beauty shine,-- For never yet did Heaven such grace bestow On any daughter born of Adam's line-- Thy name let us, though far unworthy, know, Unfold thy will, and whence thou art in fine, Lest my audacious boldness learn too late What honors due become thy high estate." XXXVI "Sir Knight," quoth she, "your praises reach too high Above her merit you commenden so, A hapless maid I am, both born to die And dead to joy, that live in care and woe, A virgin helpless, fugitive pardie, My native soil and kingdom thus forego To seek Duke Godfrey's aid, such store men tell Of virtuous ruth doth in his bosom dwell. XXXVII "Conduct me then that mighty duke before, If you be courteous, sir, as well you seem." "Content," quoth he, "since of one womb ybore, We brothers are, your fortune good esteem To encounter me whose word prevaileth more In Godfrey's hearing than you haply deem: Mine aid I grant, and his I promise too, All that his sceptre, or my sword, can do." XXXVIII He led her easily forth when this was said, Where Godfrey sat among his lords and peers, She reverence did, then blushed, as one dismayed To speak, for secret wants and inward fears, It seemed a bashful shame her speeches stayed, At last the courteous duke her gently cheers; Silence was made, and she began her tale, They sit to hear, thus sung this nightingale: XXXIX "Victorious prince, whose honorable name Is held so great among our Pagan kings, That to those lands thou dost by conquest tame That thou hast won them some content it brings; Well known to all is thy immortal fame, The earth, thy worth, thy foe, thy praises sings, And Paynims wronged come to seek thine aid, So doth thy virtue, so thy power persuade. XL "And I though bred in Macon's heathenish lore, Which thou oppressest with thy puissant might, Yet trust thou wilt an helpless maid restore, And repossess her in her father's right: Others in their distress do aid implore Of kin and friends; but I in this sad plight Invoke thy help, my kingdom to invade, So doth thy virtue, so my need persuade. XLI "In thee I hope, thy succors I invoke, To win the crown whence I am dispossest; For like renown awaiteth on the stroke To cast the haughty down or raise the opprest; Nor greater glory brings a sceptre broke, Than doth deliverance of a maid distrest; And since thou canst at will perform the thing, More is thy praise to make, than kill a king. XLII "But if thou would'st thy succors due excuse, Because in Christ I have no hope nor trust, Ah yet for virtue's sake, thy virtue use! Who scorneth gold because it lies in dust? Be witness Heaven, if thou to grant refuse, Thou dost forsake a maid in cause most just, And for thou shalt at large my fortunes know, I will my wrongs and their great treasons show. XLIII "Prince Arbilan that reigned in his life On fair Damascus, was my noble sire, Born of mean race he was, yet got to wife The Queen Chariclia, such was the fire Of her hot love, but soon the fatal knife Had cut the thread that kept their joys entire, For so mishap her cruel lot had cast, My birth, her death; my first day, was her last. XLIV "And ere five years were fully come and gone Since his dear spouse to hasty death did yield, My father also died, consumed with moan, And sought his love amid the Elysian fields, His crown and me, poor orphan, left alone, Mine uncle governed in my tender eild; For well he thought, if mortal men have faith, In brother's breast true love his mansion hath. XLV "He took the charge of me and of the crown, And with kind shows of love so brought to pass That through Damascus great report was blown How good, how just, how kind mine uncle was; Whether he kept his wicked hate unknown And hid the serpent in the flowering grass, On that true faith did in his bosom won, Because he meant to match me with his son. XLVI "Which son, within short while, did undertake Degree of knighthood, as beseemed him well, Yet never durst he for his lady's sake Break sword or lance, advance in lofty sell; As fair he was, as Citherea's make, As proud as he that signoriseth hell, In fashions wayward, and in love unkind, For Cupid deigns not wound a currish mind. XLVII "This paragon should Queen Armida wed, A goodly swain to be a princess' fere, A lovely partner of a lady's bed, A noble head a golden crown to wear: His glosing sire his errand daily said, And sugared speeches whispered in mine ear To make me take this darling in mine arms, But still the adder stopt her ears from charms. XLVIII "At last he left me with a troubled grace, Through which transparent was his inward spite, Methought I read the story in his face Of these mishaps that on me since have light, Since that foul spirits haunt my resting-place, And ghastly visions break any sleep by night, Grief, horror, fear my fainting soul did kill, For so my mind foreshowed my coming ill. XLIX "Three times the shape of my dear mother came, Pale, sad, dismayed, to warn me in my dream, Alas, how far transformed from the same Whose eyes shone erst like Titan's glorious beam: 'Daughter,' she says, 'fly, fly, behold thy dame Foreshows the treasons of thy wretched eame, Who poison gainst thy harmless life provides:' This said, to shapeless air unseen she glides. L "But what avail high walls or bulwarks strong, Where fainting cowards have the piece to guard? My sex too weak, mine age was all to young, To undertake alone a work so hard, To wander wild the desert woods among, A banished maid, of wonted ease debarred, So grievous seemed, that liefer were my death, And there to expire where first I drew my breath. LI "I feared deadly evil if long I stayed, And yet to fly had neither will nor power, Nor durst my heart declare it waxed afraid, Lest so I hasten might my dying hour: Thus restless waited I, unhappy maid, What hand should first pluck up my springing flower, Even as the wretch condemned to lose his life Awaits the falling of the murdering knife. LII "In these extremes, for so my fortune would Perchance preserve me to my further ill, One of my noble father's servants old, That for his goodness bore his child good will, With store of tears this treason gan unfold, And said; my guardian would his pupil kill, And that himself, if promise made be kept, Should give me poison dire ere next I slept. LIII "And further told me, if I wished to live, I must convey myself by secret flight, And offered then all succours he could give To aid his mistress, banished from her right. His words of comfort, fear to exile drive, The dread of death, made lesser dangers light: So we concluded, when the shadows dim Obscured the earth I should depart with him. LIV "Of close escapes the aged patroness, Blacker than erst, her sable mantle spread, When with two trusty maids, in great distress, Both from mine uncle and my realm I fled; Oft looked I back, but hardly could suppress Those streams of tears, mine eyes uncessant shed, For when I looked on my kingdom lost, It was a grief, a death, an hell almost. LV "My steeds drew on the burden of my limbs, But still my locks, my thoughts, drew back as fast, So fare the men, that from the heaven's brims, Far out to sea, by sudden storm are cast; Swift o'er the grass the rolling chariot swims, Through ways unknown, all night, all day we haste, At last, nigh tired, a castle strong we fand, The utmost border of my native land. LVI "The fort Arontes was, for so the knight Was called, that my deliverance thus had wrought, But when the tyrant saw, by mature flight I had escaped the treasons of his thought, The rage increased in the cursed wight Gainst me, and him, that me to safety brought, And us accused, we would have poisoned Him, but descried, to save our lives we fled. LVII "And that in lieu of his approved truth, To poison him I hired had my guide, That he despatched, mine unbridled youth Might rage at will, in no subjection tied, And that each night I slept--O foul untruth!-- Mine honor lost, by this Arontes' side: But Heaven I pray send down revenging fire, When so base love shall change my chaste desire. LVIII "Not that he sitteth on my regal throne, Nor that he thirst to drink my lukewarm blood, So grieveth me, as this despite alone, That my renown, which ever blameless stood, Hath lost the light wherewith it always shone: With forged lies he makes his tale so good, And holds my subjects' hearts in such suspense, That none take armor for their queen's defence. LIX "And though he do my regal throne possess, Clothed in purple, crowned with burnished gold; Yet is his hate, his rancor, ne'er the less, Since naught assuageth malice when 'tis old: He threats to burn Arontes' forteress, And murder him unless he yield the hold, And me and mine threats not with war, but death, Thus causeless hatred, endless is uneath. LX "And so he trusts to wash away the stain, And hide his shameful fact with mine offence, And saith he will restore the throne again To his late honor and due excellence, And therefore would I should be algates slain, For while I live, his right is in suspense, This is the cause my guiltless life is sought, For on my ruin is his safety wrought. LXI "And let the tyrant have his heart's desire, Let him perform the cruelty he meant, My guiltless blood must quench the ceaseless fire On which my endless tears were bootless spent, Unless thou help; to thee, renowned Sire, I fly, a virgin, orphan, innocent, And let these tears that on thy feet distil, Redeem the drops of blood, he thirsts to spill. LXII "By these thy glorious feet, that tread secure On necks of tyrants, by thy conquests brave, By that right hand, and by those temples pure Thou seek'st to free from Macon's lore, I crave Help for this sickness none but thou canst cure, My life and kingdom let thy mercy save From death and ruin: but in vain I prove thee, If right, if truth, if justice cannot move thee. LXIII "Thou who dost all thou wishest, at thy will, And never willest aught but what is right, Preserve this guiltless blood they seek to spill; Thine be my kingdom, save it with thy might: Among these captains, lords, and knights of skill, Appoint me ten, approved most in fight, Who with assistance of my friends and kin, May serve my kingdom lost again to win. LXIV "For lo a knight, that had a gate to ward, A man of chiefest trust about his king, Hath promised so to beguile the guard That me and mine he undertakes to bring Safe, where the tyrant haply sleepeth hard He counselled me to undertake this thing, Of these some little succor to intreat, Whose name alone accomplish can the feat." LXV This said, his answer did the nymph attend, Her looks, her sighs, her gestures all did pray him: But Godfrey wisely did his grant suspend, He doubts the worst, and that awhile did stay him, He knows, who fears no God, he loves no friend, He fears the heathen false would thus betray him: But yet such ruth dwelt in his princely mind, That gainst his wisdom, pity made him kind. LXVI Besides the kindness of his gentle thought, Ready to comfort each distressed wight, The maiden's offer profit with it brought; For if the Syrian kingdom were her right, That won, the way were easy, which he sought, To bring all Asia subject to his might: There might he raise munition, arms and treasure To work the Egyptian king and his displeasure. LXVII Thus was his noble heart long time betwixt Fear and remorse, not granting nor denying, Upon his eyes the dame her lookings fixed, As if her life and death lay on his saying, Some tears she shed, with sighs and sobbings mixed, As if her hopes were dead through his delaying; At last her earnest suit the duke denayed, But with sweet words thus would content the maid: LXVIII "If not in service of our God we fought, In meaner quarrel if this sword were shaken, Well might thou gather in thy gentle thought, So fair a princess should not be forsaken; But since these armies, from the world's end brought, To free this sacred town have undertaken, It were unfit we turned our strength away, And victory, even in her coming, stay. LXIX "I promise thee, and on my princely word The burden of thy wish and hope repose, That when this chosen temple of the Lord, Her holy doors shall to his saints unclose In rest and peace; then this victorious sword Shall execute due vengeance on thy foes; But if for pity of a worldly dame I left this work, such pity were my shame." LXX At this the princess bent her eyes to ground, And stood unmoved, though not unmarked, a space, The secret bleeding of her inward wound Shed heavenly dew upon her angel's face, "Poor wretch," quoth she, "in tears and sorrows drowned, Death be thy peace, the grave thy resting-place, Since such thy hap, that lest thou mercy find The gentlest heart on earth is proved unkind. LXXI "Where none attends, what boots it to complain? Men's froward hearts are moved with women's tears As marble stones are pierced with drops of rain, No plaints find passage through unwilling ears: The tyrant, haply, would his wraith restrain Heard he these prayers ruthless Godfrey hears, Yet not thy fault is this, my chance, I see, Hath made even pity, pitiless in thee. LXXII "So both thy goodness, and good hap, denayed me, Grief, sorrow, mischief, care, hath overthrown me, The star that ruled my birthday hath betrayed me, My genius sees his charge, but dares not own me, Of queen-like state, my flight hath disarrayed me, My father died, ere he five years had known me, My kingdom lost, and lastly resteth now, Down with the tree sith broke is every bough. LXXIII "And for the modest lore of maidenhood, Bids me not sojourn with these armed men, O whither shall I fly, what secret wood Shall hide me from the tyrant? or what den, What rock, what vault, what cave can do me good? No, no, where death is sure, it resteth then To scorn his power and be it therefore seen, Armida lived, and died, both like a queen." LXXIV With that she looked as if a proud disdain Kindled displeasure in her noble mind, The way she came she turned her steps again, With gesture sad but in disdainful kind, A tempest railed down her cheeks amain, With tears of woe, and sighs of anger's wind; The drops her footsteps wash, whereon she treads, And seems to step on pearls, or crystal beads. LXXV Her cheeks on which this streaming nectar fell, Stilled through the limbeck of her diamond eyes, The roses white and red resembled well, Whereon the rory May-dew sprinkled lies When the fair morn first blusheth from her cell, And breatheth balm from opened paradise; Thus sighed, thus mourned, thus wept this lovely queen, And in each drop bathed a grace unseen. LXXVI Thrice twenty Cupids unperceived flew To gather up this liquor, ere it fall, And of each drop an arrow forged new, Else, as it came, snatched up the crystal ball, And at rebellious hearts for wildfire threw. O wondrous love! thou makest gain of all; For if she weeping sit, or smiling stand, She bends thy bow, or kindleth else thy brand. LXXVII This forged plaint drew forth unfeigned tears From many eyes, and pierced each worthy's heart; Each one condoleth with her that her hears, And of her grief would help her bear the smart: If Godfrey aid her not, not one but swears Some tigress gave him suck on roughest part Midst the rude crags, on Alpine cliffs aloft: Hard is that heart which beauty makes not soft. LXXVIII But jolly Eustace, in whose breast the brand Of love and pity kindled had the flame, While others softly whispered underhand, Before the duke with comely boldness came: "Brother and lord," quoth he, "too long you stand In your first purpose, yet vouchsafe to frame Your thoughts to ours, and lend this virgin aid: Thanks are half lost when good turns are delayed. LXXIX "And think not that Eustace's talk assays To turn these forces from this present war, Or that I wish you should your armies raise From Sion's walls, my speech tends not so far: But we that venture all for fame and praise, That to no charge nor service bounden are, Forth of our troop may ten well spared be To succor her, which naught can weaken thee. LXXX "And know, they shall in God's high service fight, That virgins innocent save and defend: Dear will the spoils be in the Heaven's sight, That from a tyrant's hateful head we rend: Nor seemed I forward in this lady's right, With hope of gain or profit in the end; But for I know he arms unworthy bears, To help a maiden's cause that shuns or fears. LXXXI "Ah! be it not pardie declared in France, Or elsewhere told where courtesy is in prize, That we forsook so fair a chevisance, For doubt or fear that might from fight arise; Else, here surrender I both sword and lance, And swear no more to use this martial guise; For ill deserves he to be termed a knight, That bears a blunt sword in a lady's right." LXXXII Thus parleyed he, and with confused sound, The rest approved what the gallant said, Their general their knights encompassed round, With humble grace, and earnest suit they prayed: "I yield," quoth he, "and it be happy found, What I have granted, let her have your aid: Yours be the thanks, for yours the danger is, If aught succeed, as much I fear, amiss. LXXXIII "But if with you my words may credit find, Oh temper then this heat misguides you so!" Thus much he said, but they with fancy blind, Accept his grant, and let his counsel go. What works not beauty, man's relenting mind Is eath to move with plaints and shows of woe: Her lips cast forth a chain of sugared words, That captive led most of the Christian lords. LXXXIV Eustace recalled her, and bespake her thus: "Beauty's chief darling, let those sorrows be, For such assistance shall you find in us As with your need, or will, may best agree:" With that she cheered her forehead dolorous, And smiled for joy, that Phoebus blushed to see, And had she deigned her veil for to remove, The God himself once more had fallen in love. LXXXV With that she broke the silence once again, And gave the knight great thanks in little speech, She said she would his handmaid poor remain, So far as honor's laws received no breach. Her humble gestures made the residue plain, Dumb eloquence, persuading more than speech: Thus women know, and thus they use the guise, To enchant the valiant, and beguile the wise. LXXXVI And when she saw her enterprise had got Some wished mean of quick and good proceeding, She thought to strike the iron that was hot, For every action hath his hour of speeding: Medea or false Circe changed not So far the shapes of men, as her eyes spreading Altered their hearts, and with her syren's sound In lust, their minds, their hearts, in love she drowned. LXXXVII All wily sleights that subtle women know, Hourly she used, to catch some lover new. None kenned the bent of her unsteadfast bow, For with the time her thoughts her looks renew, From some she cast her modest eyes below, At some her gazing glances roving flew, And while she thus pursued her wanton sport, She spurred the slow, and reined the forward short. LXXXVIII If some, as hopeless that she would be won, Forebore to love, because they durst not move her, On them her gentle looks to smile begun, As who say she is kind if you dare prove her On every heart thus shone this lustful sun, All strove to serve, to please, to woo, to love her, And in their hearts that chaste and bashful were, Her eye's hot glance dissolved the frost of fear. LXXXIX On them who durst with fingering bold assay To touch the softness of her tender skin, She looked as coy, as if she list not play, And made as things of worth were hard to win; Yet tempered so her deignful looks alway, That outward scorn showed store of grace within: Thus with false hope their longing hearts she fired, For hardest gotten things are most desired. XC Alone sometimes she walked in secret where, To ruminate upon her discontent, Within her eyelids sate the swelling tear, Not poured forth, though sprung from sad lament, And with this craft a thousand souls well near In snares of foolish ruth and love she hent, And kept as slaves, by which we fitly prove That witless pity breedeth fruitless love. XCI Sometimes, as if her hope unloosed had The chains of grief, wherein her thoughts lay fettered, Upon her minions looked she blithe and glad, In that deceitful lore so was she lettered; Not glorious Titan, in his brightness clad, The sunshine of her face in lustre bettered: For when she list to cheer her beauties so, She smiled away the clouds of grief and woe. XCII Her double charm of smiles and sugared words, Lulled on sleep the virtue of their senses, Reason shall aid gainst those assaults affords, Wisdom no warrant from those sweet offences; Cupid's deep rivers have their shallow fords, His griefs, bring joys; his losses, recompenses; He breeds the sore, and cures us of the pain: Achilles' lance that wounds and heals again. XCIII While thus she them torments twixt frost and fire, Twixt joy and grief, twixt hope and restless fear, The sly enchantress felt her gain the nigher, These were her flocks that golden fleeces bear: But if someone durst utter his desire, And by complaining make his griefs appear, He labored hard rocks with plaints to move, She had not learned the gamut then of love. XCIV For down she bet her bashful eyes to ground, And donned the weed of women's modest grace, Down from her eyes welled the pearls round, Upon the bright enamel of her face; Such honey drops on springing flowers are found When Phoebus holds the crimson morn in chase; Full seemed her looks of anger, and of shame; Yet pity shone transparent through the same. XCV If she perceived by his outward cheer, That any would his love by talk bewray, Sometimes she heard him, sometimes stopped her ear, And played fast and loose the livelong day: Thus all her lovers kind deluded were, Their earnest suit got neither yea nor nay; But like the sort of weary huntsmen fare, That hunt all day, and lose at night the hare. XCVI These were the arts by which she captived A thousand souls of young and lusty knights; These were the arms wherewith love conquered Their feeble hearts subdued in wanton fights: What wonder if Achilles were misled, Of great Alcides at their ladies' sights, Since these true champions of the Lord above Were thralls to beauty, yielden slaves to lore. FIFTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Gernando scorns Rinaldo should aspire To rule that charge for which he seeks and strives, And slanders him so far, that in his ire The wronged knight his foe of life deprives: Far from the camp the slayer doth retire, Nor lets himself be bound in chains or gyves: Armide departs content, and from the seas Godfrey hears news which him and his displease. I While thus Armida false the knights misled In wandering errors of deceitful love, And thought, besides the champions promised, The other lordlings in her aid to move, In Godfrey's thought a strong contention bred Who fittest were this hazard great to prove; For all the worthies of the adventures' band Were like in birth, in power, in strength of hand. II But first the prince, by grave advice, decreed They should some knight choose at their own election, That in his charge Lord Dudon might succeed, And of that glorious troop should take protection; So none should grieve, displeased with the deed, Nor blame the causer of their new subjection: Besides, Godfredo showed by this device, How much he held that regiment in price. III He called the worthies then, and spake them so: "Lordlings, you know I yielded to your will, And gave you license with this dame to go, To win her kingdom and that tyrant kill: But now again I let you further know, In following her it may betide yon ill; Refrain therefore, and change this forward thought For death unsent for, danger comes unsought. IV "But if to shun these perils, sought so far, May seem disgraceful to the place yon hold; If grave advice and prudent counsel are Esteemed detractors from your courage bold; Then know, I none against his will debar, Nor what I granted erst I now withhold; But he mine empire, as it ought of right, Sweet, easy, pleasant, gentle, meek and light. V "Go then or tarry, each as likes him best, Free power I grant you on this enterprise; But first in Dudon's place, now laid in chest, Choose you some other captain stout and wise; Then ten appoint among the worthiest, But let no more attempt this hard emprise, In this my will content you that I have, For power constrained is but a glorious slave." VI Thus Godfrey said, and thus his brother spake, And answered for himself and all his peers: "My lord, as well it fitteth thee to make These wise delays and cast these doubts and fears, So 'tis our part at first to undertake; Courage and haste beseems our might and years; And this proceeding with so grave advice, Wisdom, in you, in us were cowardice. VII "Since then the feat is easy, danger none, All set in battle and in hardy fight, Do thou permit the chosen ten to gone And aid the damsel:" thus devised the knight, To make men think the sun of honor shone There where the lamp of Cupid gave the light: The rest perceive his guile, and it approve, And call that knighthood which was childish love. VIII But loving Eustace, that with jealous eye Beheld the worth of Sophia's noble child, And his fair shape did secretly envy, Besides the virtues in his breast compiled, And, for in love he would no company, He stored his mouth with speeches smoothly filed, Drawing his rival to attend his word; Thus with fair sleight he laid the knight abord: IX "Of great Bertoldo thou far greater heir, Thou star of knighthood, flower of chivalry, Tell me, who now shall lead this squadron fair, Since our late guide in marble cold doth lie? I, that with famous Dudon might compare In all, but years, hoar locks, and gravity, To whom should I, Duke Godfrey's brother, yield, Unless to thee, the Christian army's shield? X "Thee whom high birth makes equal with the best Thine acts prefer both me and all beforn; Nor that in fight thou both surpass the rest, And Godfrey's worthy self, I hold in scorn; Thee to obey then am I only pressed; Before these worthies be thine eagle borne; This honor haply thou esteemest light, Whose day of glory never yet found night. XI "Yet mayest thou further by this means display The spreading wings of thy immortal fame; I will procure it, if thou sayest not nay, And all their wills to thine election frame: But for I scantly am resolved which way To bend my force, or where employ the same, Leave me, I pray, at my discretion free To help Armida, or serve here with thee." XII This last request, for love is evil to hide, Empurpled both his cheeks with scarlet red; Rinaldo soon his passions had descried, And gently smiling turned aside his head, And, for weak Cupid was too feeble eyed To strike him sure, the fire in him was dead; So that of rivals was he naught afraid, Nor cared he for the journey or the maid. XIII But in his noble thought revolved he oft Dudon's high prowess, death and burial, And how Argantes bore his plumes aloft, Praising his fortunes for that worthy's fall; Besides, the knight's sweet words and praises soft To his due honor did him fitly call, And made his heart rejoice, for well he knew, Though much he praised him, all his words were true. XIV "Degrees," quoth he, "of honors high to hold, I would them first deserve, and the desire; And were my valor such as you have told, Would I for that to higher place aspire: But if to honors due raise me you would, I will not of my works refuse the hire; And much it glads me, that my power and might Ypraised is by such a valiant knight. XV "I neither seek it nor refuse the place, Which if I get, the praise and thanks be thine." Eustace, this spoken, hied thence apace To know which way his fellows' hearts incline: But Prince Gernando coveted the place, Whom though Armida sought to undermine, Gainst him yet vain did all her engines prove, His pride was such, there was no place for love. XVI Gernando was the King of Norway's son, That many a realm and region had to guide, And for his elders lands and crowns had won. His heart was puffed up with endless pride: The other boasts more what himself had done Than all his ancestors' great acts beside; Yet his forefathers old before him were Famous in war and peace five hundred years. XVII This barbarous prince, who only vainly thought That bliss in wealth and kingly power doth lie, And in respect esteemed all virtue naught Unless it were adorned with titles high, Could not endure, that to the place he sought A simple knight should dare to press so nigh; And in his breast so boiled fell despite, That ire and wrath exiled reason quite. XVIII The hidden devil, that lies in close await To win the fort of unbelieving man, Found entry there, where ire undid the gate, And in his bosom unperceived ran; It filled his heart with malice, strife and hate, It made him rage, blaspheme, swear, curse and ban, Invisible it still attends him near, And thus each minute whispereth in his ear. XIX What, shall Rinaldo match thee? dares he tell Those idle names of his vain pedigree? Then let him say, if thee he would excel, What lands, what realms his tributaries be: If his forefathers in the graves that dwell, Were honored like thine that live, let see: Oh how dares one so mean aspire so high, Born in that servile country Italy? XX Now, if he win, or if he lose the day, Yet is his praise and glory hence derived, For that the world will, to his credit, say, Lo, this is he that with Gernando strived. The charge some deal thee haply honor may, That noble Dudon had while here he lived; But laid on him he would the office shame, Let it suffice, he durst desire the same. XXI If when this breath from man's frail body flies The soul take keep, or know the things done here, Oh, how looks Dudon from the glorious skies? What wrath, what anger in his face appear, On this proud youngling while he bends his eyes, Marking how high he doth his feathers rear? Seeing his rash attempt, how soon he dare, Though but a boy, with his great worth compare. XXII He dares not only, but he strives and proves, Where chastisement were fit there wins he praise: One counsels him, his speech him forward moves; Another fool approveth all he says: If Godfrey favor him more than behoves, Why then he wrongeth thee an hundred ways; Nor let thy state so far disgraced be, Now what thou art and canst, let Godfrey see. XXIII With such false words the kindled fire began To every vein his poisoned heart to reach, It swelled his scornful heart, and forth it ran At his proud looks, and too audacious speech; All that he thought blameworthy in the man, To his disgrace that would be each where preach; He termed him proud and vain, his worth in fight He called fool-hardise, rashness, madness right. XXIV All that in him was rare or excellent, All that was good, all that was princely found, With such sharp words as malice could invent, He blamed, such power has wicked tongue to wound. The youth, for everywhere those rumors went, Of these reproaches heard sometimes the sound; Nor did for that his tongue the fault amend, Until it brought him to his woful end. XXV The cursed fiend that set his tongue at large, Still bred more fancies in his idle brain, His heart with slanders new did overcharge, And soothed him still in his angry vein; Amid the camp a place was broad and large, Where one fair regiment might easily train; And there in tilt and harmless tournament Their days of rest the youths and gallants spent. XXVI There, as his fortune would it should betide, Amid the press Gernando gan retire, To vomit out his venom unespied, Wherewith foul envy did his heart inspire. Rinaldo heard him as he stood beside, And as he could not bridle wrath and ire, "Thou liest," cried he loud, and with that word About his head he tossed his flaming sword. XXVII Thunder his voice, and lightning seemed his brand, So fell his look, and furious was his cheer, Gernando trembled, for he saw at hand Pale death, and neither help nor comfort near, Yet for the soldiers all to witness stand He made proud sign, as though he naught did fear, But bravely drew his little-helping blade, And valiant show of strong resistance made. XXVIII With that a thousand blades of burnished steel Glistered on heaps like flames of fire in sight, Hundreds, that knew not yet the quarrel weel, Ran thither, some to gaze and some to fight: The empty air a sound confused did feel Of murmurs low, and outcries loud on height, Like rolling waves and Boreas' angry blasts When roaring seas against the rocks he casts. XXIX But not for this the wronged warrior stayed His just displeasure and incensed ire, He cared not what the vulgar did or said, To vengeance did his courage fierce aspire: Among the thickest weapons way he made, His thundering sword made all on heaps retire, So that of near a thousand stayed not one, But Prince Gernando bore the brunt alone. XXX His hand, too quick to execute his wrath, Performed all, as pleased his eye and heart, At head and breast oft times he strucken hath, Now at the right, now at the other part: On every side thus did he harm and scath, And oft beguile his sight with nimble art, That no defence the prince of wounds acquits, Where least he thinks, or fears, there most he hits. XXXI Nor ceased be, till in Gernando's breast He sheathed once or twice his furious blade; Down fell the hapless prince with death oppressed, A double way to his weak soul was made; His bloody sword the victor wiped and dressed, Nor longer by the slaughtered body stayed, But sped him thence, and soon appeased hath His hate, his ire, his rancor and his wrath. XXXII Called by the tumult, Godfrey drew him near, And there beheld a sad and rueful sight, The signs of death upon his face appear, With dust and blood his locks were loathly dight, Sighs and complaints on each side might he hear, Made for the sudden death of that great knight: Amazed, he asked who durst and did so much; For yet he knew not whom the fault would touch. XXXIII Arnoldo, minion of the Prince thus slain, Augments the fault in telling it, and saith, This Prince murdered, for a quarrel vain, By young Rinaldo in his desperate wrath, And with that sword that should Christ's law maintain, One of Christ's champions bold he killed hath, And this he did in such a place and hour, As if he scorned your rule, despised your power. XXXIV And further adds, that he deserved death By law, and law should inviolate, That none offence could greater be uneath, And yet the place the fault did aggravate: If he escapes, that mischief would take breath, And flourish bold in spite of rule and state; And that Gernando's friends would venge the wrong, Although to justice that did first belong, XXXV And by that means, should discord, hate and strife Raise mutinies, and what therefore ensueth: Lastly he praised the dead, and still had rife All words he thought could vengeance move or rut Against him Tancred argued for life, With honest reasons to excuse the youth: The Duke heard all, but with such sober cheer, As banished hope, and still increased fear. XXXVI "Great Prince," quoth Tancred; "set before thine eyes Rinaldo's worth and courage what it is, How much our hope of conquest in him lies; Regard that princely house and race of his; He that correcteth every fault he spies, And judgeth all alike, doth all amiss; For faults, you know, are greater thought or less, As is the person's self that doth transgress." XXXVII Godfredo answered him; "If high and low Of sovereign power alike should feel the stroke, Then, Tancred, ill you counsel us, I trow; If lords should know no law, as erst you spoke, How vile and base our empire were you know, If none but slaves and peasants bear the yoke; Weak is the sceptre and the power is small That such provisos bring annexed withal. XXXVIII "But mine was freely given ere 'twas sought, Nor that it lessened be I now consent; Right well know I both when and where I ought To give condign reward and punishment, Since you are all in like subjection brought, Both high and low obey, and be content." This heard, Tancredi wisely stayed his words, Such weight the sayings have of kings and lords. XXXIX Old Raymond praised his speech, for old men think They ever wisest seem when most severe, "'Tis best," quoth he, "to make these great ones shrink, The people love him whom the nobles fear: There must the rule to all disorders sink, Where pardons more than punishments appear; For feeble is each kingdom, frail and weak, Unless his basis be this fear I speak." XL These words Tancredi heard and pondered well, And by them wist how Godfrey's thoughts were bent, Nor list he longer with these old men dwell, But turned his horse and to Rinaldo went, Who, when his noble foe death-wounded fell, Withdrew him softly to his gorgeous tent; There Tancred found him, and at large declared The words and speeches sharp which late you heard. XLI And said, "Although I wot the outward show Is not true witness of the secret thought, For that some men so subtle are, I trow, That what they purpose most appeareth naught; Yet dare I say Godfredo means, I know, Such knowledge hath his looks and speeches wrought, You shall first prisoner be, and then be tried As he shall deem it good and law provide." XLII With that a bitter smile well might you see Rinaldo cast, with scorn and high disdain, "Let them in fetters plead their cause," quoth he, "That are base peasants, born of servile stain, I was free born, I live and will die free Before these feet be fettered in a chain: These hands were made to shake sharp spears and swords, Not to be tied in gyves and twisted cords. XLIII "If my good service reap this recompense, To be clapt up in close and secret mew, And as a thief be after dragged from thence, To suffer punishment as law finds due; Let Godfrey come or send, I will not hence Until we know who shall this bargain rue, That of our tragedy the late done fact May be the first, and this the second, act. XLIV "Give me mine arms," he cried; his squire them brings, And clad his head, and dressed in iron strong, About his neck his silver shield he flings, Down by his side a cutting sword there hung; Among this earth's brave lords and mighty kings, Was none so stout, so fierce, so fair, so young, God Mars he seemed descending from his sphere, Or one whose looks could make great Mars to fear. XLV Tancredi labored with some pleasing speech His spirits fierce and courage to appease; "Young Prince, thy valor," thus he gan to preach, "Can chastise all that do thee wrong, at ease, I know your virtue can your enemies teach, That you can venge you when and where you please: But God forbid this day you lift your arm To do this camp and us your friends such harm. XLVI "Tell me what will you do? why would you stain Your noble hands in our unguilty blood? By wounding Christians, will you again Pierce Christ, whose parts they are and members good? Will you destroy us for your glory vain, Unstayed as rolling waves in ocean flood? Far be it from you so to prove your strength, And let your zeal appease your rage at length. XLVII "For God's love stay your heat, and just displeasure, Appease your wrath, your courage fierce assuage, Patience, a praise; forbearance, is a treasure; Suffrance, an angel's is; a monster, rage; At least you actions by example measure, And think how I in mine unbridled age Was wronged, yet I would not revengement take On all this camp, for one offender's sake. XLVIII "Cilicia conquered I, as all men wot, And there the glorious cross on high I reared, But Baldwin came, and what I nobly got Bereft me falsely when I least him feared; He seemed my friend, and I discovered not His secret covetise which since appeared; Yet strive I not to get mine own by fight, Or civil war, although perchance I might. XLIX "If then you scorn to be in prison pent, If bonds, as high disgrace, your hands refuse; Or if your thoughts still to maintain are bent Your liberty, as men of honor use: To Antioch what if forthwith you went? And leave me here your absence to excuse, There with Prince Boemond live in ease and peace, Until this storm of Godfrey's anger cease. L "For soon, if forces come from Egypt land, Or other nations that us here confine, Godfrey will beaten be with his own wand, And feel he wants that valor great of thine, Our camp may seem an arm without a hand, Amid our troops unless thy eagle shine:" With that came Guelpho and those words approved, And prayed him go, if him he feared or loved. LI Their speeches soften much the warrior's heart, And make his wilful thoughts at last relent, So that he yields, and saith he will depart, And leave the Christian camp incontinent. His friends, whose love did never shrink or start, Preferred their aid, what way soe'er he went: He thanked them all, but left them all, besides Two bold and trusty squires, and so he rides. LII He rides, revolving in his noble spright Such haughty thoughts as fill the glorious mind; On hard adventures was his whole delight, And now to wondrous acts his will inclined; Alone against the Pagans would he fight, And kill their kings from Egypt unto Inde, From Cynthia's hills and Nilus' unknown spring He would fetch praise and glorious conquest bring. LIII But Guelpho, when the prince his leave had take And now had spurred his courser on his way, No longer tarriance with the rest would make, But tastes to find Godfredo, if he may: Who seeing him approaching, forthwith spake, "Guelpho," quoth he, "for thee I only stay, For thee I sent my heralds all about, In every tent to seek and find thee out." LIV This said, he softly drew the knight aside Where none might hear, and then bespake him thus: "How chanceth it thy nephew's rage and pride, Makes him so far forget himself and us? Hardly could I believe what is betide, A murder done for cause so frivolous, How I have loved him, thou and all can tell; But Godfrey loved him but whilst he did well. LV "I must provide that every one have right, That all be heard, each cause be well discussed, As far from partial love as free from spite, I hear complaints, yet naught but proves I trust: Now if Rinaldo weigh our rule too light, And have the sacred lore of war so brust, Take you the charge that he before us come To clear himself and hear our upright dome. LVI "But let him come withouten bond or chain, For still my thoughts to do him grace are framed; But if our power he haply shall disdain, As well I know his courage yet untamed, To bring him by persuasion take some pain: Else, if I prove severe, both you be blamed, That forced my gentle nature gainst my thought To rigor, lest our laws return to naught." LVII Lord Guelpho answered thus: "What heart can bear Such slanders false, devised by hate and spite? Or with stayed patience, reproaches hear, And not revenge by battle or by fight? The Norway Prince hath bought his folly dear, But who with words could stay the angry knight? A fool is he that comes to preach or prate When men with swords their right and wrong debate. LVIII "And where you wish he should himself submit To hear the censure of your upright laws; Alas, that cannot be, for he is flit Out if this camp, withouten stay or pause, There take my gage, behold I offer it To him that first accused him in this cause, Or any else that dare, and will maintain That for his pride the prince was justly slain. LIX "I say with reason Lord Gernando's pride He hath abated, if he have offended Gainst your commands, who are his lord and guide, Oh pardon him, that fault shall be amended." "If he be gone," quoth Godfrey, "let him ride And brawl elsewhere, here let all strife be ended: And you, Lord Guelpho, for your nephew's sake, Breed us no new, nor quarrels old awake." LX This while, the fair and false Armida strived To get her promised aid in sure possession, The day to end, with endless plaint she derived; Wit, beauty, craft for her made intercession: But when the earth was once of light deprived, And western seas felt Titan's hot impression, 'Twixt two old knights, and matrons twain she went, Where pitched was her fair and curious tent. LXI But this false queen of craft and sly invention,-- Whose looks, love's arrows were; whose eyes his quivers; Whose beauty matchless, free from reprehension, A wonder left by Heaven to after-livers,-- Among the Christian lord had bred contention Who first should quench his flames in Cupid's rivers, While all her weapons and her darts rehearsed, Had not Godfredo's constant bosom pierced. LXII To change his modest thought the dame procureth, And proffereth heaps of love's enticing treasure: But as the falcon newly gorged endureth Her keeper lure her oft, but comes at leisure; So he, whom fulness of delight assureth What long repentance comes of love's short pleasure, Her crafts, her arts, herself and all despiseth, So base affections fall, when virtue riseth. LXIII And not one foot his steadfast foot was moved Out of that heavenly path, wherein he paced, Yet thousand wiles and thousand ways she proved, To have that castle fair of goodness raised: She used those looks and smiles that most behoved To melt the frost which his hard heart embraced, And gainst his breast a thousand shot she ventured, Yet was the fort so strong it was not entered. LXIV The dame who thought that one blink of her eye Could make the chastest heart feel love's sweet pain, Oh, how her pride abated was hereby! When all her sleights were void, her crafts were vain, Some other where she would her forces try, Where at more ease she might more vantage gain, As tired soldiers whom some fort keeps out, Thence raise their siege, and spoil the towns about. LXV But yet all ways the wily witch could find Could not Tancredi's heart to loveward move, His sails were filled with another wind, He list no blast of new affection prove; For, as one poison doth exclude by kind Another's force, so love excludeth love: These two alone nor more nor less the dame Could win, the rest all burnt in her sweet flame. LXVI The princess, though her purpose would not frame, As late she hoped, and as still she would, Yet, for the lords and knights of greatest name Became her prey, as erst you heard it told, She thought, ere truth-revealing time or frame Bewrayed her act, to lead them to some hold, Where chains and band she meant to make them prove, Composed by Vulcan not by gentle love. LXVII The time prefixed at length was come and past, Which Godfrey had set down to lend her aid, When at his feet herself to earth she cast, "The hour is come, my Lord," she humbly said, "And if the tyrant haply hear at last, His banished niece hath your assistance prayed, He will in arms to save his kingdom rise, So shall we harder make this enterprise. LXVIII "Before report can bring the tyrant news, Or his espials certify their king, Oh let thy goodness these few champions choose, That to her kingdom should thy handmaid bring; Who, except Heaven to aid the right refuse, Recover shall her crown, from whence shall spring Thy profit; for betide thee peace or war, Thine all her cities, all her subjects are." LXIX The captain sage the damsel fair assured, His word was passed and should not be recanted, And she with sweet and humble grace endured To let him point those ten, which late he granted: But to be one, each one fought and procured, No suit, no entreaty, intercession wanted; There envy each at others' love exceeded, And all importunate made, more than needed. LXX She that well saw the secret of their hearts, And knew how best to warm them in their blood, Against them threw the cursed poisoned darts Of jealousy, and grief at others' good, For love she wist was weak without those arts, And slow; for jealousy is Cupid's food; For the swift steed runs not so fast alone, As when some strain, some strive him to outgone. LXXI Her words in such alluring sort she framed, Her looks enticing, and her wooing smiles, That every one his fellows' favors blamed, That of their mistress he received erewhiles: This foolish crew of lovers unashamed, Mad with the poison of her secret wiles, Ran forward still, in this disordered sort, Nor could Godfredo's bridle rein them short. LXXII He that would satisfy each good desire, Withouten partial love, of every knight, Although he swelled with shame, with grief and ire To see these fellows and these fashions light; Yet since by no advice they would retire, Another way he sought to set them right: "Write all your names," quoth he, "and see whom chance Of lot, to this exploit will first advance." LXXIII Their names were writ, and in an helmet shaken, While each did fortune's grace and aid implore; At last they drew them, and the foremost taken The Earl of Pembroke was, Artemidore, Doubtless the county thought his bread well baken; Next Gerrard followed, then with tresses hoar Old Wenceslaus, that felt Cupid's rage Now in his doating and his dying age. LXXIV Oh how contentment in their foreheads shined! Their looks with joy; thoughts swelled with secret pleasure, These three it seemed good success designed To make the lords of love and beauty's treasure: Their doubtful fellows at their hap repined, And with small patience wait Fortune's leisure, Upon his lips that read the scrolls attending, As if their lives were on his words depending. LXXV Guasco the fourth, Ridolpho him succeeds, Then Ulderick whom love list so advance, Lord William of Ronciglion next he reads, Then Eberard, and Henry born in France, Rambaldo last, whom wicked lust so leads That he forsook his Saviour with mischance; This wretch the tenth was who was thus deluded, The rest to their huge grief were all excluded. LXXVI O'ercome with envy, wrath and jealousy, The rest blind Fortune curse, and all her laws, And mad with love, yet out on love they cry, That in his kingdom let her judge their cause: And for man's mind is such, that oft we try Things most forbidden, without stay or pause, In spite of fortune purposed many a knight To follow fair Armida when 'twas night. LXXVII To follow her, by night or else by day, And in her quarrel venture life and limb. With sighs and tears she gan them softly pray To keep that promise, when the skies were dim, To this and that knight did she plain and say, What grief she felt to part withouten him: Meanwhile the ten had donned their armor best, And taken leave of Godfrey and the rest. LXXVIII The duke advised them every one apart, How light, how trustless was the Pagan's faith, And told what policy, what wit, what art, Avoids deceit, which heedless men betray'th; His speeches pierce their ear, but not their heart, Love calls it folly, whatso wisdom saith: Thus warned he leaves them to their wanton guide, Who parts that night; such haste had she to ride. LXXIX The conqueress departs, and with her led These prisoners, whom love would captive keep, The hearts of those she left behind her bled, With point of sorrow's arrow pierced deep. But when the night her drowsy mantle spread, And filled the earth with silence, shade and sleep, In secret sort then each forsook his tent, And as blind Cupid led them blind they went. LXXX Eustatio first, who scantly could forbear, Till friendly night might hide his haste and shame, He rode in post, and let his breast him bear As his blind fancy would his journey frame, All night he wandered and he wist not where; But with the morning he espied the dame, That with her guard up from a village rode Where she and they that night had made abode. LXXXI Thither he galloped fast, and drawing near Rambaldo knew the knight, and loudly cried, "Whence comes young Eustace, and what seeks he here?" "I come," quoth he, "to serve the Queen Armide, If she accept me, would we all were there Where my good-will and faith might best be tried." "Who," quoth the other, "choseth thee to prove This high exploit of hers?" He answered, "Love." LXXXII "Love hath Eustatio chosen, Fortune thee, In thy conceit which is the best election?" "Nay, then, these shifts are vain," replied he, "These titles false serve thee for no protection, Thou canst not here for this admitted be Our fellow-servant, in this sweet subjection." "And who," quoth Eustace, angry, "dares deny My fellowship?" Rambaldo answered, "I." LXXXIII And with that word his cutting sword he drew, That glittered bright, and sparkled flaming fire; Upon his foe the other champion flew, With equal courage, and with equal ire. The gentle princess, who the danger knew, Between them stepped, and prayed them both retire. "Rambald," quoth she, "why should you grudge or plain, If I a champion, you an helper gain? LXXXIV "If me you love, why wish you me deprived In so great need of such a puissant knight? But welcome Eustace, in good time arrived, Defender of my state, my life, my right. I wish my hapless self no longer lived, When I esteem such good assistance light." Thus talked they on, and travelled on their way Their fellowship increasing every day. LXXXV From every side they come, yet wist there none Of others coming or of others' mind, She welcomes all, and telleth every one, What joy her thoughts in his arrival find. But when Duke Godfrey wist his knights were gone, Within his breast his wiser soul divined Some hard mishap upon his friends should light, For which he sighed all day, and wept all night. LXXXVI A messenger, while thus he mused, drew near, All soiled with dust and sweat, quite out of breath, It seemed the man did heavy tidings bear, Upon his looks sate news of loss and death: "My lord," quoth he, "so many ships appear At sea, that Neptune bears the load uneath, From Egypt come they all, this lets thee weet William Lord Admiral of the Genoa fleet, LXXXVII "Besides a convoy coming from the shore With victual for this noble camp of thine Surprised was, and lost is all that store, Mules, horses, camels laden, corn and wine; Thy servants fought till they could fight no more, For all were slain or captives made in fine: The Arabian outlaws them assailed by night, When least they feared, and least they looked for fight. LXXXVIII "Their frantic boldness doth presume so far, That many Christians have they falsely slain, And like a raging flood they spared are, And overflow each country, field and plain; Send therefore some strong troops of men of war, To force them hence, and drive them home again, And keep the ways between these tents of thine And those broad seas, the seas of Palestine." LXXXIX From mouth to mouth the heavy rumor spread Of these misfortunes, which dispersed wide Among the soldiers, great amazement bred; Famine they doubt, and new come foes beside: The duke, that saw their wonted courage fled, And in the place thereof weak fear espied, With merry looks these cheerful words he spake, To make them heart again and courage take. XC "You champions bold, with me that 'scaped have So many dangers, and such hard assays, Whom still your God did keep, defend and save In all your battles, combats, fights and frays, You that subdued the Turks and Persians brave, That thirst and hunger held in scorn always, And vanquished hills, and seas, with heat and cold, Shall vain reports appal your courage bold? XCI "That Lord who helped you out at every need, When aught befell this glorious camp amiss, Shall fortune all your actions well to speed, On whom his mercy large extended is; Tofore his tomb, when conquering hands you spreed, With what delight will you remember this? Be strong therefore, and keep your valors high To honor, conquest, fame and victory." XCII Their hopes half dead and courage well-nigh lost, Revived with these brave speeches of their guide; But in his breast a thousand cares he tost, Although his sorrows he could wisely hide; He studied how to feed that mighty host, In so great scarceness, and what force provide He should against the Egyptian warriors sly, And how subdue those thieves of Araby. SIXTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Argantes calls the Christians out to just: Otho not chosen doth his strength assay, But from his saddle tumbleth in the dust, And captive to the town is sent away: Tancred begins new fight, and when both trust To win the praise and palm, night ends the fray: Erminia hopes to cure her wounded knight, And from the city armed rides by night. I But better hopes had them recomforted That lay besieged in the sacred town; With new supply late were they victualled, When night obscured the earth with shadows brown; Their armes and engines on the walls they spread, Their slings to cast, and stones to tumble down; And all that side which to the northward lies, High rampiers and strong bulwarks fortifies. II Their wary king commands now here now there, To build this tower, to make that bulwark strong, Whether the sun, the moon, or stars appear, To give them time to work, no time comes wrong: In every street new weapons forged were, By cunning smiths, sweating with labor long; While thus the careful prince provision made, To him Argantes came, and boasting said: III "How long shall we, like prisoners in chains, Captived lie inclosed within this wall? I see your workmen taking endless pains To make new weapons for no use at all; Meanwhile these western thieves destroy the plains, Your towns are burnt, your forts and castles fall, Yet none of us dares at these gates out-peep, Or sound one trumpet shrill to break their sleep. IV "Their time in feasting and good cheer they spend, Nor dare we once their banquets sweet molest, The days and night likewise they bring to end, In peace, assurance, quiet, ease and rest; But we must yield whom hunger soon will shend, And make for peace, to save our lives, request, Else, if th' Egyptian army stay too long, Like cowards die within this fortress strong. V "Yet never shall my courage great consent So vile a death should end my noble days, Nor on mine arms within these walls ypent To-morrow's sun shall spread his timely rays: Let sacred Heavens dispose as they are bent Of this frail life, yet not withouten praise Of valor, prowess, might, Argantes shall Inglorious die, or unrevenged fall. VI "But if the roots of wonted chivalry Be not quite dead your princely breast within, Devise not how with frame and praise to die, But how to live, to conquer and to win; Let us together at these gates outfly, And skirmish bold and bloody fight begin; For when last need to desperation driveth, Who dareth most he wisest counsel giveth. VII "But if in field your wisdom dare not venture To hazard all your troops to doubtful fight, Then bind yourself to Godfrey by indenture, To end your quarrels by one single knight: And for the Christian this accord shall enter With better will, say such you know your right That he the weapons, place and time shall choose, And let him for his best, that vantage use. VIII "For though your foe had hands, like Hector strong, With heart unfeared, and courage stern and stout, Yet no misfortune can your justice wrong, And what that wanteth, shall this arm help out, In spite of fate shall this right hand ere long, Return victorious: if hereof you doubt, Take it for pledge, wherein if trust you have, It shall yourself defend and kingdom save." IX "Bold youth," the tyrant thus began to speak, "Although I withered seem with age and years, Yet are not these old arms so faint and weak, Nor this hoar head so full of doubts and fears But whenas death this vital thread shall break, He shall my courage hear, my death who hears: And Aladine that lived a king and knight, To his fair morn will have an evening bright. X "But that which yet I would have further blazed, To thee in secret shall be told and spoken, Great Soliman of Nice, so far ypraised, To be revenged for his sceptre broken, The men of arms of Araby hath raised, From Inde to Africk, and, when we give token, Attends the favor of the friendly night To victual us, and with our foes to fight. XI "Now though Godfredo hold by warlike feat Some castles poor and forts in vile oppression, Care not for that; for still our princely seat, This stately town, we keep in our possession, But thou appease and calm that courage great, Which in thy bosom make so hot impression; And stay fit time, which will betide ere long, To increase thy glory, and revenge our wrong." XII The Saracen at this was inly spited, Who Soliman's great worth had long envied, To hear him praised thus he naught delighted, Nor that the king upon his aid relied: "Within your power, sir king," he says, "united Are peace and war, nor shall that be denied; But for the Turk and his Arabian band, He lost his own, shall he defend your land? XIII "Perchance he comes some heavenly messenger, Sent down to set the Pagan people free, Then let Argantes for himself take care, This sword, I trust, shall well safe-conduct me: But while you rest and all your forces spare, That I go forth to war at least agree; Though not your champion, yet a private knight, I will some Christian prove in single fight." XIV The king replied, "Though thy force and might Should be reserved to better time and use; Yet that thou challenge some renowned knight, Among the Christians bold I not refuse." The warrior breathing out desire of fight, An herald called, and said, "Go tell those news To Godfrey's self, and to the western lords, And in their hearings boldly say these words: XV "Say that a knight, who holds in great disdain To be thus closed up in secret mew, Will with his sword in open field maintain, If any dare deny his words for true, That no devotion, as they falsely feign, Hath moved the French these countries to subdue; But vile ambition, and pride's hateful vice, Desire of rule, and spoil, and covetice. XVI "And that to fight I am not only prest With one or two that dare defend the cause, But come the fourth or fifth, come all the rest, Come all that will, and all that weapon draws, Let him that yields obey the victor's hest, As wills the lore of mighty Mars his laws:" This was the challenge that fierce Pagan sent, The herald donned his coat-of-arms, and went. XVII And when the man before the presence came Of princely Godfrey, and his captains bold: "My Lord," quoth he, "may I withouten blame Before your Grace, my message brave unfold?" "Thou mayest," he answered, "we approve the same; Withouten fear, be thine ambassage told." "Then," quoth the herald, "shall your highness see, If this ambassage sharp or pleasing be." XVIII The challenge gan he then at large expose, With mighty threats, high terms and glorious words; On every side an angry murmur rose, To wrath so moved were the knights and lords. Then Godfrey spake, and said, "The man hath chose An hard exploit, but when he feels our swords, I trust we shall so far entreat the knight, As to excuse the fourth or fifth of fight. XIX "But let him come and prove, the field I grant, Nor wrong nor treason let him doubt or fear, Some here shall pay him for his glorious vaunt, Without or guile, or vantage, that I swear. The herald turned when he had ended scant, And hasted back the way he came whileare, Nor stayed he aught, nor once forslowed his pace, Till he bespake Argantes face to face. XX "Arm you, my lord," he said, "your bold defies By your brave foes accepted boldly been, This combat neither high nor low denies, Ten thousand wish to meet you on the green; A thousand frowned with angry flaming eyes, And shaked for rage their swords and weapons keen; The field is safely granted by their guide," This said, the champion for his armor cried. XXI While he was armed, his heart for ire nigh brake, So yearned his courage hot his foes to find: The King to fair Clorinda present spake; "If he go forth, remain not you behind, But of our soldiers best a thousand take, To guard his person and your own assigned; Yet let him meet alone the Christian knight, And stand yourself aloof, while they two fight." XXII Thus spake the King, and soon without abode The troop went forth in shining armor clad, Before the rest the Pagan champion rode, His wonted arms and ensigns all he had: A goodly plain displayed wide and broad, Between the city and the camp was spread, A place like that wherein proud Rome beheld The forward young men manage spear and shield. XXIII There all alone Argantes took his stand, Defying Christ and all his servants true, In stature, stomach, and in strength of hand, In pride, presumption, and in dreadful show, Encelade like, on the Phlegrean strand, Or that huge giant Jesse's infant slew; But his fierce semblant they esteemed light, For most not knew, or else not feared his might. XXIV As yet not one had Godfrey singled out To undertake this hardy enterprise, But on Prince Tancred saw he all the rout Had fixed their wishes, and had cast their eyes, On him he spied them gazing round about, As though their honor on his prowess lies, And now they whispered louder what they meant, Which Godfrey heard and saw, and was content. XXV The rest gave place; for every one descried To whom their chieftain's will did most incline, "Tancred," quoth he, "I pray thee calm the pride, Abate the rage of yonder Saracine:" No longer would the chosen champion bide, His face with joy, his eyes with gladness shine, His helm he took, and ready steed bestrode, And guarded with his trusty friends forth rode. XXVI But scantly had he spurred his courser swift Near to the plain, where proud Argantes stayed, When unawares his eyes he chanced to lift, And on the hill beheld the warlike maid, As white as snow upon the Alpine clift The virgin shone in silver arms arrayed, Her vental up so high, that he descried Her goodly visage, and her beauty's pride. XXVII He saw not where the Pagan stood, and stared, As if with looks he would his foeman kill, But full of other thoughts he forward fared, And sent his looks before him up the hill, His gesture such his troubled soul declared, At last as marble rock he standeth still, Stone cold without; within, burnt with love's flame, And quite forgot himself, and why he came. XXVIII The challenger, that yet saw none appear That made or sign or show he came to just, "How long," cried he, "shall I attend you here? Dares none come forth? dares none his fortune trust?" The other stood amazed, love stopped his ear, He thinks on Cupid, think of Mars who lust; But forth stert Otho bold, and took the field, A gentle knight whom God from danger shield. XXIX This youth was one of those, who late desired With that vain-glorious boaster to have fought, But Tancred chosen, he and all retired; Now when his slackness he awhile admired, And saw elsewhere employed was his thought, Nor that to just, though chosen, once he proffered, He boldly took that fit occasion offered. XXX No tiger, panther, spotted leopard, Runs half so swift, the forests wild among, As this young champion hasted thitherward, Where he attending saw the Pagan strong: Tancredi started with the noise he heard, As waked from sleep, where he had dreamed long, "Oh stay," he cried, "to me belongs this war!" But cried too late, Otho was gone too far. XXXI Then full of fury, anger and despite, He stayed his horse, and waxed red for shame, The fight was his, but now disgraced quite Himself he thought, another played his game; Meanwhile the Saracen did hugely smite On Otho's helm, who to requite the same, His foe quite through his sevenfold targe did bear, And in his breastplate stuck and broke his spear. XXXII The encounter such, upon the tender grass, Down from his steed the Christian backward fell; Yet his proud foe so strong and sturdy was, That he nor shook, nor staggered in his sell, But to the knight that lay full low, alas, In high disdain his will thus gan he tell, "Yield thee my slave, and this thine honor be, Thou may'st report thou hast encountered me." XXXIII "Not so," quoth he, "pardy it's not the guise Of Christian knights, though fall'n, so soon to yield; I can my fall excuse in better wise, And will revenge this shame, or die in field." The great Circassian bent his frowning eyes, Like that grim visage in Minerva's shield, "Then learn," quoth he, "what force Argantes useth Against that fool that proffered grace refuseth." XXXIV With that he spurred his horse with speed and haste, Forgetting what good knights to virtue owe, Otho his fury shunned, and, as he passed, At his right side he reached a noble blow, Wide was the wound, the blood outstreamed fast, And from his side fell to his stirrup low: But what avails to hurt, if wounds augment Our foe's fierce courage, strength and hardiment? XXXV Argantes nimbly turned his ready steed, And ere his foe was wist or well aware, Against his side he drove his courser's head, What force could he gainst so great might prepare? Weak were his feeble joints, his courage dead, His heart amazed, his paleness showed his care, His tender side gainst the hard earth he cast, Shamed, with the first fall; bruised, with the last. XXXVI The victor spurred again his light-foot steed, And made his passage over Otho's heart, And cried, "These fools thus under foot I tread, That dare contend with me in equal mart." Tancred for anger shook his noble head, So was he grieved with that unknightly part; The fault was his, he was so slow before, With double valor would he salve that sore. XXXVII Forward he galloped fast, and loudly cried: "Villain," quoth he, "thy conquest is thy shame, What praise? what honor shall this fact betide? What gain? what guerdon shall befall the same? Among the Arabian thieves thy face go hide, Far from resort of men of worth and fame, Or else in woods and mountains wild, by night, On savage beasts employ thy savage might." XXXVIII The Pagan patience never knew, nor used, Trembling for ire, his sandy locks he tore, Out from his lips flew such a sound confused, As lions make in deserts thick, which roar; Or as when clouds together crushed and bruised, Pour down a tempest by the Caspian shore; So was his speech imperfect, stopped, and broken, He roared and thundered when he should have spoken. XXXIX But when with threats they both had whetted keen Their eager rage, their fury, spite and ire, They turned their steeds and left large space between To make their forces greater, 'proaching nigher, With terms that warlike and that worthy been: O sacred Muse, my haughty thoughts inspire, And make a trumpet of my slender quill To thunder out this furious combat shrill. XL These sons of Mavors bore, instead of spears, Two knotty masts, which none but they could lift, Each foaming steed so fast his master bears, That never beast, bird, shaft flew half so swift; Such was their fury, as when Boreas tears The shattered crags from Taurus' northern clift, Upon their helms their lances long they broke, And up to heaven flew splinters, sparks and smoke. XLI The shock made all the towers and turrets quake, And woods and mountains all nigh hand resound; Yet could not all that force and fury shake The valiant champions, nor their persons wound; Together hurtled both their steeds, and brake Each other's neck, the riders lay on ground: But they, great masters of war's dreadful art, Plucked forth their swords and soon from earth up start. XLII Close at his surest ward each warrior lieth, He wisely guides his hand, his foot, his eye, This blow he proveth, that defence he trieth, He traverseth, retireth, presseth nigh, Now strikes he out, and now he falsifieth, This blow he wardeth, that he lets slip by, And for advantage oft he lets some part Discovered seem; thus art deludeth art. XLIII The Pagan ill defenced with sword or targe, Tancredi's thigh, as he supposed, espied And reaching forth gainst it his weapon large, Quite naked to his foe leaves his left-side; Tancred avoideth quick his furious charge, And gave him eke a wound deep, sore and wide; That done, himself safe to his ward retired, His courage praised by all, his skill admired. XLIV The proud Circassian saw his streaming blood, Down from his wound, as from a fountain, running, He sighed for rage, and trembled as he stood, He blamed his fortune, folly, want of cunning; He lift his sword aloft, for ire nigh wood, And forward rushed: Tancred his fury shunning, With a sharp thrust once more the Pagan hit, To his broad shoulder where his arm is knit. XLV Like as a bear through pierced with a dart Within the secret woods, no further flieth, But bites the senseless weapon mad with smart, Seeking revenge till unrevenged she dieth; So mad Argantes fared, when his proud heart Wound upon wound, and shame on shame espieth, Desire of vengeance so o'ercame his senses, That he forgot all dangers, all defences. XLVI Uniting force extreme, with endless wrath, Supporting both with youth and strength untired, His thundering blows so fast about he layeth, That skies and earth the flying sparkles fired; His foe to strike one blow no leisure hath, Scantly he breathed, though he oft desired, His warlike skill and cunning all was waste, Such was Argantes' force, and such his haste. XLVII Long time Tancredi had in vain attended When this huge storm should overblow and pass, Some blows his mighty target well defended, Some fell beside, and wounded deep the grass; But when he saw the tempest never ended, Nor that the Paynim's force aught weaker was, He high advanced his cutting sword at length, And rage to rage opposed, and strength to strength. XLVIII Wrath bore the sway, both art and reason fail, Fury new force, and courage new supplies, Their armors forged were of metal frail, On every side thereof, huge cantels flies, The land was strewed all with plate and mail. That, on the earth; on that, their warm blood lies. And at each rush and every blow they smote Thunder the noise, the sparks, seemed lightning hot. XLIX The Christian people and the Pagans gazed, On this fierce combat wishing oft the end, Twixt hope and fear they stood long time amazed, To see the knights assail, and eke defend, Yet neither sign they made, nor noise they raised, But for the issue of the fight attend, And stood as still, as life and sense they wanted, Save that their hearts within their bosoms panted. L Now were they tired both, and well-nigh spent, Their blows show greater will than power to wound; But Night her gentle daughter Darkness, sent, With friendly shade to overspread the ground, Two heralds to the fighting champions went, To part the fray, as laws of arms them bound Aridens born in France, and wise Pindore, The man that brought the challenge proud before. LI These men their sceptres interpose, between The doubtful hazards of uncertain fight; For such their privilege hath ever been, The law of nations doth defend their right; Pindore began, "Stay, stay, you warriors keen, Equal your honor, equal is your might; Forbear this combat, so we deem it best, Give night her due, and grant your persons rest. LII "Man goeth forth to labor with the sun, But with the night, all creatures draw to sleep, Nor yet of hidden praise in darkness won The valiant heart of noble knight takes keep:" Argantes answered him, "The fight begun Now to forbear, doth wound my heart right deep: Yet will I stay, so that this Christian swear, Before you both, again to meet me here." LIII "I swear," quoth Tancred, "but swear thou likewise To make return thy prisoner eke with thee; Else for achievement of this enterprise, None other time but this expect of me;" Thus swore they both; the heralds both devise, What time for this exploit should fittest be: And for their wounds of rest and cure had need, To meet again the sixth day was decreed. LIV This fight was deep imprinted in their hearts That saw this bloody fray to ending brought, An horror great possessed their weaker parts, Which made them shrink who on their combat thought: Much speech was of the praise and high desarts Of these brave champions that so nobly fought; But which for knightly worth was most ypraised, Of that was doubt and disputation raised. LV All long to see them end this doubtful fray, And as they favor, so they wish success, These hope true virtue shall obtain the day, Those trust on fury, strength and hardiness; But on Erminia most this burden lay, Whose looks her trouble and her fear express; For on this dangerous combat's doubtful end Her joy, her comfort, hope and life depend. LVI Her the sole daughter of that hapless king, That of proud Antioch late wore the crown, The Christian soldiers to Tancredi bring, When they had sacked and spoiled that glorious town; But he, in whom all good and virtue spring, The virgin's honor saved, and her renown; And when her city and her state was lost, Then was her person loved and honored most. LVII He honored her, served her, and leave her gave, And willed her go whither and when she list, Her gold and jewels had he care to save, And them restored all, she nothing missed, She, that beheld this youth and person brave, When, by this deed, his noble mind she wist, Laid ope her heart for Cupid's shaft to hit, Who never knots of love more surer knit. LVIII Her body free, captivated was her heart, And love the keys did of that prison bear, Prepared to go, it was a death to part From that kind Lord, and from that prison dear, But thou, O honor, which esteemed art The chiefest virtue noble ladies wear, Enforcest her against her will, to wend To Aladine, her mother's dearest friend. LIX At Sion was this princess entertained, By that old tyrant and her mother dear, Whose loss too soon the woful damsel plained, Her grief was such, she lived not half the year, Yet banishment, nor loss of friends constrained The hapless maid her passions to forbear, For though exceeding were her woe and grief, Of all her sorrows yet her love was chief. LX The silly maid in secret longing pined, Her hope a mote drawn up by Phoebus' rays, Her love a mountain seemed, whereon bright shined Fresh memory of Tancred's worth and praise, Within her closet if her self she shrined, A hotter fire her tender heart assays: Tancred at last, to raise her hope nigh dead, Before those walls did his broad ensign spread. LXI The rest to view the Christian army feared, Such seemed their number, such their power and might, But she alone her troubled forehead cleared, And on them spread her beauty shining bright; In every squadron when it first appeared, Her curious eye sought out her chosen knight; And every gallant that the rest excels, The same seems him, so love and fancy tells. LXII Within the kingly palace builded high, A turret standeth near the city's wall, From which Erminia might at ease descry The western host, the plains and mountains all, And there she stood all the long day to spy, From Phoebus' rising to his evening fall, And with her thoughts disputed of his praise, And every thought a scalding sigh did raise. LXIII From hence the furious combat she surveyed, And felt her heart tremble with fear and pain, Her secret thoughts thus to her fancy said, Behold thy dear in danger to be slain; So with suspect, with fear and grief dismayed, Attended she her darling's loss or gain, And ever when the Pagan lift his blade, The stroke a wound in her weak bosom made. LXIV But when she saw the end, and wist withal Their strong contention should eftsoons begin, Amazement strange her courage did appal, Her vital blood was icy cold within; Sometimes she sighed, sometimes tears let fall, To witness what distress her heart was in; Hopeless, dismayed, pale, sad, astonished, Her love, her fear; her fear, her torment bred. LXV Her idle brain unto her soul presented Death in an hundred ugly fashions painted, And if she slept, then was her grief augmented, With such sad visions were her thoughts acquainted; She saw her lord with wounds and hurts tormented, How he complained, called for her help, and fainted, And found, awaked from that unquiet sleeping, Her heart with panting sore; eyes, red with weeping. LXVI Yet these presages of his coming ill, Not greatest cause of her discomfort were, She saw his blood from his deep wounds distil, Nor what he suffered could she bide or bear: Besides, report her longing ear did fill, Doubling his danger, doubling so her fear, That she concludes, so was her courage lost, Her wounded lord was weak, faint, dead almost. LXVII And for her mother had her taught before The secret virtue of each herb that springs, Besides fit charms for every wound or sore Corruption breedeth or misfortune brings,-- An art esteemed in those times of yore, Beseeming daughters of great lords and kings-- She would herself be surgeon to her knight, And heal him with her skill, or with her sight. LXVIII Thus would she cure her love, and cure her foe She must, that had her friends and kinsfolk slain: Some cursed weeds her cunning hand did know, That could augment his harm, increase his pain; But she abhorred to be revenged so, No treason should her spotless person stain, And virtueless she wished all herbs and charms Wherewith false men increase their patients' harms. LXIX Nor feared she among the bands to stray Of armed men, for often had she seen The tragic end of many a bloody fray; Her life had full of haps and hazards been, This made her bold in every hard assay, More than her feeble sex became, I ween; She feared not the shake of every reed, So cowards are courageous made through need. LXX Love, fearless, hardy, and audacious love, Emboldened had this tender damsel so, That where wild beasts and serpents glide and move Through Afric's deserts durst she ride or go, Save that her honor, she esteemed above Her life and body's safety, told her no; For in the secret of her troubled thought, A doubtful combat, love and honor fought. LXXI "O spotless virgin," Honor thus begun, "That my true lore observed firmly hast, When with thy foes thou didst in bondage won, Remember then I kept thee pure and chaste, At liberty now, where wouldest thou run, To lay that field of princely virtue waste, Or lose that jewel ladies hold so dear? Is maidenhood so great a load to bear? LXXII "Or deem'st thou it a praise of little prize, The glorious title of a virgin's name? That thou will gad by night in giglot wise, Amid thine armed foes, to seek thy shame. O fool, a woman conquers when she flies, Refusal kindleth, proffers quench the flame. Thy lord will judge thou sinnest beyond measure, If vainly thus thou waste so rich a treasure." LXXIII The sly deceiver Cupid thus beguiled The simple damsel, with his filed tongue: "Thou wert not born," quoth he, "in desert wild The cruel bears and savage beasts among, That you shouldest scorn fair Citherea's child, Or hate those pleasures that to youth belong, Nor did the gods thy heart of iron frame; To be in love is neither sin nor shame. LXXIV "Go then, go, whither sweet desire inviteth, How can thy gentle knight so cruel be? Love in his heart thy grief and sorrows writeth, For thy laments how he complaineth, see. Oh cruel woman, whom no care exciteth To save his life, that saved and honored thee! He languished, one foot thou wilt not move To succor him, yet say'st thou art in love. LXXV "No, no, stay here Argantes' wounds to cure, And make him strong to shed thy darling's blood, Of such reward he may himself assure, That doth a thankless woman so much good: Ah, may it be thy patience can endure To see the strength of this Circassian wood, And not with horror and amazement shrink, When on their future fight thou hap'st to think? LXXVI "Besides the thanks and praises for the deed, Suppose what joy, what comfort shalt thou win, When thy soft hand doth wholesome plaisters speed, Upon the breaches in his ivory skin, Thence to thy dearest lord may health succeed, Strength to his limbs, blood to his cheeks so thin, And his rare beauties, now half dead and more, Thou may'st to him, him to thyself restore. LXXVII "So shall some part of his adventures bold And valiant acts henceforth be held as thine; His dear embracements shall thee straight enfold, Together joined in marriage rites divine: Lastly high place of honor shalt thou hold Among the matrons sage and dames Latine, In Italy, a land, as each one tells, Where valor true, and true religion dwells." LXXVIII With such vain hopes the silly maid abused, Promised herself mountains and hills of gold; Yet were her thoughts with doubts and fears confused How to escape unseen out of that hold, Because the watchman every minute used To guard the walls against the Christians bold, And in such fury and such heat of war, The gates or seld or never opened are. LXXIX With strong Clorinda was Erminia sweet In surest links of dearest friendship bound, With her she used the rising sun to greet, And her, when Phoebus glided under ground, She made the lovely partner of her sheet; In both their hearts one will, one thought was found; Nor aught she hid from that virago bold, Except her love, that tale to none she told. LXXX That kept she secret, if Clorinda heard Her make complaints, or secretly lament, To other cause her sorrow she referred: Matter enough she had of discontent, Like as the bird that having close imbarred Her tender young ones in the springing bent, To draw the searcher further from her nest, Cries and complains most where she needeth least. LXXXI Alone, within her chamber's secret part, Sitting one day upon her heavy thought, Devising by what means, what sleight, what art, Her close departure should be safest wrought, Assembled in her unresolved heart An hundred passions strove and ceaseless fought; At last she saw high hanging on the wall Clorinda's silver arms, and sighed withal: LXXXII And sighing, softly to herself she said, "How blessed is this virgin in her might? How I envy the glory of the maid, Yet envy not her shape, or beauty's light; Her steps are not with trailing garments stayed, Nor chambers hide her valor shining bright; But armed she rides, and breaketh sword and spear, Nor is her strength restrained by shame or fear. LXXXIII "Alas, why did not Heaven these members frail With lively force and vigor strengthen so That I this silken gown and slender veil Might for a breastplate and an helm forego? Then should not heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor hail, Nor storms that fall, nor blustering winds that blow Withhold me, but I would both day and night, In pitched field, or private combat fight. LXXXIV "Nor haddest thou, Argantes, first begun With my dear lord that fierce and cruel fight, But I to that encounter would have run, And haply ta'en him captive by my might; Yet should he find, our furious combat done, His thraldom easy, and his bondage light; For fetters, mine embracements should he prove; For diet, kisses sweet; for keeper, love. LXXXV "Or else my tender bosom opened wide, And heart though pierced with his cruel blade, The bloody weapon in my wounded side Might cure the wound which love before had made; Then should my soul in rest and quiet slide Down to the valleys of the Elysian shade, And my mishap the knight perchance would move, To shed some tears upon his murdered love. LXXXVI "Alas! impossible are all these things, Such wishes vain afflict my woful sprite, Why yield I thus to plaints and sorrowings, As if all hope and help were perished quite? My heart dares much, it soars with Cupid's wings, Why use I not for once these armors bright? I may sustain awhile this shield aloft, Though I be tender, feeble, weak and soft. LXXXVII "Love, strong, bold, mighty never-tired love, Supplieth force to all his servants true; The fearful stags he doth to battle move, Till each his horns in others' blood imbrue; Yet mean not I the haps of war to prove, A stratagem I have devised new, Clorinda-like in this fair harness dight, I will escape out of the town this night. LXXXVIII "I know the men that have the gate to ward, If she command dare not her will deny, In what sort else could I beguile the guard? This way is only left, this will I try: O gentle love, in this adventure hard Thine handmaid guide, assist and fortify! The time, the hour now fitteth best the thing, While stout Clorinda talketh with the king." LXXXIX Resolved thus, without delay she went, As her strong passion did her rashly guide, And those bright arms, down from the rafter hent, Within her closet did she closely hide; That might she do unseen, for she had sent The rest, on sleeveless errands from her side, And night her stealths brought to their wished end, Night, patroness of thieves, and lovers' friend. XC Some sparkling fires on heaven's bright visage shone; His azure robe the orient blueness lost, When she, whose wit and reason both were gone, Called for a squire she loved and trusted most, To whom and to a maid, a faithful one, Part of her will she told, how that in post She would depart from Juda's king, and feigned That other cause her sudden flight constrained. XCI The trusty squire provided needments meet, As for their journey fitting most should be; Meanwhile her vesture, pendant to her feet, Erminia doft, as erst determined she, Stripped to her petticoat the virgin sweet So slender was, that wonder was to see; Her handmaid ready at her mistress' will, To arm her helped, though simple were her skill. XCII The rugged steel oppressed and offended Her dainty neck, and locks of shining gold; Her tender arm so feeble was, it bended When that huge target it presumed to hold, The burnished steel bright rays far off extended, She feigned courage, and appeared bold; Fast by her side unseen smiled Venus' son, As erst he laughed when Alcides spun. XCIII Oh, with what labor did her shoulders bear That heavy burthen, and how slow she went! Her maid, to see that all the coasts were clear, Before her mistress, through the streets was sent; Love gave her courage, love exiled fear, Love to her tired limbs new vigor lent, Till she approached where the squire abode, There took they horse forthwith and forward rode. XCIV Disguised they went, and by unused ways, And secret paths they strove unseen to gone, Until the watch they meet, which sore affrays Their soldiers new, when swords and weapons shone Yet none to stop their journey once essays, But place and passage yielded every one; For that bright armor, and that helmet bright, Were known and feared, in the darkest night. XCV Erminia, though some deal she were dismayed, Yet went she on, and goodly countenance bore, She doubted lest her purpose were bewrayed, Her too much boldness she repented sore; But now the gate her fear and passage stayed, The heedless porter she beguiled therefore, "I am Clorinda, ope the gate," she cried, "Where as the king commands, this late I ride." XCVI Her woman's voice and terms all framed been, Most like the speeches of the princess stout, Who would have thought on horseback to have seen That feeble damsel armed round about? The porter her obeyed, and she, between Her trusty squire and maiden, sallied out, And through the secret dales they silent pass, Where danger least, least fear, least peril was. XCVII But when these fair adventurers entered were Deep in a vale, Erminia stayed her haste, To be recalled she had no cause to fear, This foremost hazard had she trimly past; But dangers new, tofore unseen, appear, New perils she descried, new doubts she cast. The way that her desire to quiet brought, More difficult now seemed than erst she thought. XCVIII Armed to ride among her angry foes, She now perceived it were great oversight, Yet would she not, she thought, herself disclose, Until she came before her chosen knight, To him she purposed to present the rose Pure, spotless, clean, untouched of mortal wight, She stayed therefore, and in her thoughts more wise, She called her squire, whom thus she gan advise. XCIX "Thou must," quoth she, "be mine ambassador, Be wise, be careful, true, and diligent, Go to the camp, present thyself before The Prince Tancredi, wounded in his tent; Tell him thy mistress comes to cure his sore, If he to grant her peace and rest consent Gainst whom fierce love such cruel war hath raised, So shall his wounds be cured, her torments eased. C "And say, in him such hope and trust she hath, That in his powers she fears no shame nor scorn, Tell him thus much, and whatso'er he saith, Unfold no more, but make a quick return, I, for this place is free from harm and scath, Within this valley will meanwhile sojourn." Thus spake the princess: and her servant true To execute the charge imposed, flew; CI And was received, he so discreetly wrought, First of the watch that guarded in their place, Before the wounded prince then was he brought, Who heard his message kind, with gentle grace, Which told, he left him tossing in his thought A thousand doubts, and turned his speedy pace To bring his lady and his mistress word, She might be welcome to that courteous lord. CII But she, impatient, to whose desire Grievous and harmful seemed each little stay, Recounts his steps, and thinks, now draws he nigher, Now enters in, now speaks, now comes his way; And that which grieved her most, the careful squire Less speedy seemed than e'er before that day; Lastly she forward rode with love to guide, Until the Christian tents at hand she spied. CIII Invested in her starry veil, the night In her kind arms embraced all this round, The silver moon from sea uprising bright Spread frosty pearl upon the candid ground: And Cynthia-like for beauty's glorious light The love-sick nymph threw glittering beams around, And counsellors of her old love she made Those valleys dumb, that silence, and that shade. CIV Beholding then the camp, quoth she, "O fair And castle-like pavilions, richly wrought! From you how sweet methinketh blows the air, How comforts it my heart, my soul, my thought? Through heaven's fair face from gulf of sad despair My tossed bark to port well-nigh is brought: In you I seek redress for all my harms, Rest, midst your weapons; peace, amongst your arms. CV "Receive me, then, and let me mercy find, As gentle love assureth me I shall, Among you had I entertainment kind When first I was the Prince Tancredi's thrall: I covet not, led by ambition blind You should me in my father's throne install, Might I but serve in you my lord so dear, That my content, my joy, my comfort were." CVI Thus parleyed she, poor soul, and never feared The sudden blow of Fortune's cruel spite, She stood where Phoebe's splendent beam appeared Upon her silver armor double bright, The place about her round she shining cleared With that pure white wherein the nymph was dight: The tigress great, that on her helmet laid, Bore witness where she went, and where she stayed. CVII So as her fortune would, a Christian band Their secret ambush there had closely framed, Led by two brothers of Italia land, Young Poliphern and Alicandro named, These with their forces watched to withstand Those that brought victuals to their foes untamed, And kept that passage; them Erminia spied, And fled as fast as her swift steed could ride. CVIII But Poliphern, before whose watery eyes, His aged father strong Clorinda slew, When that bright shield and silver helm he spies, The championess he thought he saw and knew; Upon his hidden mates for aid he cries Gainst his supposed foe, and forth he flew, As he was rash, and heedless in his wrath, Bending his lance, "Thou art but dead," he saith. CIX As when a chased hind her course doth bend To seek by soil to find some ease or goad; Whether from craggy rock the spring descend, Or softly glide within the shady wood; If there the dogs she meet, where late she wend To comfort her weak limbs in cooling flood, Again she flies swift as she fled at first, Forgetting weakness, weariness and thirst. CX So she, that thought to rest her weary sprite, And quench the endless thirst of ardent love With dear embracements of her lord and knight, But such as marriage rites should first approve, When she beheld her foe, with weapon bright Threatening her death, his trusty courser move, Her love, her lord, herself abandoned, She spurred her speedy steed, and swift she fled. CXI Erminia fled, scantly the tender grass Her Pegasus with his light footsteps bent, Her maiden's beast for speed did likewise pass; Yet divers ways, such was their fear, they went: The squire who all too late returned, alas. With tardy news from Prince Tancredi's tent, Fled likewise, when he saw his mistress gone, It booted not to sojourn there alone. CXII But Alicandro wiser than the rest, Who this supposed Clorinda saw likewise, To follow her yet was he nothing pressed, But in his ambush still and close he lies, A messenger to Godfrey he addressed, That should him of this accident advise, How that his brother chased with naked blade Clorinda's self, or else Clorinda's shade. CXIII Yet that it was, or that it could be she, He had small cause or reason to suppose, Occasion great and weighty must it be Should make her ride by night among her foes: What Godfrey willed that observed he, And with his soldiers lay in ambush close: These news through all the Christian army went, In every cabin talked, in every tent. CXIV Tancred, whose thoughts the squire had filled with doubt By his sweet words, supposed now hearing this, Alas! the virgin came to seek me out, And for my sake her life in danger is; Himself forthwith he singled from the rout, And rode in haste, though half his arms he miss; Among those sandy fields and valleys green, To seek his love, he galloped fast unseen. SEVENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. A shepherd fair Erminia entertains, Whom whilst Tancredi seeks in vain to find, He is entrapped in Armida's trains: Raymond with strong Argantes is assigned To fight, an angel to his aid he gains: Satan that sees the Pagan's fury blind, And hasty wrath turn to his loss and harm, Doth raise new tempest, uproar and alarm. I Erminia's steed this while his mistress bore Through forests thick among the shady treen, Her feeble hand the bridle reins forlore, Half in a swoon she was, for fear I ween; But her fleet courser spared ne'er the more, To bear her through the desert woods unseen Of her strong foes, that chased her through the plain, And still pursued, but still pursued in vain. II Like as the weary hounds at last retire, Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase, When the sly beast tapished in bush and brier, No art nor pains can rouse out of his place: The Christian knights so full of shame and ire Returned back, with faint and weary pace: Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind, Nor ever stayed, nor ever looked behind. III Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she drived, Withouten comfort, company, or guide, Her plaints and tears with every thought revived, She heard and saw her griefs, but naught beside: But when the sun his burning chariot dived In Thetis' wave, and weary team untied, On Jordan's sandy banks her course she stayed At last, there down she light, and down she laid. IV Her tears, her drink; her food, her sorrowings, This was her diet that unhappy night: But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings, To ease the griefs of discontented wight, Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, In his dull arms folding the virgin bright; And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept. V The birds awaked her with their morning song, Their warbling music pierced her tender ear, The murmuring brooks and whistling winds among The rattling boughs and leaves, their parts did bear; Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings were; And that sweet noise, birds, winds and waters sent, Provoked again the virgin to lament. VI Her plaints were interrupted with a sound, That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed, Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round, And to his voice he tuned his oaten reed; Thither she went, an old man there she found, At whose right hand his little flock did feed, Sat making baskets, his three sons among, That learned their father's art, and learned his song. VII Beholding one in shining Arms appear, The seely man and his were sore dismay'd; But sweet Erminia comforted their fear, Her vental up, her visage open laid; You happy folk, of heav'n beloved dear, Work on, quoth she, upon your harmless trade; These dreadful arms, I bear, no warfare bring To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you sing. VIII "But, father, since this land, these towns and towers Destroyed are with sword, with fire and spoil, How may it be unhurt that you and yours In safety thus apply your harmless toil?" "My son," quoth he, "this poor estate of ours Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil; This wilderness doth us in safety keep, No thundering drum, no trumpet breaks our sleep. IX "Haply just Heaven's defence and shield of right Doth love the innocence of simple swains, The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, And seld or never strike the lower plains; So kings have cause to fear Bellona's might, Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner gains, Nor ever greedy soldier was enticed By poverty, neglected and despised. X "O poverty, chief of the heavenly brood, Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crown: No wish for honor, thirst of others' good, Can move my heart, contented with mine own: We quench our thirst with water of this flood, Nor fear we poison should therein be thrown; These little flocks of sheep and tender goats Give milk for food, and wool to make us coats. XI "We little wish, we need but little wealth, From cold and hunger us to clothe and feed; These are my sons, their care preserves from stealth Their father's flocks, nor servants more I need: Amid these groves I walk oft for my health, And to the fishes, birds, and beasts give heed, How they are fed, in forest, spring and lake, And their contentment for example take. XII "Time was, for each one hath his doating time, These silver locks were golden tresses then, That country life I hated as a crime, And from the forest's sweet contentment ran, And there became the mighty caliph's man, and though I but a simple gardener were, Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear. XIII "Enticed on with hope of future gain, I suffered long what did my soul displease; But when my youth was spent, my hope was vain. I felt my native strength at last decrease; I gan my loss of lusty years complain, And wished I had enjoyed the country's peace; I bade the court farewell, and with content My latter age here have I quiet spent." XIV While thus he spake, Erminia hushed and still His wise discourses heard, with great attention, His speeches grave those idle fancies kill Which in her troubled soul bred such dissension; After much thought reformed was her will, Within those woods to dwell was her intention, Till Fortune should occasion new afford, To turn her home to her desired lord. XV She said therefore, "O shepherd fortunate! That troubles some didst whilom feel and prove, Yet livest now in this contented state, Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move, To entertain me as a willing mate In shepherd's life which I admire and love; Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart, Of her discomforts, may unload some part. XVI "If gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear, If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize, Such store thereof, such plenty have I here, As to a greedy mind might well suffice:" With that down trickled many a silver tear, Two crystal streams fell from her watery eyes; Part of her sad misfortunes then she told, And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. XVII With speeches kind, he gan the virgin dear Toward his cottage gently home to guide; His aged wife there made her homely cheer, Yet welcomed her, and placed her by her side. The princess donned a poor pastoral's gear, A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied; But yet her gestures and her looks, I guess, Were such as ill beseemed a shepherdess. XVIII Not those rude garments could obscure and hide The heavenly beauty of her angel's face, Nor was her princely offspring damnified Or aught disparaged by those labors base; Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, And milk her goats, and in their folds them place, Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame Herself to please the shepherd and his dame. XIX But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus' scorching rays, Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made, And them engraved in bark of beech and bays; She told how Cupid did her first invade, How conquered her, and ends with Tancred's praise: And when her passion's writ she over read, Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed. XX "You happy trees forever keep," quoth she, "This woful story in your tender rind, Another day under your shade maybe Will come to rest again some lover kind; Who if these trophies of my griefs he see, Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind;" With that she sighed and said, "Too late I prove There is no troth in fortune, trust in love. XXI "Yet may it be, if gracious heavens attend The earnest suit of a distressed wight, At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send To these huge deserts that unthankful knight, That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend, And sees my grave, my tomb, and ashes light, My woful death his stubborn heart may move, With tears and sorrows to reward my love. XXII "So, though my life hath most unhappy been, At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest, My ashes cold shall, buried on this green, Enjoy that good this body ne'er possessed." Thus she complained to the senseless treen, Floods in her eyes, and fires were in her breast; But he for whom these streams of tears she shed, Wandered far off, alas, as chance him led. XXIII He followed on the footsteps he had traced, Till in high woods and forests old he came, Where bushes, thorns and trees so thick were placed, And so obscure the shadows of the same, That soon he lost the tract wherein he paced; Yet went he on, which way he could not aim, But still attentive was his longing ear If noise of horse or noise of arms he hear. XXIV If with the breathing of the gentle wind, An aspen leaf but shaked on the tree, If bird or beast stirred in the bushes blind, Thither he spurred, thither he rode to see: Out of the wood by Cynthia's favor kind, At last, with travel great and pains, got he, And following on a little path, he heard A rumbling sound, and hasted thitherward. XXV It was a fountain from the living stone, That poured down clear streams in noble store, Whose conduit pipes, united all in one, Throughout a rocky channel ghastly roar; Here Tancred stayed, and called, yet answered none, Save babbling echo, from the crooked shore; And there the weary knight at last espies The springing daylight red and white arise. XXVI He sighed sore, and guiltless heaven gan blame, That wished success to his desire denied, And sharp revenge protested for the same, If aught but good his mistress fair betide; Then wished he to return the way he came, Although he wist not by what path to ride, And time drew near when he again must fight With proud Argantes, that vain-glorious knight. XXVII His stalwart steed the champion stout bestrode And pricked fast to find the way he lost, But through a valley as he musing rode, He saw a man that seemed for haste a post, His horn was hung between his shoulders broad, As is the guise with us: Tancredi crossed His way, and gently prayed the man to say, To Godfrey's camp how he should find the way. XXVIII "Sir," in the Italian language answered he, "I ride where noble Boemond hath me sent:" The prince thought this his uncle's man should be, And after him his course with speed he bent, A fortress stately built at last they see, Bout which a muddy stinking lake there went, There they arrived when Titan went to rest His weary limbs in night's untroubled nest. XXIX The courier gave the fort a warning blast; The drawbridge was let down by them within: "If thou a Christian be," quoth he, "thou mayest Till Phoebus shine again, here take thine inn, The County of Cosenza, three days past, This castle from the Turks did nobly win." The prince beheld the piece, which site and art Impregnable had made on every part. XXX He feared within a pile so fortified Some secret treason or enchantment lay, But had he known even there he should have died, Yet should his looks no sign of fear betray; For wheresoever will or chance him guide, His strong victorious hand still made him way: Yet for the combat he must shortly make, No new adventures list he undertake. XXXI Before the castle, in a meadow plain Beside the bridge's end, he stayed and stood, Nor was entreated by the speeches vain Of his false guide, to pass beyond the flood. Upon the bridge appeared a warlike swain, From top to toe all clad in armor good, Who brandishing a broad and cutting sword, Thus threatened death with many an idle word. XXXII "O thou, whom chance or will brings to the soil, Where fair Armida doth the sceptre guide, Thou canst not fly, of arms thyself despoil, And let thy hands with iron chains be tied; Enter and rest thee from thy weary toil. Within this dungeon shalt thou safe abide, And never hope again to see the day, Or that thy hair for age shall turn to gray; XXXIII "Except thou swear her valiant knights to aid Against those traitors of the Christian crew." Tancred at this discourse a little stayed, His arms, his gesture, and his voice he knew: It was Rambaldo, who for that false maid Forsook his country and religion true, And of that fort defender chief became, And those vile customs stablished in the same. XXXIV The warrior answered, blushing red for shame, "Cursed apostate, and ungracious wight, I am that Tancred who defend the name Of Christ, and have been aye his faithful knight; His rebel foes can I subdue and tame, As thou shalt find before we end this fight; And thy false heart cleft with this vengeful sword, Shall feel the ire of thy forsaken Lord." XXXV When that great name Rambaldo's ears did fill, He shook for fear and looked pale for dread, Yet proudly said, "Tancred, thy hap was ill To wander hither where thou art but dead, Where naught can help, thy courage, strength and skill; To Godfrey will I send thy cursed head, That he may see, how for Armida's sake, Of him and of his Christ a scorn I make." XXXVI This said, the day to sable night was turned, That scant one could another's arms descry, But soon an hundred lamps and torches burned, That cleared all the earth and all the sky; The castle seemed a stage with lights adorned, On which men play some pompous tragedy; Within a terrace sat on high the queen, And heard, and saw, and kept herself unseen. XXXVII The noble baron whet his courage hot, And busked him boldly to the dreadful fight; Upon his horse long while he tarried not, Because on foot he saw the Pagan knight, Who underneath his trusty shield was got, His sword was drawn, closed was his helmet bright, Gainst whom the prince marched on a stately pace, Wrath in his voice, rage in his eyes and face. XXXVIII His foe, his furious charge not well abiding, Traversed his ground, and stated here and there, But he, though faint and weary both with riding, Yet followed fast and still oppressed him near, And on what side he felt Rambaldo sliding, On that his forces most employed were; Now at his helm, not at his hauberk bright, He thundered blows, now at his face and sight. XXXIX Against those members battery chief he maketh, Wherein man's life keeps chiefest residence; At his proud threats the Gascoign warrior quaketh, And uncouth fear appalled every sense, To nimble shifts the knight himself betaketh, And skippeth here and there for his defence: Now with his rage, now with his trusty blade, Against his blows he good resistance made. XL Yet no such quickness for defence he used, As did the prince to work him harm and scathe; His shield was cleft in twain, his helmet bruised, And in his blood his other arms did bathe; On him he heaped blows, with thrusts confused, And more or less each stroke annoyed him hath; He feared, and in his troubled bosom strove Remorse of conscience, shame, disdain and love. XLI At last so careless foul despair him made, He meant to prove his fortune ill or good, His shield cast down, he took his helpless blade In both his hands, which yet had drawn no blood, And with such force upon the prince he laid, That neither plate nor mail the blow withstood, The wicked steel seized deep in his right side, And with his streaming blood his bases dyed: XLII Another stroke he lent him on the brow, So great that loudly rung the sounding steel; Yet pierced he not the helmet with the blow, Although the owner twice or thrice did reel. The prince, whose looks disdainful anger show, Now meant to use his puissance every deal, He shaked his head and crashed his teeth for ire, His lips breathed wrath, eyes sparkled shining fire. XLIII The Pagan wretch no longer could sustain The dreadful terror of his fierce aspect, Against the threatened blow he saw right plain No tempered armor could his life protect, He leapt aside, the stroke fell down in vain, Against a pillar near a bridge erect. Thence flaming fire and thousand sparks outstart, And kill with fear the coward Pagan's heart. XLIV Toward the bridge the fearful Paynim fled, And in swift flight, his hope of life reposed; Himself fast after Lord Tancredi sped, And now in equal pace almost they closed, When all the burning lamps extinguished The shining fort his goodly splendor losed, And all those stars on heaven's blue face that shone With Cynthia's self, dispeared were and gone. XLV Amid those witchcrafts and that ugly shade, No further could the prince pursue the chase, Nothing he saw, yet forward still he made, With doubtful steps, and ill assured pace; At last his foot upon a threshold trad, And ere he wist, he entered had the place; With ghastly noise the door-leaves shut behind, And closed him fast in prison dark and blind. XLVI As in our seas in the Commachian Bay, A silly fish, with streams enclosed, striveth, To shun the fury and avoid the sway Wherewith the current in that whirlpool driveth, Yet seeketh all in vain, but finds no way Out of that watery prison, where she diveth: For with such force there be the tides in brought, There entereth all that will, thence issueth naught: XLVII This prison so entrapped that valiant knight; Of which the gate was framed by subtle train, To close without the help of human wight, So sure none could undo the leaves again; Against the doors he bended all his might, But all his forces were employed in vain, At last a voice gan to him loudly call, "Yield thee," quoth it, "thou art Armida's thrall." XLVIII "Within this dungeon buried shalt thou spend The res'due of thy woful days and years;" The champion list not more with words contend, But in his heart kept close his griefs and fears, He blamed love, chance gan he reprehend, And gainst enchantment huge complaints he rears. "It were small loss," softly he thus begun, "To lose the brightness of the shining sun; XLIX "But I, alas, the golden beam forego Of my far brighter sun; nor can I say If these poor eyes shall e'er be blessed so, As once again to view that shining ray:" Then thought he on his proud Circassian foe, And said, "Ah! how shall I perform that fray? He, and the world with him, will Tancred blame, This is my grief, my fault, mine endless shame." L While those high spirits of this champion good, With love and honor's care are thus oppressed, While he torments himself, Argantes wood, Waxed weary of his bed and of his rest, Such hate of peace, and such desire of blood, Such thirst of glory, boiled in his breast; That though he scant could stir or stand upright, Yet longed he for the appointed day to fight. LI The night which that expected day forewent, Scantly the Pagan closed his eyes to sleep, He told how night her sliding hours spent, And rose ere springing day began to peep; He called for armor, which incontinent Was brought by him that used the same to keep, That harness rich old Aladine him gave, A worthy present for a champion brave. LII He donned them on, not long their riches eyed, Nor did he aught with so great weight incline, His wonted sword upon his thigh he tied, The blade was old and tough, of temper fine. As when a comet far and wide descried, In scorn of Phoebus midst bright heaven doth shine, And tidings sad of death and mischief brings To mighty lords, to monarchs, and to kings: LIII So shone the Pagan in bright armor clad, And rolled his eyes great swollen with ire and blood, His dreadful gestures threatened horror sad, And ugly death upon his forehead stood; Not one of all his squires the courage had To approach their master in his angry mood, Above his head he shook his naked blade, And gainst the subtle air vain battle made. LIV "The Christian thief," quoth he, "that was so bold To combat me in hard and single fight, Shall wounded fall inglorious on the mould, His locks with clods of blood and dust bedight, And living shall with watery eyes behold How from his back I tear his harness bright, Nor shall his dying words me so entreat, But that I'll give his flesh to dogs for meat." LV Like as a bull when, pricked with jealousy, He spies the rival of his hot desire, Through all the fields doth bellow, roar and cry, And with his thundering voice augments his ire, And threatening battle to the empty sky, Tears with his horn each tree, plant, bush and brier, And with his foot casts up the sand on height, Defying his strong foe to deadly fight: LVI Such was the Pagan's fury, such his cry. A herald called he then, and thus he spake; "Go to the camp, and in my name, defy The man that combats for his Jesus' sake;" This said, upon his steed he mounted high, And with him did his noble prisoner take, The town he thus forsook, and on the green He ran, as mad or frantic he had been. LVII A bugle small he winded loud and shrill, That made resound the fields and valleys near, Louder than thunder from Olympus hill Seemed that dreadful blast to all that hear; The Christian lords of prowess, strength and skill, Within the imperial tent assembled were, The herald there in boasting terms defied Tancredi first, and all that durst beside. LVIII With sober chear Godfredo look'd about, And viewed at leisure every lord and knight; But yet for all his looks not one stepped out, With courage bold, to undertake the fight: Absent were all the Christian champions stout, No news of Tancred since his secret flight; Boemond far off, and banished from the crew Was that strong prince who proud Gernando slew: LIX And eke those ten which chosen were by lot, And all the worthies of the camp beside, After Armida false were followed hot, When night were come their secret flight to hide; The rest their hands and hearts that trusted not, Blushed for shame, yet silent still abide; For none there was that sought to purchase fame In so great peril, fear exiled shame. LX The angry duke their fear discovered plain, By their pale looks and silence from each part, And as he moved was with just disdain, These words he said, and from his seat upstart: "Unworthy life I judge that coward swain To hazard it even now that wants the heart, When this vile Pagan with his glorious boast Dishonors and defies Christ's sacred host. LXI "But let my camp sit still in peace and rest, And my life's hazard at their ease behold. Come bring me here my fairest arms and best;" And they were brought sooner than could be told. But gentle Raymond in his aged breast, Who had mature advice, and counsel old, Than whom in all the camp were none or few Of greater might, before Godfredo drew, LXII And gravely said, "Ah, let it not betide, On one man's hand to venture all this host! No private soldier thou, thou art our guide, If thou miscarry, all our hope were lost, By thee must Babel fall, and all her pride; Of our true faith thou art the prop and post, Rule with thy sceptre, conquer with thy word, Let others combat make with spear and sword. LXIII "Let me this Pagan's glorious pride assuage, These aged arms can yet their weapons use, Let others shun Bellona's dreadful rage, These silver locks shall not Raymondo scuse: Oh that I were in prime of lusty age, Like you that this adventure brave refuse, And dare not once lift up your coward eyes, Gainst him that you and Christ himself defies! LXIV "Or as I was when all the lords of fame And Germain princes great stood by to view, In Conrad's court, the second of that name, When Leopold in single fight I slew; A greater praise I reaped by the same, So strong a foe in combat to subdue, Than he should do who all alone should chase Or kill a thousand of these Pagans base. LXV "Within these arms, had I that strength again, This boasting Paynim had not lived till now, Yet in this breast doth courage still remain; For age or years these members shall not bow; And if I be in this encounter slain, Scotfree Argantes shall not scape, I vow; Give me mine arms, this battle shall with praise Augment mine honor, got in younger days." LXVI The jolly baron old thus bravely spake, His words are spurs to virtue; every knight That seemed before to tremble and to quake, Now talked bold, example hath such might; Each one the battle fierce would undertake, Now strove they all who should begin the fight; Baldwin and Roger both, would combat fain, Stephen, Guelpho, Gernier and the Gerrards twain; LXVII And Pyrrhus, who with help of Boemond's sword Proud Antioch by cunning sleight opprest; The battle eke with many a lowly word, Ralph, Rosimond, and Eberard request, A Scotch, an Irish, and an English lord, Whose lands the sea divides far from the rest, And for the fight did likewise humbly sue, Edward and his Gildippes, lovers true. LXVIII But Raymond more than all the rest doth sue Upon that Pagan fierce to wreak his ire, Now wants he naught of all his armors due Except his helm that shone like flaming fire. To whom Godfredo thus; "O mirror true Of antique worth! thy courage doth inspire New strength in us, of Mars in thee doth shine The art, the honor and the discipline. LXIX "If ten like thee of valor and of age, Among these legions I could haply find, I should the best of Babel's pride assuage, And spread our faith from Thule to furthest Inde; But now I pray thee calm thy valiant rage, Reserve thyself till greater need us bind, And let the rest each one write down his name, And see whom Fortune chooseth to this game,-- LXX "Or rather see whom God's high judgement taketh, To whom is chance, and fate, and fortune slave." Raymond his earnest suit not yet forsaketh, His name writ with the residue would he have, Godfrey himself in his bright helmet shaketh The scrolls, with names of all the champions brave: They drew, and read the first whereon they hit, Wherein was "Raymond, Earl of Tholouse," writ. LXXI His name with joy and mighty shouts they bless; The rest allow his choice, and fortune praise, New vigor blushed through those looks of his; It seemed he now resumed his youthful days, Like to a snake whose slough new changed is, That shines like gold against the sunny rays: But Godfrey most approved his fortune high, And wished him honor, conquest, victory. LXXII Then from his side he took his noble brand, And giving it to Raymond, thus he spake: "This is the sword wherewith in Saxon land, The great Rubello battle used to make, From him I took it, fighting hand to hand, And took his life with it, and many a lake Of blood with it I have shed since that day, With thee God grant it proves as happy may." LXXIII Of these delays meanwhile impatient, Argantes threateneth loud and sternly cries, "O glorious people of the Occident! Behold him here that all your host defies: Why comes not Tancred, whose great hardiment, With you is prized so dear? Pardie he lies Still on his pillow, and presumes the night Again may shield him from my power and might. LXXIV "Why then some other come, by band and band, Come all, come forth on horseback, come on foot, If not one man dares combat hand to hand, In all the thousands of so great a rout: See where the tomb of Mary's Son doth stand, March thither, warriors hold, what makes you doubt? Why run you not, there for your sins to weep Or to what greater need these forces keep?" LXXV Thus scorned by that heathen Saracine Were all the soldiers of Christ's sacred name: Raymond, while others at his words repine, Burst forth in rage, he could not bear this shame: For fire of courage brighter far doth shine If challenges and threats augment the same; So that, upon his steed he mounted light, Which Aquilino for his swiftness hight. LXXVI This jennet was by Tagus bred; for oft The breeder of these beasts to war assigned, When first on trees burgeon the blossoms soft Pricked forward with the sting of fertile kind, Against the air casts up her head aloft And gathereth seed so from the fruitful wind And thus conceiving of the gentle blast, A wonder strange and rare, she foals at last. LXXVII And had you seen the beast, you would have said The light and subtile wind his father was; For if his course upon the sands he made No sign was left what way the beast did pass; Or if he menaged were, or if he played, He scantly bended down the tender grass: Thus mounted rode the Earl, and as he went, Thus prayed, to Heaven his zealous looks upbent. LXXVIII "O Lord, that diddest save, keep and defend Thy servant David from Goliath's rage, And broughtest that huge giant to his end, Slain by a faithful child of tender age; Like grace, O Lord, like mercy now extend! Let me this vile blasphemous pride assuage, That all the world may to thy glory know, Old men and babes thy foes can overthrow!" LXXIX Thus prayed the County, and his prayers dear Strengthened with zeal, with godliness and faith, Before the throne of that great Lord appear, In whose sweet grace is life, death in his wrath, Among his armies bright and legions clear, The Lord an angel good selected hath, To whom the charge was given to guard the knight, And keep him safe from that fierce Pagan's might. LXXX The angel good, appointed for the guard Of noble Raymond from his tender eild, That kept him then, and kept him afterward, When spear and sword he able was to wield, Now when his great Creator's will he heard, That in this fight he should him chiefly shield, Up to a tower set on a rock he flies, Where all the heavenly arms and weapons lies: LXXXI There stands the lance wherewith great Michael slew The aged dragon in a bloody fight, There are the dreadful thunders forged new, With storms and plagues that on poor sinners light; The massy trident mayest thou pendant view There on a golden pin hung up on height, Wherewith sometimes he smites this solid land, And throws down towns and towers thereon which stand. LXXXII Among the blessed weapons there which stands Upon a diamond shield his looks he bended, So great that it might cover all the lands, Twixt Caucasus and Atlas hills extended; With it the lord's dear flocks and faithful bands, The holy kings and cities are defended, The sacred angel took this target sheen, And by the Christian champion stood unseen. LXXXIII But now the walls and turrets round about, Both young and old with many thousands fill; The king Clorinda sent and her brave rout, To keep the field, she stayed upon the hill: Godfrey likewise some Christian bands sent out Which armed, and ranked in good array stood still, And to their champions empty let remain Twixt either troop a large and spacious plain. LXXXIV Argantes looked for Tancredi bold, But saw an uncouth foe at last appear, Raymond rode on, and what he asked him, told, Better by chance, "Tancred is now elsewhere, Yet glory not of that, myself behold Am come prepared, and bid thee battle here, And in his place, or for myself to fight, Lo, here I am, who scorn thy heathenish might." LXXXV The Pagan cast a scornful smile and said, "But where is Tancred, is he still in bed? His looks late seemed to make high heaven afraid; But now for dread he is or dead or fled; But whe'er earth's centre or the deep sea made His lurking hole, it should not save his head." "Thou liest," he says, "to say so brave a knight Is fled from thee, who thee exceeds in might." LXXXVI The angry Pagan said, "I have not spilt My labor then, if thou his place supply, Go take the field, and let's see how thou wilt Maintain thy foolish words and that brave lie;" Thus parleyed they to meet in equal tilt, Each took his aim at other's helm on high, Even in the fight his foe good Raymond hit, But shaked him not, he did so firmly sit. LXXXVII The fierce Circassian missed of his blow, A thing which seld befell the man before, The angel, by unseen, his force did know, And far awry the poignant weapon bore, He burst his lance against the sand below, And bit his lips for rage, and cursed and swore, Against his foe returned he swift as wind, Half mad in arms a second match to find. LXXXVIII Like to a ram that butts with horned head, So spurred he forth his horse with desperate race: Raymond at his right hand let slide his steed, And as he passed struck at the Pagan's face; He turned again, the earl was nothing dread, Yet stept aside, and to his rage gave place, And on his helm with all his strength gan smite, Which was so hard his courtlax could not bite. LXXXIX The Saracen employed his art and force To grip his foe within his mighty arms, But he avoided nimbly with his horse, He was no prentice in those fierce alarms, About him made he many a winding course, No strength, nor sleight the subtle warrior harms, His nimble steed obeyed his ready hand, And where he stept no print left in the sand. XC As when a captain doth besiege some hold, Set in a marsh or high up on a hill, And trieth ways and wiles a thousandfold, To bring the piece subjected to his will; So fared the County with the Pagan bold; And when he did his head and breast none ill, His weaker parts he wisely gan assail, And entrance searched oft 'twixt mail and mail. XCI At last he hit him on a place or twain, That on his arms the red blood trickled down, And yet himself untouched did remain, No nail was broke, no plume cut from his crown; Argantes raging spent his strength in vain, Waste were his strokes, his thrusts were idle thrown, Yet pressed he on, and doubled still his blows, And where he hits he neither cares nor knows. XCII Among a thousand blows the Saracine At last struck one, when Raymond was so near, That not the swiftness of his Aquiline Could his dear lord from that huge danger bear: But lo, at hand unseen was help divine, Which saves when worldly comforts none appear, The angel on his targe received that stroke, And on that shield Argantes' sword was broke. XCIII The sword was broke, therein no wonder lies If earthly tempered metal could not hold Against that target forged above the skies, Down fell the blade in pieces on the mould; The proud Circassian scant believed his eyes, Though naught were left him but the hilts of gold, And full of thoughts amazed awhile he stood, Wondering the Christian's armor was so good. XCIV The brittle web of that rich sword he thought, Was broke through hardness of the County's shield; And so thought Raymond, who discovered naught What succor Heaven did for his safety yield: But when he saw the man gainst whom he fought Unweaponed, still stood he in the field; His noble heart esteemed the glory light, At such advantage if he slew the knight. XCV "Go fetch," he would have said, "another blade," When in his heart a better thought arose, How for Christ's glory he was champion made, How Godfrey had him to this combat chose, The army's honor on his shoulder laid To hazards new he list not that expose; While thus his thoughts debated on the case, The hilts Argantes hurled at his face. XCVI And forward spurred his mounture fierce withal, Within his arms longing his foe to strain, Upon whose helm the heavy blow did fall, And bent well-nigh the metal to his brain: But he, whose courage was heroical, Leapt by, and makes the Pagan's onset vain, And wounds his hand, which he outstretched saw, Fiercer than eagles' talon, lions' paw. XCVII Now here, now there, on every side he rode, With nimble speed, and spurred now out, now in, And as he went and came still laid on load Where Lord Argantes' arms were weak and thin; All that huge force which in his arms abode, His wrath, his ire, his great desire to win, Against his foe together all he bent, And heaven and fortune furthered his intent. XCVIII But he, whose courage for no peril fails, Well armed, and better hearted, scorns his power. Like a tall ship when spent are all her sails, Which still resists the rage of storm and shower, Whose mighty ribs fast bound with bands and nails, Withstand fierce Neptune's wrath, for many an hour, And yields not up her bruised keel to winds, In whose stern blast no ruth nor grace she finds: XCIX Argantes such thy present danger was, When Satan stirred to aid thee at thy need, In human shape he forged an airy mass, And made the shade a body seem indeed; Well might the spirit for Clorinda pass, Like her it was, in armor and in weed, In stature, beauty, countenance and face, In looks, in speech, in gesture, and in pace. C And for the spirit should seem the same indeed, From where she was whose show and shape it had, Toward the wall it rode with feigned speed, Where stood the people all dismayed and sad, To see their knight of help have so great need, And yet the law of arms all help forbad. There in a turret sat a soldier stout To watch, and at a loop-hole peeped out; CI The spirit spake to him, called Oradine, The noblest archer then that handled bow, "O Oradine," quoth she, "who straight as line Can'st shoot, and hit each mark set high or low, If yonder knight, alas! be slain in fine, As likest is, great ruth it were you know, And greater shame, if his victorious foe Should with his spoils triumphant homeward go. CII "Now prove thy skill, thine arrow's sharp head dip In yonder thievish Frenchman's guilty blood, I promise thee thy sovereign shall not slip To give thee large rewards for such a good;" Thus said the spirit; the man did laugh and skip For hope of future gain, nor longer stood, But from his quiver huge a shaft he hent, And set it in his mighty bow new bent, CIII Twanged the string, out flew the quarrel long, And through the subtle air did singing pass, It hit the knight the buckles rich among, Wherewith his precious girdle fastened was, It bruised them and pierced his hauberk strong, Some little blood down trickled on the grass; Light was the wound; the angel by unseen, The sharp head blunted of the weapon keen. CIV Raymond drew forth the shaft, as much behoved, And with the steel, his blood out streaming came, With bitter words his foe he then reproved, For breaking faith, to his eternal shame. Godfrey, whose careful eyes from his beloved Were never turned, saw and marked the same, And when he viewed the wounded County bleed, He sighed, and feared, more perchance than need; CV And with his words, and with his threatening eyes, He stirred his captains to revenge that wrong; Forthwith the spurred courser forward hies, Within their rests put were their lances long, From either side a squadron brave out flies, And boldly made a fierce encounter strong, The raised dust to overspread begun Their shining arms, and far more shining sun. CVI Of breaking spears, of ringing helm and shield, A dreadful rumor roared on every side, There lay a horse, another through the field Ran masterless, dismounted was his guide; Here one lay dead, there did another yield, Some sighed, some sobbed, some prayed, and some cried; Fierce was the fight, and longer still it lasted, Fiercer and fewer, still themselves they wasted. CVII Argantes nimbly leapt amid the throng, And from a soldier wrung an iron mace, And breaking through the ranks and ranges long, Therewith he passage made himself and place, Raymond he sought, the thickest press among. To take revenge for late received disgrace, A greedy wolf he seemed, and would assuage With Raymond's blood his hunger and his rage. CVIII The way he found not easy as he would, But fierce encounters put him oft to pain, He met Ormanno and Rogero bold, Of Balnavile, Guy, and the Gerrards twain; Yet nothing might his rage and haste withhold, These worthies strove to stop him, but in vain, With these strong lets increased still his ire, Like rivers stopped, or closely smouldered fire. CIX He slew Ormanno, and wounded Guy, and laid Rogero low, among the people slain, On every side new troops the man invade, Yet all their blows were waste, their onsets vain, But while Argantes thus his prizes played, And seemed alone this skirmish to sustain, The duke his brother called and thus he spake, "Go with thy troop, fight for thy Saviour's sake; CX "There enter in where hottest is the fight, Thy force against the left wing strongly bend." This said, so brave an onset gave the knight, That many a Paynim bold there made his end: The Turks too weak seemed to sustain his might, And could not from his power their lives defend, Their ensigns rent, and broke was their array, And men and horse on heaps together lay. CXI O'erthrown likewise away the right wing ran, Nor was there one again that turned his face, Save bold Argantes, else fled every man, Fear drove them thence on heaps, with headlong chase: He stayed alone, and battle new began, Five hundred men, weaponed with sword and mace, So great resistance never could have made, As did Argantes with his single blade: CXII The strokes of swords and thrusts of many a spear, The shock of many a joust he long sustained, He seemed of strength enough this charge to bear, And time to strike, now here, now there, he gained His armors broke, his members bruised were, He sweat and bled, yet courage still he feigned; But now his foes upon him pressed so fast, That with their weight they bore him back at last. CXIII His back against this storm at length he turned, Whose headlong fury bore him backward still, Not like to one that fled, but one that mourned Because he did his foes no greater ill, His threatening eyes like flaming torches burned, His courage thirsted yet more blood to spill, And every way and every mean he sought, To stay his flying mates, but all for naught. CXIV This good he did, while thus he played his part, His bands and troops at ease, and safe, retired; Yet coward dread lacks order, fear wants art, Deaf to attend, commanded or desired. But Godfrey that perceived in his wise heart, How his bold knights to victory aspired, Fresh soldiers sent, to make more quick pursuit, And help to gather conquest's precious fruit. CXV But this, alas, was not the appointed day, Set down by Heaven to end this mortal war: The western lords this time had borne away The prize, for which they travelled had so far, Had not the devils, that saw the sure decay Of their false kingdom by this bloody war, At once made heaven and earth with darkness blind, And stirred up tempests, storms, and blustering wind. CXVI Heaven's glorious lamp, wrapped in an ugly veil Of shadows dark, was hid from mortal eye, And hell's grim blackness did bright skies assail; On every side the fiery lightnings fly, The thunders roar, the streaming rain and hail Pour down and make that sea which erst was dry. The tempests rend the oaks and cedars brake, And make not trees but rocks and mountains shake. CXVII The rain, the lightning, and the raging wind, Beat in the Frenchmen's eyes with hideous force, The soldiers stayed amazed in heart and mind, The terror such that stopped both man and horse. Surprised with this evil no way they find, Whither for succor to direct their course, But wise Clorinda soon the advantage spied, And spurring forth thus to her soldiers cried: CXVIII "You hardy men at arms behold," quoth she, "How Heaven, how Justice in our aid doth fight, Our visages are from this tempest free, Our hands at will may wield our weapons bright, The fury of this friendly storm you see Upon the foreheads of our foes doth light, And blinds their eyes, then let us take the tide, Come, follow me, good fortune be our guide." CXIX This said, against her foes on rode the dame, And turned their backs against the wind and rain; Upon the French with furious rage she came, And scorned those idle blows they struck in vain; Argantes at the instant did the same, And them who chased him now chased again, Naught but his fearful back each Christian shows Against the tempest, and against their blows. CXX The cruel hail, and deadly wounding blade, Upon their shoulders smote them as they fled, The blood new spilt while thus they slaughter made, The water fallen from skies had dyed red, Among the murdered bodies Pyrrhus laid, And valiant Raiphe his heart blood there out bled, The first subdued by strong Argantes' might, The second conquered by that virgin knight. CXXI Thus fled the French, and then pursued in chase The wicked sprites and all the Syrian train: But gainst their force and gainst their fell menace Of hail and wind, of tempest and of rain, Godfrey alone turned his audacious face, Blaming his barons for their fear so vain, Himself the camp gate boldly stood to keep, And saved his men within his trenches deep. CXXII And twice upon Argantes proud he flew, And beat him backward, maugre all his might, And twice his thirsty sword he did imbrue, In Pagan's blood where thickest was the fight; At last himself with all his folk withdrew, And that day's conquest gave the virgin bright, Which got, she home retired and all her men, And thus she chased this lion to his den. CXXIII Yet ceased not the fury and the ire Of these huge storms, of wind, of rain and hail, Now was it dark, now shone the lightning fire, The wind and water every place assail, No bank was safe, no rampire left entire, No tent could stand, when beam and cordage fail, Wind, thunder, rain, all gave a dreadful sound, And with that music deafed the trembling ground. EIGHTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. A messenger to Godfrey sage doth tell The Prince of Denmark's valour, death and end: The Italians, trusting signs untrue too well, Think their Rinaldo slain: the wicked fiend Breeds fury in their breasts, their bosoms swell With ire and hate, and war and strife forth send: They threaten Godfrey; he prays to the Lord, And calms their fury with his look and word. I Now were the skies of storms and tempests cleared, Lord Aeolus shut up his winds in hold, The silver-mantled morning fresh appeared, With roses crowned, and buskined high with gold; The spirits yet which had these tempests reared, Their malice would still more and more unfold; And one of them that Astragor was named, His speeches thus to foul Alecto framed. II "Alecto, see, we could not stop nor stay The knight that to our foes new tidings brings, Who from the hands escaped, with life away, Of that great prince, chief of all Pagan kings: He comes, the fall of his slain lord to say, Of death and loss he tells, and such sad things, Great news he brings, and greatest dangers is, Bertoldo's son shall be called home for this. III "Thou knowest what would befall, bestir thee than; Prevent with craft, what force could not withstand, Turn to their evil the speeches of the man, With his own weapon wound Godfredo's hand; Kindle debate, infect with poison wan The English, Switzer, and Italian band, Great tumult move, make brawls and quarrels rife, Set all the camp on uproar and at strife. IV "This act beseems thee well, and of the deed Much may'st thou boast before our lord and king." Thus said the sprite. Persuasion small did need, The monster grants to undertake the thing. Meanwhile the knight, whose coming thus they dread, Before the camp his weary limbs doth bring, And well-nigh breathless, "Warriors bold," he cried, "Who shall conduct me to your famous guide?" V An hundred strove the stranger's guide to be, To hearken news the knights by heaps assemble, The man fell lowly down upon his knee, And kissed the hand that made proud Babel tremble; "Right puissant lord, whose valiant acts," quoth he, "The sands and stars in number best resemble, Would God some gladder news I might unfold," And there he paused, and sighed; then thus he told: VI "Sweno, the King of Denmark's only heir, The stay and staff of his declining eild, Longed to be among these squadrons fair Who for Christ's faith here serve with spear and shield; No weariness, no storms of sea or air, No such contents as crowns and sceptres yield, No dear entreaties of so kind a sire, Could in his bosom quench that glorious fire. VII "He thirsted sore to learn this warlike art Of thee, great lord and master of the same; And was ashamed in his noble heart, That never act he did deserved fame; Besides, the news and tidings from each part Of young Rinaldo's worth and praises came: But that which most his courage stirred hath, Is zeal, religion, godliness, and faith. VIII "He hasted forward, then without delay, And with him took of knights a chosen band, Directly toward Thrace we took the way, To Byzance old, chief fortress of that land, There the Greek monarch gently prayed him stay, And there an herald sent from you we fand, How Antioch was won, who first declared, And how defended nobly afterward. IX "Defended gainst Corbana, valiant knight, That all the Persian armies had to guide, And brought so many soldiers bold to fight, That void of men he left that kingdom wide; He told thine acts, thy wisdom and thy might, And told the deeds of many a lord beside, His speech at length to young Rinaldo passed, And told his great achievements, first and last: X "And how this noble camp of yours, of late Besieged had this town, and in what sort, And how you prayed him to participate Of the last conquest of this noble fort. In hardy Sweno opened was the gate Of worthy anger by this brave report, So that each hour seemed five years long, Till he were fighting with these Pagans strong. XI "And while the herald told your fights and frays, Himself of cowardice reproved he thought, And him to stay that counsels him, or prays, He hears not, or, else heard, regardeth naught, He fears no perils but whilst he delays, Lest this last work without his help be wrought: In this his doubt, in this his danger lies, No hazard else he fears, no peril spies. XII "Thus hasting on, he hasted on his death, Death that to him and us was fatal guide. The rising morn appeared yet aneath, When he and we were armed, and fit to ride, The nearest way seemed best, o'er hold and heath We went, through deserts waste, and forests wide, The streets and ways he openeth as he goes, And sets each land free from intruding foes. XIII "Now want of food, now dangerous ways we find, Now open war, now ambush closely laid; Yet passed we forth, all perils left behind, Our foes or dead or run away afraid, Of victory so happy blew the wind, That careless all the heedless to it made: Until one day his tents he happed to rear, To Palestine when we approached near. XIV "There did our scouts return and bring us news, That dreadful noise of horse and arms they hear, And that they deemed by sundry signs and shows There was some mighty host of Pagans near. At these sad tidings many changed their hues, Some looked pale for dread, some shook for fear, Only our noble lord was altered naught, In look, in face, in gesture, or in thought. XV "But said, 'A crown prepare you to possess Of martyrdom, or happy victory; For this I hope, for that I wish no less, Of greater merit and of greater glory. Brethren, this camp will shortly be, I guess, A temple, sacred to our memory, To which the holy men of future age, To view our graves shall come in pilgrimage.' XVI "This said, he set the watch in order right To guard the camp, along the trenches deep, And as he armed was, so every knight He willed on his back his arms to keep. Now had the stillness of the quiet night Drowned all the world in silence and in sleep, When suddenly we heard a dreadful sound, Which deafed the earth, and tremble made the ground. XVII "'Arm, arm,' they cried; Prince Sweno at the same, Glistering in shining steel leaped foremost out, His visage shone, his noble looks did flame, With kindled brand of courage bold and stout, When lo, the Pagans to assault us came, And with huge numbers hemmed us round about, A forest thick of spears about us grew, And over us a cloud of arrows flew: XVIII "Uneven the fight, unequal was the fray, Our enemies were twenty men to one, On every side the slain and wounded lay Unseen, where naught but glistering weapons shone: The number of the dead could no man say, So was the place with darkness overgone, The night her mantle black upon its spreads, Hiding our losses and our valiant deeds. XIX "But hardy Sweno midst the other train, By his great acts was well descried I wot, No darkness could his valor's daylight stain, Such wondrous blows on every side he smote; A stream of blood, a bank of bodies slain, About him made a bulwark, and a mote, And when soe'er he turned his fatal brand, Dread in his looks and death sate in his hand. XX "Thus fought we till the morning bright appeared, And strewed roses on the azure sky, But when her lamp had night's thick darkness cleared, Wherein the bodies dead did buried lie, Then our sad cries to heaven for grief we reared, Our loss apparent was, for we descry How all our camp destroyed was almost, And all our people well-nigh slain and lost; XXI "Of thousands twain an hundred scant survived. When Sweno murdered saw each valiant knight, I know not if his heart in sunder rived For dear compassion of that woful sight; He showed no change, but said: 'Since so deprived We are of all our friends by chance of fight, Come follow them, the path to heaven their blood Marks out, now angels made, of martyrs good.' XXII "This said, and glad I think of death at hand, The signs of heavenly joy shone through his eyes, Of Saracens against a mighty band, With fearless heart and constant breast he flies; No steel could shield them from his cutting brand But whom he hits without recure he dies, He never struck but felled or killed his foe And wounded was himself from top to toe. XXIII "Not strength, but courage now, preserved on live This hardy champion, fortress of our faith, Strucken he strikes, still stronger more they strive, The more they hurt him, more he doth them scathe, When toward him a furious knight gan drive, Of members huge, fierce looks, and full of wrath, That with the aid of many a Pagan crew, After long fight, at last Prince Sweno slew. XXIV "Ah, heavy chance! Down fell the valiant youth, Nor mongst us all did one so strong appear As to revenge his death: that this is truth, By his dear blood and noble bones I swear, That of my life I had not care nor ruth, No wounds I shunned, no blows I would off bear, And had not Heaven my wished end denied, Even there I should, and willing should, have died. XXV "Alive I fell among my fellows slain, Yet wounded so that each one thought me dead, Nor what our foes did since can I explain, So sore amazed was my heart and head; But when I opened first mine eyes again, Night's curtain black upon the earth was spread, And through the darkness to my feeble sight, Appeared the twinkling of a slender light. XXVI "Not so much force or judgement in me lies As to discern things seen and not mistake, I saw like them who ope and shut their eyes By turns, now half asleep, now half awake; My body eke another torment tries, My wounds began to smart, my hurts to ache; For every sore each member pinched was With night's sharp air, heaven's frost and earth's cold grass. XXVII "But still the light approached near and near, And with the same a whispering murmur run, Till at my side arrived both they were, When I to spread my feeble eyes begun: Two men behold in vestures long appear, With each a lamp in hand, who said, 'O son In that dear Lord who helps his servants, trust, Who ere they ask, grants all things to the just.' XXVIII "This said, each one his sacred blessings flings Upon my corse, with broad our-stretched hand, And mumbled hymns and psalms and holy things, Which I could neither hear nor understand; 'Arise,' quoth they, with that as I had wings, All whole and sound I leaped up from the land. Oh miracle, sweet, gentle, strange and true! My limbs new strength received, and vigor new. XXIX "I gazed on them like one whose heart denieth To think that done, he sees so strangely wrought; Till one said thus, 'O thou of little faith, What doubts perplex thy unbelieving thought? Each one of us a living body hath, We are Christ's chosen servants, fear us naught, Who to avoid the world's allurements vain, In wilful penance, hermits poor remain. XXX "'Us messengers to comfort thee elect That Lord hath sent that rules both heaven and hell; Who often doth his blessed will effect, By such weak means, as wonder is to tell; He will not that this body lie neglect, Wherein so noble soul did lately dwell To which again when it uprisen is It shall united be in lasting bliss. XXXI "'I say Lord Sweno's corpse, for which prepared A tomb there is according to his worth, By which his honor shall be far declared, And his just praises spread from south to north:" But lift thine eyes up to the heavens ward, Mark yonder light that like the sun shines forth That shall direct thee with those beams so clear, To find the body of thy master dear.' XXXII "With that I saw from Cynthia's silver face, Like to a falling star a beam down slide, That bright as golden line marked out the place, And lightened with clear streams the forest wide; So Latmos shone when Phoebe left the chase, And laid her down by her Endymion's side, Such was the light that well discern I could, His shape, his wounds, his face, though dead, yet bold. XXXIII "He lay not grovelling now, but as a knight That ever had to heavenly things desire, So toward heaven the prince lay bolt upright, Like him that upward still sought to aspire, His right hand closed held his weapon bright, Ready to strike and execute his ire, His left upon his breast was humbly laid, That men might know, that while he died he prayed. XXXIV "Whilst on his wounds with bootless tears I wept, That neither helped him, nor eased my care, One of those aged fathers to him stepped, And forced his hand that needless weapon spare: 'This sword,' quoth he, 'hath yet good token kept, That of the Pagans' blood he drunk his share, And blusheth still he could not save his lord, Rich, strong and sharp, was never better sword. XXXV "'Heaven, therefore, will not, though the prince be slain, Who used erst to wield this precious brand That so brave blade unused should remain; But that it pass from strong to stronger hand, Who with like force can wield the same again, And longer shall in grace of fortune stand, And with the same shall bitter vengeance take On him that Sweno slew, for Sweno's sake. XXXVI "'Great Solyman killed Sweno, Solyman For Sweno's sake, upon this sword must die. Here, take the blade, and with it haste thee than Thither where Godfrey doth encamped lie, And fear not thou that any shall or can Or stop thy way, or lead thy steps awry; For He that doth thee on this message send, Thee with His hand shall guide, keep and defend. XXXVII "'Arrived there it is His blessed will, With true report that thou declare and tell The zeal, the strength, the courage and the skill In thy beloved lord that late did dwell, How for Christ's sake he came his blood to spill, And sample left to all of doing well, That future ages may admire his deed, And courage take when his brave end they read. XXXVIII "'It resteth now, thou know that gentle knight That of this sword shall be thy master's heir, It is Rinaldo young, with whom in might And martial skill no champion may compare, Give it to him and say, "The Heavens bright Of this revenge to him commit the care." While thus I listened what this old man said, A wonder new from further speech us stayed; XXXIX "For there whereas the wounded body lay, A stately tomb with curious work, behold, And wondrous art was built out of the clay, Which, rising round, the carcass did enfold; With words engraven in the marble gray, The warrior's name, his worth and praise that told, On which I gazing stood, and often read That epitaph of my dear master dead. XL "'Among his soldiers,' quoth the hermit, 'here Must Sweno's corpse remain in marble chest, While up to heaven are flown their spirits dear, To live in endless joy forever blest, His funeral thou hast with many a tear Accompanied, it's now high time to rest, Come be my guest, until the morning ray Shall light the world again, then take thy way.' XLI "This said, he led me over holts and hags, Through thorns and bushes scant my legs I drew Till underneath a heap of stones and crags At last he brought me to a secret mew; Among the bears, wild boars, the wolves and stags, There dwelt he safe with his disciple true, And feared no treason, force, nor hurt at all, His guiltless conscience was his castle's wall. XLII "My supper roots; my bed was moss and leaves; But weariness in little rest found ease: But when the purple morning night bereaves Of late usurped rule on lands and seas, His loathed couch each wakeful hermit leaves, To pray rose they, and I, for so they please, I congee took when ended was the same, And hitherward, as they advised me, came." XLIII The Dane his woful tale had done, when thus The good Prince Godfrey answered him, "Sir knight, Thou bringest tidings sad and dolorous, For which our heavy camp laments of right, Since so brave troops and so dear friends to us, One hour hath spent, in one unlucky fight; And so appeared hath thy master stout, As lightning doth, now kindled, now quenched out. XLIV "But such a death and end exceedeth all The conquests vain of realms, or spoils of gold, Nor aged Rome's proud stately capital, Did ever triumph yet like theirs behold; They sit in heaven on thrones celestial, Crowned with glory, for their conquest bold, Where each his hurts I think to other shows, And glories in those bloody wounds and blows. XLV "But thou who hast part of thy race to run, With haps and hazards of this world ytost, rejoice, for those high honors they have won, Which cannot be by chance or fortune crossed: But for thou askest for Bertoldo's son, Know, that he wandereth, banished from this host, And till of him new tidings some man tell, Within this camp I deem it best thou dwell." XLVI These words of theirs in many a soul renewed The sweet remembrance of fair Sophia's child, Some with salt tears for him their cheeks bedewed, Lest evil betide him mongst the Pagans wild, And every one his valiant prowess showed, And of his battles stories long compiled, Telling the Dane his acts and conquests past, Which made his ears amazed, his heart aghast. XLVII Now when remembrance of the youth had wrought A tender pity in each softened mind, Behold returned home with all they caught The bands that were to forage late assigned, And with them in abundance great they brought Both flocks and herds of every sort and kind. And corn, although not much, and hay to feed Their noble steeds and coursers when they need. XLVIII They also brought of misadventure sad Tokens and signs, seemed too apparent true, Rinaldo's armor, frushed and hacked they had, Oft pierced through, with blood besmeared new; About the camp, for always rumors bad Are farthest spread, these woful tidings flew. Thither assembled straight both high and low, Longing to see what they were loth to know. XLIX His heavy hauberk was both seen and known, And his brand shield, wherein displayed flies The bird that proves her chickens for her own By looking gainst the sun with open eyes; That shield was to the Pagans often shown, In many a hard and hardy enterprise, But now with many a gash and many a stroke They see, and sigh to see it, frushed and broke. L While all his soldiers whispered under hand, And here and there the fault and cause do lay, Godfrey before him called Aliprand Captain of those that brought of late this prey, A man who did on points of virtue stand, Blameless in words, and true whate'er he say, "Say," quoth the duke, "where you this armor had, Hide not the truth, but tell it good or bad." LI He answered him, "As far from hence think I As on two days a speedy post well rideth, To Gaza-ward a little plain doth lie, Itself among the steepy hills which hideth, Through it slow falling from the mountains high, A rolling brook twixt bush and bramble glideth, Clad with thick shade of boughs of broad-leaved treen, Fit place for men to lie in wait unseen. LII "Thither, to seek some flocks or herds, we went Perchance close hid under the green-wood shaw, And found the springing grass with blood besprent, A warrior tumbled in his blood we saw, His arms though dusty, bloody, hacked and rent, Yet well we knew, when near the corse we draw; To which, to view his face, in vain I started, For from his body his fair head was parted; LIII "His right hand wanted eke, with many a wound The trunk through pierced was from back to breast, A little by, his empty helm we found The silver eagle shining on his crest; To spy at whom to ask we gazed round, A churl then toward us his steps addressed, But when us armed by the corse he spied, He ran away his fearful face to hide: LIV "But we pursued him, took him, spake him fair, Till comforted at last he answer made, How that, the day before, he saw repair A band of soldiers from that forest shade, Of whom one carried by the golden hair A head but late cut off with murdering blade, The face was fair and young, and on the chin No sign of heard to bud did yet begin. LV "And how in sindal wrapt away he bore That head with him hung at his saddle-bow. And how the murtherers by the arms they wore, For soldiers of our camp he well did know; The carcass I disarmed and weeping sore, Because I guessed who should that harness owe, Away I brought it, but first order gave, That noble body should be laid in grave. LVI "But if it be his trunk whom I believe, A nobler tomb his worth deserveth well." This said, good Aliprando took his leave, Of certain troth he had no more to tell, Sore sighed the duke, so did these news him grieve, Fears in his heart, doubts in his bosom dwell, He yearned to know, to find and learn the truth, And punish would them that had slain the youth. LVII But now the night dispread her lazy wings O'er the broad fields of heaven's bright wilderness, Sleep, the soul's rest, and ease of careful things, Buried in happy peace both more and less, Thou Argillan alone, whom sorrow stings, Still wakest, musing on great deeds I guess, Nor sufferest in thy watchful eyes to creep The sweet repose of mild and gentle sleep. LVIII This man was strong of limb, and all his 'says Were bold, of ready tongue, and working sprite, Near Trento born, bred up in brawls and frays, In jars, in quarrels, and in civil fight, For which exiled, the hills and public ways He filled with blood, and robberies day and night Until to Asia's wars at last he came, And boldly there he served, and purchased fame. LIX He closed his eyes at last when day drew near. Yet slept he not, but senseless lay opprest With strange amazedness and sudden fear Which false Alecto breathed in his breast, His working powers within deluded were, Stone still he quiet lay, yet took no rest, For to his thought the fiend herself presented, And with strange visions his weak brain tormented. LX A murdered body huge beside him stood, Of head and right hand both but lately spoiled, His left hand bore the head, whose visage good, Both pale and wan, with dust and gore defoiled, Yet spake, though dead, with whose sad words the blood Forth at his lips in huge abundance boiled, "Fly, Argillan, from this false camp fly far, Whose guide, a traitor; captains, murderers are. LXI "Godfrey hath murdered me by treason vile, What favor then hope you my trusty friends? His villain heart is full of fraud and guile, To your destruction all his thoughts he bends, Yet if thou thirst of praise for noble stile, If in thy strength thou trust, thy strength that ends All hard assays, fly not, first with his blood Appease my ghost wandering by Lethe flood; LXII "I will thy weapon whet, inflame thine ire, Arm thy right hand, and strengthen every part." This said; even while she spake she did inspire With fury, rage, and wrath his troubled heart: The man awaked, and from his eyes like fire The poisoned sparks of headstrong madness start, And armed as he was, forth is he gone, And gathered all the Italian bands in one. LXIII He gathered them where lay the arms that late Were good Rinaldo's; then with semblance stout And furious words his fore-conceived hate In bitter speeches thus he vomits out; "Is not this people barbarous and ingrate, In whom truth finds no place, faith takes no rout? Whose thirst unquenched is of blood and gold, Whom no yoke boweth, bridle none can hold. LXIV "So much we suffered have these seven years long, Under this servile and unworthy yoke, That thorough Rome and Italy our wrong A thousand years hereafter shall be spoke: I count not how Cilicia's kingdom strong, Subdued was by Prince Tancredi's stroke, Nor how false Baldwin him that land bereaves Of virtue's harvest, fraud there reaped the sheaves: LXV "Nor speak I how each hour, at every need, Quick, ready, resolute at all assays, With fire and sword we hasted forth with speed, And bore the brunt of all their fights and frays; But when we had performed and done the deed, At ease and leisure they divide the preys, We reaped naught but travel for our toil, Theirs was the praise, the realms, the gold, the spoil. LXVI "Yet all this season were we willing blind, Offended unrevenged, wronged but unwroken, Light griefs could not provoke our quiet mind, But now, alas! the mortal blow is stroken, Rinaldo have they slain, and law of kind, Of arms, of nations, and of high heaven broken, Why doth not heaven kill them with fire and thunder? To swallow them why cleaves not earth asunder? LXVII "They have Rinaldo slain, the sword and shield Of Christ's true faith, and unrevenged he lies; Still unrevenged lieth in the field His noble corpse to feed the crows and pies: Who murdered him? who shall us certain yield? Who sees not that, although he wanted eyes? Who knows not how the Italian chivalry Proud Godfrey and false Baldwin both envy LXVIII "What need we further proof? Heaven, heaven, I swear, Will not consent herein we be beguiled, This night I saw his murdered sprite appear, Pale, sad and wan, with wounds and blood defiled, A spectacle full both of grief and fear; Godfrey, for murdering him, the ghost reviled. I saw it was no dream, before mine eyes, Howe'er I look, still, still methinks it flies. LXIX "What shall we do? shall we be governed still By this false hand, contaminate with blood? Or else depart and travel forth, until To Euphrates we come, that sacred flood, Where dwells a people void of martial skill, Whose cities rich, whose land is fat and good, Where kingdoms great we may at ease provide, Far from these Frenchmen's malice, from their pride; LXX "Then let us go, and no revengement take For this brave knight, though it lie in our power: No, no, that courage rather newly wake, Which never sleeps in fear and dread one hour, And this pestiferous serpent, poisoned snake, Of all our knights that hath destroyed the flower, First let us slay, and his deserved end Example make to him that kills his friend. LXXI "I will, I will, if your courageous force, Dareth so much as it can well perform, Tear out his cursed heart without remorse, The nest of treason false and guile enorm." Thus spake the angry knight with headlong course; The rest him followed with a furious storm, "Arm, arm." they cried, to arms the soldiers ran. And as they run, "Arm, arm," cried every man. LXXII Mongst them Alecto strowed wasteful fire, Envenoming the hearts of most and least, Folly, disdain, madness, strife, rancor, ire, Thirst to shed blood, in every breast increased, This ill spread far, and till it set on fire With rage the Italian lodgings, never ceased, From thence unto the Switzers' camp it went, And last infected every English tent. LXXIII Not public loss of their beloved knight, Alone stirred up their rage and wrath untamed, But fore-conceived griefs, and quarrels light, The ire still nourished, and still inflamed, Awaked was each former cause of spite, The Frenchmen cruel and unjust they named, And with bold threats they made their hatred known, Hate seld kept close, and oft unwisely shown: LXXIV Like boiling liquor in a seething pot, That fumeth, swelleth high, and bubbleth fast, Till o'er the brims among the embers hot, Part of the broth and of the scum is cast, Their rage and wrath those few appeased not In whom of wisdom yet remained some taste, Camillo, William, Tancred were away, And all whose greatness might their madness stay. LXXV Now headlong ran to harness in this heat These furious people, all on heaps confused, The roaring trumpets battle gan to threat, As it in time of mortal war is used, The messengers ran to Godfredo great, And bade him arm, while on this noise he mused, And Baldwin first well clad in iron hard, Stepped to his side, a sure and faithful guard. LXXVI Their murmurs heard, to heaven he lift his een, As was his wont, to God for aid he fled; "O Lord, thou knowest this right hand of mine Abhorred ever civil blood to shed, Illumine their dark souls with light divine, Repress their rage, by hellish fury bred, The innocency of my guiltless mind Thou knowest, and make these know, with fury blind." LXXVII Tis said he felt infused in each vein, A sacred heat from heaven above distilled, A heat in man that courage could constrain That his brave look with awful boldness filled. Well guarded forth he went to meet the train Of those that would revenge Rinaldo killed; And though their threats he heard, and saw them bent To arms on every side, yet on he went. LXXVIII Above his hauberk strong a coat he ware, Embroidered fair with pearl and richest stone, His hands were naked, and his face was bare, Wherein a lamp of majesty bright shone; He shook his golden mace, wherewith he dare Resist the force of his rebellious foe: Thus he appeared, and thus he gan them teach, In shape an angel, and a God in speech: LXXIX "What foolish words? what threats be these I hear? What noise of arms? who dares these tumults move? Am I so honored? stand you so in fear? Where is your late obedience? where your love? Of Godfrey's falsehood who can witness bear? Who dare or will these accusations prove? Perchance you look I should entreaties bring, Sue for your favors, or excuse the thing. LXXX "Ah, God forbid these lands should hear or see Him so disgraced at whose great name they quake; This sceptre and my noble acts for me A true defence before the world can make: Yet for sharp justice governed shall be With clemency, I will no vengeance take For this offence, but for Rinaldo's love, I pardon you, hereafter wiser prove. LXXXI "But Argillano's guilty blood shall wash This stain away, who kindled this debate, And led by hasty rage and fury rash, To these disorders first undid the gate;" While thus he spoke, the lightning beams did flash Out of his eyes of majesty and state, That Argillan,--who would have thought it?--shook For fear and terror, conquered with his look. LXXXII The rest with indiscreet and foolish wrath Who threatened late with words of shame and pride, Whose hands so ready were to harm and scath, And brandished bright swords on every side; Now hushed and still attend what Godfrey saith, With shame and fear their bashful looks they hide, And Argillan they let in chains be bound, Although their weapons him environed round. LXXXIII So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, And beats his tail with courage proud and wroth, If his commander come, who first took pain To tame his youth, his lofty crest down goeth, His threats he feareth, and obeys the rein Of thralldom base, and serviceage, though loth, Nor can his sharp teeth nor his armed paws, Force him rebel against his ruler's laws. LXXXIV Fame as a winged warrior they beheld, With semblant fierce and furious look that stood, And in his left hand had a splendent shield Wherewith he covered safe their chieftain good, His other hand a naked sword did wield, From which distilling fell the lukewarm blood, The blood pardie of many a realm and town, Whereon the Lord his wrath had poured down. LXXXV Thus was the tumult, without bloodshed, ended. Their arms laid down, strife into exile sent. Godfrey his thoughts to greater actions bended. And homeward to his rich pavilion went, For to assault the fortress he intended Before the second or third day were spent; Meanwhile his timber wrought he oft surveyed Whereof his ram and engines great he made. NINTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Alecto false great Solyman doth move By night the Christians in their tents to kill: But God who their intents saw from above, Sends Michael down from his sacred hill: The spirits foul to hell the angels drove; The knights delivered from the witch, at will Destroy the Pagans, scatter all their host: The Soldan flies when all his bands are lost. I The grisly child of Erebus the grim, Who saw these tumults done and tempest spent, Gainst stream of grace who ever strove to swim And all her thoughts against Heaven's wisdom bent, Departed now, bright Titan's beams were dim And fruitful lands waxed barren as she went. She sought the rest of her infernal crew, New storms to raise, new broils, and tumults new. II She, that well wist her sisters had enticed, By their false arts, far from the Christian host, Tancred, Rinaldo, and the rest, best prized For martial skill, for might esteemed most, Said, of these discords and these strifes advised, "Great Solyman, when day his light hath lost, These Christians shall assail with sudden war, And kill them all while thus they strive and jar." III With that where Solyman remained she flew, And found him out with his Arabian bands, Great Solyman, of all Christ's foes untrue, Boldest of courage, mightiest of his hands, Like him was none of all that earth-bred crew That heaped mountains on the Aemonian sands, Of Turks he sovereign was, and Nice his seat, Where late he dwelt, and ruled that kingdom great. IV The lands forenenst the Greekish shore he held, From Sangar's mouth to crooked Meander's fall, Where they of Phrygia, Mysia, Lydia dwelled, Bithynia's towns, and Pontus' cities all: But when the hearts of Christian princes swelled, And rose in arms to make proud Asia thrall, Those lands were won where he did sceptre wield And he twice beaten was in pitched field. V When Fortune oft he had in vain assayed, And spent his forces, which availed him naught, To Egypt's king himself he close conveyed, Who welcomed him as he could best have thought, Glad in his heart, and inly well apayed, That to his court so great a lord was brought: For he decreed his armies huge to bring To succor Juda land and Juda's king. VI But, ere he open war proclaimed, he would That Solyman should kindle first the fire, And with huge sums of false enticing gold The Arabian thieves he sent him forth to hire, While he the Asian lords and Morians hold Unites; the Soldan won to his desire Those outlaws, ready aye for gold to fight, The hope of gain hath such alluring might. VII Thus made their captain to destroy and burn, In Juda land he entered is so far, That all the ways whereby he should return By Godfrey's people kept and stopped are, And now he gan his former losses mourn, This wound had hit him on an elder scar, On great adventures ran his hardy thought, But naught assured, he yet resolved on naught. VIII To him Alecto came, and semblant bore Of one whose age was great, whose looks were grave, Whose cheeks were bloodless, and whose locks were hoar Mustaches strouting long and chin close shave, A steepled turban on her head she wore, Her garment wide, and by her side, her glaive, Her gilden quiver at her shoulders hung, And in her hand a bow was, stiff and strong. IX "We have." Quoth she, "through wildernesses gone, Through sterile sands, strange paths, and uncouth ways, Yet spoil or booty have we gotten none, Nor victory deserving fame or praise, Godfrey meanwhile to ruin stick and stone Of this fair town, with battery sore assays; And if awhile we rest, we shall behold This glorious city smoking lie in mould. X "Are sheep-cotes burnt, or preys of sheep or kine, The cause why Solyman these bands did arm? Canst thou that kingdom lately lost of thine Recover thus, or thus redress thy harm? No, no, when heaven's small candles next shall shine, Within their tents give them a bold alarm; Believe Araspes old, whose grave advice Thou hast in exile proved, and proved in Nice. XI "He feareth naught, he doubts no sudden broil From these ill-armed and worse-hearted bands, He thinks this people, used to rob and spoil, To such exploit dares not lift up their hands; Up then and with thy courage put to foil This fearless camp, while thus secure it stands." This said, her poison in his breast she hides, And then to shapeless air unseen she glides. XII The Soldan cried, "O thou which in my thought Increased hast my rage and fury so, Nor seem'st a wight of mortal metal wrought, I follow thee, whereso thee list to go, Mountains of men by dint of sword down brought Thou shalt behold, and seas of red blood flow Where'er I go; only be thou my guide When sable night the azure skies shall hide." XIII When this was said, he mustered all his crew, Reproved the cowards, and allowed the bold: His forward camp, inspired with courage new, Was ready dight to follow where he would: Alecto's self the warning trumpet blew And to the wind his standard great unrolled, Thus on they marched, and thus on they went, Of their approach their speed the news prevent. XIV Alecto left them, and her person dight Like one that came some tidings new to tell: It was the time, when first the rising night Her sparkling diamonds poureth forth to sell, When, into Sion come, she marched right Where Juda's aged tyrant used to dwell, To whom of Solyman's designment bold, The place, the manner, and the time she told. XV Their mantle dark, the grisly shadows spread, Stained with spots of deepest sanguine hue, Warm drops of blood, on earth's black visage shed, Supplied the place of pure and precious dew, The moon and stars for fear of sprites were fled, The shrieking goblins eachwhere howling flew, The furies roar, the ghosts and fairies yell, The earth was filled with devils, and empty hell. XVI The Soldan fierce, through all this horror, went Toward the camp of his redoubted foes, The night was more than half consumed and spent; Now headlong down the western hill she goes, When distant scant a mile from Godfrey's tent He let his people there awhile repose, And victualled them, and then he boldly spoke These words which rage and courage might provoke: XVII "See there a camp, full stuffed of spoils and preys, Not half so strong as false report recordeth; See there the storehouse, where their captain lays Our treasures stolen, where Asia's wealth he hoardeth; Now chance the ball unto our racket plays, Take then the vantage which good luck affordeth; For all their arms, their horses, gold and treasure Are ours, ours without loss, harm or displeasure. XVIII "Nor is this camp that great victorious host That slew the Persian lords, and Nice hath won: For those in this long war are spent and lost, These are the dregs, the wine is all outrun, And these few left, are drowned and dead almost In heavy sleep, the labor half is done To send them headlong to Avernus deep, For little differs death and heavy sleep. XIX "Come, come, this sword the passage open shall Into their camp, and on their bodies slain We will pass o'er their rampire and their wall; This blade, as scythes cut down the fields of grain, Shall cut them so, Christ's kingdom now shall fall, Asia her freedom, you shall praise obtain." Thus he inflamed his soldiers to the fight, And led them on through silence of the night. XX The sentinel by starlight, lo, descried This mighty Soldan and his host draw near, Who found not as he hoped the Christians' guide Unware, ne yet unready was his gear: The scouts, when this huge army they descried, Ran back, and gan with shouts the 'larum rear; The watch stert up and drew their weapons bright, And busked them bold to battle and to fight. XXI The Arabians wist they could not come unseen, And therefore loud their jarring trumpets sound, Their yelling cries to heaven upheaved been, The horses thundered on the solid ground, The mountains roared, and the valley green, The echoes sighed from the caves around, Alecto with her brand, kindled in hell, Tokened to them in David's tower that dwell. XXII Before the rest forth pricked the Soldan fast, Against the watch, not yet in order just, As swift as hideous Boreas' hasty blast From hollow rocks when first his storms outburst, The raging floods, that trees and rocks down cast, Thunders, that towns and towers drive to dust: Earthquakes, to tear the world in twain that threat, Are naught, compared to his fury great. XXIII He struck no blow, but that his foe he hit; And never hit, but made a grievous wound: And never wounded, but death followed it; And yet no peril, hurt or harm he found, No weapon on his hardened helmet bit, No puissant stroke his senses once astound, Yet like a bell his tinkling helmet rung, And thence flew flames of fire and sparks among. XXIV Himself well nigh had put the watch to flight, A jolly troop of Frenchmen strong and stout, When his Arabians came by heaps to fight, Covering, like raging floods, the fields about; The beaten Christians run away full light, The Pagans, mingled with the flying rout, Entered their camp, and filled, as they stood, Their tents with ruin, slaughter, death and blood. XXV High on the Soldan's helm enamelled laid An hideous dragon, armed with many a scale, With iron paws, and leathern wings displayed, Which twisted on a knot her forked tail, With triple tongue it seemed she hissed and brayed, About her jaws the froth and venom trail, And as he stirred, and as his foes him hit, So flames to cast and fire she seemed to spit. XXVI With this strange light, the Soldan fierce appeared Dreadful to those that round about him been, As to poor sailors, when huge storms are reared, With lightning flash the rafting seas are seen; Some fled away, because his strength they feared, Some bolder gainst him bent their weapons keen, And forward night, in evils and mischiefs pleased, Their dangers hid, and dangers still increased. XXVII Among the rest that strove to merit praise, Was old Latinus, born by Tiber's bank, To whose stout heart in fights and bloody frays, For all his eild, base fear yet never sank; Five sons he had, the comforts of his days, That from his side in no adventure shrank, But long before their time, in iron strong They clad their members, tender, soft and young. XXVIII The bold ensample of their father's might Their weapons whetted and their wrath increased, "Come let us go," quoth he, "where yonder knight Upon our soldiers makes his bloody feast, Let not their slaughter once your hearts affright, Where danger most appears, there fear it least, For honor dwells in hard attempts, my sons, And greatest praise, in greatest peril, wons." XXIX Her tender brood the forest's savage queen, Ere on their crests their rugged manes appear, Before their mouths by nature armed been, Or paws have strength a silly lamb to tear, So leadeth forth to prey, and makes them keen, And learns by her ensample naught to fear The hunter, in those desert woods that takes The lesser beasts whereon his feast he makes. XXX The noble father and his hardy crew Fierce Solyman on every side invade, At once all six upon the Soldan flew, With lances sharp, and strong encounters made, His broken spear the eldest boy down threw, And boldly, over-boldly, drew his blade, Wherewith he strove, but strove therewith in vain, The Pagan's steed, unmarked, to have slain. XXXI But as a mountain or a cape of land Assailed with storms and seas on every side, Doth unremoved, steadfast, still withstand Storm, thunder, lightning, tempest, wind, and tide: The Soldan so withstood Latinus' band, And unremoved did all their justs abide, And of that hapless youth, who hurt his steed, Down to the chin he cleft in twain the head. XXXII Kind Aramante, who saw his brother slain, To hold him up stretched forth his friendly arm, Oh foolish kindness, and oh pity vain, To add our proper loss, to other's harm! The prince let fall his sword, and cut in twain About his brother twined, the child's weak arm. Down from their saddles both together slide, Together mourned they, and together died. XXXIII That done, Sabino's lance with nimble force He cut in twain, and 'gainst the stripling bold He spurred his steed, that underneath his horse The hardy infant tumbled on the mould, Whose soul, out squeezed from his bruised corpse, With ugly painfulness forsook her hold, And deeply mourned that of so sweet a cage She left the bliss, and joys of youthful age. XXXIV But Picus yet and Lawrence were on live, Whom at one birth their mother fair brought out, A pair whose likeness made the parents strive Oft which was which, and joyed in their doubt: But what their birth did undistinguished give, The Soldan's rage made known, for Picus stout Headless at one huge blow he laid in dust, And through the breast his gentle brother thrust. XXXV Their father, but no father now, alas! When all his noble sons at once were slain, In their five deaths so often murdered was, I know not how his life could him sustain, Except his heart were forged of steel or brass, Yet still he lived, pardie, he saw not plain Their dying looks, although their deaths he knows, It is some ease not to behold our woes. XXXVI He wept not, for the night her curtain spread Between his cause of weeping and his eyes, But still he mourned and on sharp vengeance fed, And thinks he conquers, if revenged he dies; He thirsts the Soldan's heathenish blood to shed, And yet his own at less than naught doth prize, Nor can he tell whether he liefer would, Or die himself, or kill the Pagan bold. XXXVII At last, "Is this right hand," quoth he, "so weak, That thou disdain'st gainst me to use thy might? Can it naught do? can this tongue nothing speak That may provoke thine ire, thy wrath and spite?" With that he struck, his anger great to wreak, A blow, that pierced the mail and metal bright, And in his flank set ope a floodgate wide, Whereat the blood out streamed from his side. XXXVIII Provoked with his cry, and with that blow, The Turk upon him gan his blade discharge, He cleft his breastplate, having first pierced through, Lined with seven bulls' hides, his mighty targe, And sheathed his weapons in his guts below; Wretched Latinus at that issue large, And at his mouth, poured out his vital blood, And sprinkled with the same his murdered brood. XXXIX On Apennine like as a sturdy tree, Against the winds that makes resistance stout, If with a storm it overturned be, Falls down and breaks the trees and plants about; So Latine fell, and with him felled he And slew the nearest of the Pagans' rout, A worthy end, fit for a man of fame, That dying, slew; and conquered, overcame. XL Meanwhile the Soldan strove his rage To satisfy with blood of Christian spilled, The Arabians heartened by their captain stern, With murder every tent and cabin filled, Henry the English knight, and Olipherne, O fierce Draguto, by thy hands were killed! Gilbert and Philip were by Ariadene Both slain, both born upon the banks of Rhone. XLI Albazar with his mace Ernesto slew, Under Algazel Engerlan down fell, But the huge murder of the meaner crew, Or manner of their deaths, what tongue can tell? Godfrey, when first the heathen trumpets blew, Awaked, which heard, no fear could make him dwell, But he and his were up and armed ere long, And marched forward with a squadron strong. XLII He that well heard the rumor and the cry, And marked the tumult still grow more and more, The Arabian thieves he judged by and by Against his soldiers made this battle sore; For that they forayed all the countries nigh, And spoiled the fields, the duke knew well before, Yet thought he not they had the hardiment So to assail him in his armed tent. XLIII All suddenly he heard, while on he went, How to the city-ward, "Arm, arm!" they cried, The noise upreared to the firmament, With dreadful howling filled the valleys wlde: This was Clorinda, whom the king forth sent To battle, and Argantes by her side. The duke, this heard, to Guelpho turned, and prayed Him his lieutenant be, and to him said: XLIV "You hear this new alarm from yonder part, That from the town breaks out with so much rage, Us needeth much your valor and your art To calm their fury, and their heat to 'suage; Go thither then, and with you take some part Of these brave soldiers of mine equipage, While with the residue of my champions bold I drive these wolves again out of our fold." XLV They parted, this agreed on them between, By divers paths, Lord Guelpho to the hill, And Godfrey hasted where the Arabians keen His men like silly sheep destroy and kill; But as he went his troops increased been, From every part the people flocked still, That now grown strong enough, he 'proached nigh Where the fierce Turk caused many a Christian die. XLVI So from the top of Vesulus the cold, Down to the sandy valleys, tumbleth Po, Whose streams the further from the fountain rolled Still stronger wax, and with more puissance go; And horned like a bull his forehead bold He lifts, and o'er his broken banks doth flow, And with his horns to pierce the sea assays, To which he proffereth war, not tribute pays. XLVII The duke his men fast flying did espy, And thither ran, and thus, displeased, spake, "What fear is this? Oh, whither do you fly? See who they be that this pursuit do make, A heartless band, that dare no battle try, Who wounds before dare neither give nor take, Against them turn your stern eye's threatening sight, An angry look will put them all to flight." XLVIII This said, he spurred forth where Solyman Destroyed Christ's vineyard like a savage boar, Through streams of blood, through dust and dirt he ran, O'er heaps of bodies wallowing in their gore, The squadrons close his sword to ope began, He broke their ranks, behind, beside, before, And, where he goes, under his feet he treads The armed Saracens, and barbed steeds. XLIX This slaughter-house of angry Mars he passed, Where thousands dead, half-dead, and dying were. The hardy Soldan saw him come in haste, Yet neither stepped aside nor shrunk for fear, But busked him bold to fight, aloft he cast His blade, prepared to strike, and stepped near, These noble princes twain, so Fortune wrought From the world's end here met, and here they fought: L With virtue, fury; strength with courage strove, For Asia's mighty empire, who can tell With how strange force their cruel blows they drove? How sore their combat was? how fierce, how fell? Great deeds they wrought, each other's harness clove; Yet still in darkness, more the ruth, they dwell. The night their acts her black veil covered under, Their acts whereat the sun, the world might wonder. LI The Christians by their guide's ensample hearted, Of their best armed made a squadron strong, And to defend their chieftain forth they started: The Pagans also saved their knight from wrong, Fortune her favors twixt them evenly parted, Fierce was the encounter, bloody, doubtful, long; These won, those lost; these lost, those won again; The loss was equal, even the numbers slain. LII With equal rage, as when the southern wind, Meeteth in battle strong the northern blast, The sea and air to neither is resigned, But cloud gainst cloud, and wave gainst wave they cast: So from this skirmish neither part declined, But fought it out, and kept their footings fast, And oft with furious shock together rush, And shield gainst shield, and helm gainst helm they crush. LIII The battle eke to Sionward grew hot, The soldiers slain, the hardy knights were killed, Legions of sprites from Limbo's prisons got, The empty air, the hills and valleys filled, Hearting the Pagans that they shrinked not, Till where they stood their dearest blood they spilled; And with new rage Argantes they inspire, Whose heat no flames, whose burning need no fire. LIV Where he came in he put to shameful flight The fearful watch, and o'er the trenches leaped, Even with the ground he made the rampire's height, And murdered bodies in the ditch unheaped, So that his greedy mates with labor light, Amid the tents, a bloody harvest reaped: Clorinda went the proud Circassian by, So from a piece two chained bullets fly. LV Now fled the Frenchmen, when in lucky hour Arrived Guelpho, and his helping band, He made them turn against this stormy shower, And with bold face their wicked foes withstand. Sternly they fought, that from their wounds downpour The streams of blood and run on either hand: The Lord of heaven meanwhile upon this fight, From his high throne bent down his gracious sight. LVI From whence with grace and goodness compassed round, He ruleth, blesseth, keepeth all he wrought, Above the air, the fire, the sea and ground, Our sense, our wit, our reason and our thought, Where persons three, with power and glory crowned, Are all one God, who made all things of naught, Under whose feet, subjected to his grace, Sit nature, fortune, motion, time and place. LVII This is the place, from whence like smoke and dust Of this frail world the wealth, the pomp and power, He tosseth, tumbleth, turneth as he lust, And guides our life, our death, our end and hour: No eye, however virtuous, pure and just, Can view the brightness of that glorious bower, On every side the blessed spirits be, Equal in joys, though differing in degree. LVIII With harmony of their celestial song The palace echoed from the chambers pure, At last he Michael called, in harness strong Of never yielding diamonds armed sure, "Behold," quoth he, "to do despite and wrong To that dear flock my mercy hath in cure, How Satan from hell's loathsome prison sends His ghosts, his sprites, his furies and his fiends. LIX "Go bid them all depart, and leave the care Of war to soldiers, as doth best pertain: Bid them forbear to infect the earth and air; To darken heaven's fair light, bid them refrain; Bid them to Acheron's black flood repair, Fit house for them, the house of grief and pain: There let their king himself and them torment, So I command, go tell them mine intent." LX This said, the winged warrior low inclined At his Creator's feet with reverence due; Then spread his golden feathers to the wind, And swift as thought away the angel flew, He passed the light, and shining fire assigned The glorious seat of his selected crew, The mover first, and circle crystalline, The firmament, where fixed stars all shine; LXI Unlike in working then, in shape and show, At his left hand, Saturn he left and Jove, And those untruly errant called I trow, Since he errs not, who them doth guide and move: The fields he passed then, whence hail and snow, Thunder and rain fall down from clouds above, Where heat and cold, dryness and moisture strive, Whose wars all creatures kill, and slain, revive. LXII The horrid darkness, and the shadows dun Dispersed he with his eternal wings, The flames which from his heavenly eyes outrun Beguiled the earth and all her sable things; After a storm so spreadeth forth the sun His rays and binds the clouds in golden strings, Or in the stillness of a moonshine even A falling star so glideth down from Heaven. LXIII But when the infernal troop he 'proached near, That still the Pagans' ire and rage provoke, The angel on his wings himself did bear, And shook his lance, and thus at last he spoke: "Have you not learned yet to know and fear The Lord's just wrath, and thunder's dreadful stroke? Or in the torments of your endless ill, Are you still fierce, still proud, rebellious still? LXIV "The Lord hath sworn to break the iron bands The brazen gates of Sion's fort which close, Who is it that his sacred will withstands? Against his wrath who dares himself oppose? Go hence, you cursed, to your appointed lands, The realms of death, of torments, and of woes, And in the deeps of that infernal lake Your battles fight, and there your triumphs make. LXV "There tyrannize upon the souls you find Condemned to woe, and double still their pains; Where some complain, where some their teeth do grind, Some howl, and weep, some clank their iron chains:" This said they fled, and those that stayed behind, With his sharp lance he driveth and constrains; They sighing left the lands, his silver sheep Where Hesperus doth lead, doth feed, and keep. LXVI And toward hell their lazy wings display, To wreak their malice on the damned ghosts; The birds that follow Titan's hottest ray, Pass not in so great flocks to warmer coasts, Nor leaves in so great numbers fall away When winter nips them with his new-come frosts; The earth delivered from so foul annoy, Recalled her beauty, and resumed her joy. LXVII But not for this in fierce Argantes' breast Lessened the rancor and decreased the ire, Although Alecto left him to infest With the hot brands of her infernal fire, Round his armed head his trenchant blade he blest, And those thick ranks that seemed moist entire He breaks; the strong, the high, the weak, the low, Were equalized by his murdering blow. LXVIII Not far from him amid the blood and dust, Heads, arms, and legs, Clorinda strewed wide Her sword through Berengarius' breast she thrust, Quite through the heart, where life doth chiefly bide, And that fell blow she struck so sure and just, That at his back his life and blood forth glide; Even in the mouth she smote Albinus then, And cut in twain the visage of the man. LXIX Gernier's right hand she from his arm divided, Whereof but late she had received a wound; The hand his sword still held, although not guided, The fingers half alive stirred on the ground; So from a serpent slain the tail divided Moves in the grass, rolleth and tumbleth round, The championess so wounded left the knight, And gainst Achilles turned her weapon bright. LXX Upon his neck light that unhappy blow, And cut the sinews and the throat in twain, The head fell down upon the earth below, And soiled with dust the visage on the plain; The headless trunk, a woful thing to know, Still in the saddle seated did remain; Until his steed, that felt the reins at large, With leaps and flings that burden did discharge. LXXI While thus this fair and fierce Bellona slew The western lords, and put their troops to flight, Gildippes raged mongst the Pagan crew, And low in dust laid many a worthy knight: Like was their sex, their beauty and their hue, Like was their youth, their courage and their might; Yet fortune would they should the battle try Of mightier foes, for both were framed to die. LXXII Yet wished they oft, and strove in vain to meet, So great betwixt them was the press and throng, But hardy Guelpho gainst Clorinda sweet Ventured his sword to work her harm and wrong, And with a cutting blow so did her greet, That from her side the blood streamed down along; But with a thrust an answer sharp she made, And 'twixt his ribs colored somedeal her blade. LXXIII Lord Guelpho struck again, but hit her not, For strong Osmida haply passed by, And not meant him, another's wound he got, That cleft his front in twain above his eye: Near Guelpho now the battle waxed hot, For all the troops he led gan thither hie, And thither drew eke many a Paynim knight, That fierce, stern, bloody, deadly waxed the fight. LXXIV Meanwhile the purple morning peeped o'er The eastern threshold to our half of land, And Argillano in this great uproar From prison loosed was, and what he fand, Those arms he hent, and to the field them bore, Resolved to take his chance what came to hand, And with great acts amid the Pagan host Would win again his reputation lost. LXXV As a fierce steed 'scaped from his stall at large, Where he had long been kept for warlike need, Runs through the fields unto the flowery marge Of some green forest where he used to feed, His curled mane his shoulders broad doth charge And from his lofty crest doth spring and spreed, Thunder his feet, his nostrils fire breathe out, And with his neigh the world resounds about. LXXVI So Argillan rushed forth, sparkled his eyes, His front high lifted was, no fear therein, Lightly he leaps and skips, it seems he flies, He left no sign in dust imprinted thin, And coming near his foes, he sternly cries, As one that forced not all their strength a pin, "You outcasts of the world, you men of naught What hath in you this boldness newly wrought? LXXVII "Too weak are you to bear a helm or shield Unfit to arm your breast in iron bright, You run half-naked trembling through the field, Your blows are feeble, and your hope in flight, Your facts and all the actions that you wield, The darkness hides, your bulwark is the night, Now she is gone, how will your fights succeed? Now better arms and better hearts you need." LXXVIII While thus he spoke, he gave a cruel stroke Against Algazel's throat with might and main; And as he would have answered him, and spoke, He stopped his words, and cut his jaws in twain; Upon his eyes death spread his misty cloak, A chilling frost congealed every vein, He fell, and with his teeth the earth he tore, Raging in death, and full of rage before. LXXIX Then by his puissance mighty Saladine, Proud Agricalt and Muleasses died, And at one wondrous blow his weapon fine, Did Adiazel in two parts divide, Then through the breast he wounded Ariadine, Whom dying with sharp taunts he gan deride, He lifting up uneath his feeble eyes, To his proud scorns thus answereth, ere he dies: LXXX "Not thou, whoe'er thou art, shall glory long Thy happy conquest in my death, I trow, Like chance awaits thee from a hand more strong, Which by my side will shortly lay thee low:" He smiled, and said, "Of mine hour short or long Let heaven take care; but here meanwhile die thou, Pasture for wolves and crows," on him his foot He set, and drew his sword and life both out. LXXXI Among this squadron rode a gentle page, The Soldan's minion, darling, and delight, On whose fair chin the spring-time of his age Yet blossomed out her flowers, small or light; The sweat spread on his cheeks with heat and rage Seemed pearls or morning dews on lilies white, The dust therein uprolled adorned his hair, His face seemed fierce and sweet, wrathful and fair. LXXXII His steed was white, and white as purest snow That falls on tops of aged Apennine, Lightning and storm are not so 'swift I trow As he, to run, to stop, to turn and twine; A dart his right hand shaked, prest to throw; His cutlass by his thigh, short, hooked, fine, And braving in his Turkish pomp he shone, In purple robe, o'erfret with gold and stone. LXXXIII The hardy boy, while thirst of warlike praise Bewitched so his unadvised thought, Gainst every band his childish strength assays, And little danger found, though much he sought, Till Argillan, that watched fit time always In his swift turns to strike him as he fought, Did unawares his snow-white courser slay, And under him his master tumbling lay: LXXXIV And gainst his face, where love and pity stand, To pray him that rich throne of beauty spare, The cruel man stretched forth his murdering hand, To spoil those gifts, whereof he had no share: It seemed remorse and sense was in his brand Which, lighting flat, to hurt the lad forbare; But all for naught, gainst him the point he bent That, what the edge had spared, pierced and rent. LXXXV Fierce Solyman that with Godfredo strived Who first should enter conquest's glorious gate, Left off the fray and thither headlong drived, When first he saw the lad in such estate; He brake the press, and soon enough arrived To take revenge, but to his aid too late, Because he saw his Lesbine slain and lost, Like a sweet flower nipped with untimely frost. LXXXVI He saw wax dim the starlight of his eyes, His ivory neck upon his shoulders fell, In his pale looks kind pity's image lies, That death even mourned, to hear his passing bell. His marble heart such soft impression tries, That midst his wrath his manly tears outwell, Thou weepest, Solyman, thou that beheld Thy kingdoms lost, and not one tear could yield. LXXXVII But when the murderer's sword he hapt to view Dropping with blood of his Lesbino dead, His pity vanished, ire and rage renew, He had no leisure bootless tears to shed; But with his blade on Argillano flew, And cleft his shield, his helmet, and his head, Down to his throat; and worthy was that blow Of Solyman, his strength and wrath to show: LXXXVIII And not content with this, down from his horse He lights, and that dead carcass rent and tore, Like a fierce dog that takes his angry course To bite the stone which had him hit before. Oh comfort vain for grief of so great force, To wound the senseless earth that feels no sore! But mighty Godfrey 'gainst the Soldan's train Spent not, this while, his force and blows in vain. LXXXIX A thousand hardy Turks affront he had In sturdy iron armed from head to foot, Resolved in all adventures good or bad, In actions wise, in execution stout, Whom Solyman into Arabia lad, When from his kingdom he was first cast out, Where living wild with their exiled guide To him in all extremes they faithful bide; XC All these in thickest order sure unite, For Godfrey's valor small or nothing shrank, Corcutes first he on the face did smite, Then wounded strong Rosteno in the flank, At one blow Selim's head he stroke off quite, Then both Rossano's arms, in every rank The boldest knights, of all that chosen crew, He felled, maimed, wounded, hurt and slew. XCI While thus he killed many a Saracine And all their fierce assaults unhurt sustained, Ere fortune wholly from the Turks decline, While still they hoped much, though small they gained, Behold a cloud of dust, wherein doth shine Lightning of war in midst thereof contained, Whence unawares burst forth a storm of swords, Which tremble made the Pagan knights and lords. XCII These fifty champions were, mongst whom there stands, In silver field, the ensign of Christ's death, If I had mouths and tongues as Briareus hands, If voice as iron tough, if iron breath, What harm this troop wrought to the heathen bands, What knights they slew, I could recount uneath In vain the Turks resist, the Arabians fly; If they fly, they are slain; if fight, they die. XCIII Fear, cruelty, grief, horror, sorrow, pain, Run through the field, disguised in divers shapes, Death might you see triumphant on the plain, Drowning in blood him that from blows escapes. The king meanwhile with parcel of his train Comes hastily out, and for sure conquest gapes, And from a bank whereon he stood, beheld The doubtful hazard of that bloody field. XCIV But when he saw the Pagans shrink away, He sounded the retreat, and gan desire His messengers in his behalf to pray Argantes and Clorinda to retire; The furious couple both at once said nay, Even drunk with shedding blood, and mad with ire, At last they went, and to recomfort thought And stay their troops from flight, but all for nought. XCV For who can govern cowardice or fear? Their host already was begun to fly, They cast their shields and cutting swords arrear, As not defended but made slow thereby, A hollow dale the city's bulwarks near From west to south outstretched long doth lie, Thither they fled, and in a mist of dust, Toward the walls they run, they throng, they thrust. XCVI While down the bank disordered thus they ran, The Christian knights huge slaughter on them made; But when to climb the other hill they gan, Old Aladine came fiercely to their aid: On that steep brae Lord Guelpho would not than Hazard his folk, but there his soldiers stayed, And safe within the city's walls the king. The relics small of that sharp fight did bring: XCVII Meanwhile the Soldan in this latest charge Had done as much as human force was able, All sweat and blood appeared his members large, His breath was short, his courage waxed unstable, His arm grew weak to bear his mighty targe, His hand to rule his heavy sword unable, Which bruised, not cut, so blunted was the blade It lost the use for which a sword was made. XCVIII Feeling his weakness, he gan musing stand, And in his troubled thought this question tossed, If he himself should murder with his hand, Because none else should of his conquest boast, Or he should save his life, when on the land Lay slain the pride of his subdued host, "At last to fortune's power," quoth he, "I yield, And on my flight let her her trophies build. XCIX "Let Godfrey view my flight, and smile to see This mine unworthy second banishment, For armed again soon shall he hear of me, From his proud head the unsettled crown to rent, For, as my wrongs, my wrath etern shall be, At every hour the bow of war new bent, I will rise again, a foe, fierce, bold, Though dead, though slain, though burnt to ashes cold." TENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismen from sleep awakes the Soldan great, And into Sion brings the Prince by night Where the sad king sits fearful on his seat, Whom he emboldeneth and excites to fight; Godfredo hears his lords and knights repeat How they escaped Armida's wrath and spite: Rinaldo known to live, Peter foresays His Offspring's virtue, good deserts, and praise. I A gallant steed, while thus the Soldan said, Came trotting by him, without lord or guide, Quickly his hand upon the reins he laid, And weak and weary climbed up to ride; The snake that on his crest hot fire out-braid Was quite cut off, his helm had lost the pride, His coat was rent, his harness hacked and cleft, And of his kingly pomp no sign was left. II As when a savage wolf chased from the fold, To hide his head runs to some holt or wood, Who, though he filled have while it might hold His greedy paunch, yet hungreth after food, With sanguine tongue forth of his lips out-rolled About his jaws that licks up foam and blood; So from this bloody fray the Soldan hied, His rage unquenched, his wrath unsatisfied. III And, as his fortune would, he scaped free From thousand arrows which about him flew, From swords and lances, instruments that be Of certain death, himself he safe withdrew, Unknown, unseen, disguised, travelled he, By desert paths and ways but used by few, And rode revolving in his troubled thought What course to take, and yet resolved on naught. IV Thither at last he meant to take his way, Where Egypt's king assembled all his host, To join with him, and once again assay To win by fight, by which so oft he lost: Determined thus, he made no longer stay, But thitherward spurred forth his steed in post, Nor need he guide, the way right well he could, That leads to sandy plains of Gaza old. V Nor though his smarting wounds torment him oft, His body weak and wounded back and side, Yet rested he, nor once his armor doffed, But all day long o'er hills and dales doth ride: But when the night cast up her shade aloft And all earth's colors strange in sables dyed, He light, and as he could his wounds upbound, And shook ripe dates down from a palm he found. VI On them he supped, and amid the field To rest his weary limbs awhile he sought, He made his pillow of his broken shield To ease the griefs of his distempered thought, But little ease could so hard lodging yield, His wounds so smarted that he slept right naught, And, in his breast, his proud heart rent in twain, Two inward vultures, Sorrow and Disdain. VII At length when midnight with her silence deep Did heaven and earth hushed, still, and quiet make, Sore watched and weary, he began to steep His cares and sorrows in oblivion's lake, And in a little, short, unquiet sleep Some small repose his fainting spirits take; But, while he slept, a voice grave and severe At unawares thus thundered in his ear: VIII "O Solyman! thou far-renowned king, Till better season serve, forbear thy rest; A stranger doth thy lands in thraldom bring, Nice is a slave, by Christian yoke oppressed; Sleepest thou here, forgetful of this thing, That here thy friends lie slain, not laid in chest, Whose bones bear witness of thy shame and scorn! And wilt thou idly here attend the morn?" IX The king awoke, and saw before his eyes A man whose presence seemed grave and old, A writhen staff his steps unstable guies, Which served his feeble members to uphold. "And what art thou?" the prince in scorn replies, "What sprite to vex poor passengers so bold, To break their sleep? or what to thee belongs My shame, my loss, my vengeance or my wrongs." X "I am the man of thine intent," quoth he, "And purpose new that sure conjecture hath, And better than thou weenest know I thee: I proffer thee my service and my faith. My speeches therefore sharp and biting be, Because quick words the whetstones are of wrath,-- Accept in gree, my lord, the words I spoke, As spurs thine ire and courage to provoke. XI "But now to visit Egypt's mighty king, Unless my judgment fall, you are prepared, I prophesy, about a needless thing You suffer shall a voyage long and hard: For though you stay, the monarch great will bring His new assembled host to Juda-ward, No place of service there, no cause of fight, Nor gainst our foes to use your force and might. XII "But if you follow me, within this wall With Christian arms hemmed in on every side, Withouten battle, fight, or stroke at all, Even at noonday, I will you safely guide, Where you delight, rejoice, and glory shall In perils great to see your prowess tried. That noble town you may preserve and shield, Till Egypt's host come to renew the field." XIII While thus he parleyed, of this aged guest The Turk the words and looks did both admire, And from his haughty eyes and furious breast He laid apart his pride, his rage and ire, And humbly said, "I willing am and prest To follow where thou leadest, reverend sire, And that advice best fits my angry vein That tells of greatest peril, greatest pain." XIV The old man praised his words, and for the air His late received wounds to worse disposes, A quintessence therein he poured fair, That stops the bleeding, and incision closes: Beholding then before Apollo's chair How fresh Aurora violets strewed and roses, "It's time," he says, "to wend, for Titan bright To wonted labor summons every wight." XV And to a chariot, that beside did stand, Ascended he, and with him Solyman, He took the reins, and with a mastering hand Ruled his steeds, and whipped them now and than, The wheels or horses' feet upon the land Had left no sign nor token where they ran, The coursers pant and smoke with lukewarm sweat And, foaming cream, their iron mouthfuls eat. XVI The air about them round, a wondrous thing, Itself on heaps in solid thickness drew, The chariot hiding and environing, The subtle mist no mortal eye could view; And yet no stone from engine cast or sling Could pierce the cloud, it was of proof so true; Yet seen it was to them within which ride, And heaven and earth without, all clear beside. XVII His beetle brows the Turk amazed bent, He wrinkled up his front, and wildly stared Upon the cloud and chariot as it went, For speed to Cynthia's car right well compared: The other seeing his astonishment How he bewondered was, and how he fared, All suddenly by name the prince gan call, By which awaked thus he spoke withal: XVIII "Whoe'er thou art above all worldly wit That hast these high and wondrous marvels brought, And know'st the deep intents which hidden sit In secret closet of man's private thought, If in thy skilful heart this lot be writ, To tell the event of things to end unbrought; Then say, what issue and what ends the stars Allot to Asia's troubles, broils and wars. XIX "But tell me first thy name, and by what art Thou dost these wonders strange, above our skill; For full of marvel is my troubled heart, Tell then and leave me not amazed still." The wizard smiled and answered, "In some part Easy it is to satisfy thy will, Ismen I hight, called an enchanter great, Such skill have I in magic's secret feat; XX "But that I should the sure events unfold Of things to come, or destinies foretell, Too rash is your desire, your wish too bold, To mortal heart such knowledge never fell; Our wit and strength on us bestowed I hold, To shun the evils and harms, mongst which we dwell, They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies. XXI "That puissant arm of thine that well can rend From Godfrey's brow the new usurped crown, And not alone protect, save and defend From his fierce people, this besieged town, Gainst fire and sword with strength and courage bend, Adventure, suffer, trust, tread perils down, And to content, and to encourage thee, Know this, which as I in a cloud foresee: XXII "I guess, before the over-gliding sun Shall many years mete out by weeks and days, A prince that shall in fertile Egypt won, Shall fill all Asia with his prosperous frays, I speak not of his acts in quiet done, His policy, his rule, his wisdom's praise, Let this suffice, by him these Christians shall In fight subdued fly, and conquered fall. XXIII "And their great empire and usurped state Shall overthrown in dust and ashes lie, Their woful remnant in an angle strait Compassed with sea themselves shall fortify, From thee shall spring this lord of war and fate." Whereto great Solyman gan thus reply: "O happy man to so great praise ybore!" Thus he rejoiced, but yet envied more; XXIV And said, "Let chance with good or bad aspect Upon me look as sacred Heaven's decree, This heart to her I never will subject, Nor ever conquered shall she look on me; The moon her chariot shall awry direct Ere from this course I will diverted be." While thus he spake, it seemed he breathed fire, So fierce his courage was, so hot his ire. XXV Thus talked they, till they arrived been Nigh to the place where Godfrey's tents were reared, There was a woful spectacle yseen, Death in a thousand ugly forms appeared, The Soldan changed hue for grief and teen, On that sad book his shame and loss he lead, Ah, with what grief his men, his friends he found; And standards proud, inglorious lie on ground! XXVI And saw one visage of some well-known friend. In foul despite, a rascal Frenchman tread, And there another ragged peasant rend The arms and garments from some champion dead, And there with stately pomp by heaps they wend, And Christians slain roll up in webs of lead; Lastly the Turks and slain Arabians, brought On heaps, he saw them burn with fire to naught. XXVII Deeply he sighed, and with naked sword Out of the coach he leaped in the mire, But Ismen called again the angry lord, And with grave words appeased his foolish ire. The prince content remounted at his sword, Toward a hill on drove the aged sire, And hasting forward up the bank they pass, Till far behind the Christian leaguer was. XXVIII There they alight and took their way on foot, The empty chariot vanished out of sight, Yet still the cloud environed them about. At their left hand down went they from the height Of Sion's Hill, till they approached the route On that side where to west he looketh right, There Ismen stayed, and his eyesight bent Upon the bushy rocks, and thither went. XXIX A hollow cave was in the craggy stone, Wrought out by hand a number years tofore, And for of long that way had walked none, The vault was hid with plants and bushes hoar, The wizard stooping in thereat to gone, The thorns aside and scratching brambles bore, His right hand sought the passage through the cleft, And for his guide he gave the prince his left: XXX "What," quoth the Soldan, "by what privy mine, What hidden vault behoves it me to creep? This sword can find a better way than thine, Although our foes the passage guard and keep." "Let not," quoth he, "thy princely foot repine To tread this secret path, though dark and deep; For great King Herod used to tread the same, He that in arms had whilom so great fame. XXXI "This passage made he, when he would suppress His subjects' pride, and them in bondage hold; By this he could from that small forteress Antonia called, of Antony the bold, Convey his folk unseen of more and less Even to the middest of the temple old, Thence, hither; where these privy ways begin, And bring unseen whole armies out and in. XXXII "But now saye I in all this world lives none That knows the secret of this darksome place, Come then where Aladine sits on his throne, With lords and princes set about his grace; He feareth more than fitteth such an one, Such signs of doubt show in his cheer and face; Fitly you come, hear, see, and keep you still, Till time and season serve, then speak your fill." XXXIII This said, that narrow entrance passed the knight, So creeps a camel through a needle's eye, And through the ways as black as darkest night He followed him that did him rule and guie; Strait was the way at first, withouten light, But further in, did further amplify; So that upright walked at ease the men Ere they had passed half that secret den, XXXIV A privy door Ismen unlocked at last, And up they clomb a little-used stair, Thereat the day a feeble beam in cast, Dim was the light, and nothing clear the air; Out of the hollow cave at length they passed Into a goodly hall, high, broad and fair, Where crowned with gold, and all in purple clad Sate the sad king, among his nobles sad. XXXV The Turk, close in his hollow cloud imbarred, Unseen, at will did all the prease behold, These heavy speeches of the king he heard, Who thus from lofty siege his pleasure told; "My lords, last day our state was much impaired, Our friends were slain, killed were our soldiers bold, Great helps and greater hopes are us bereft, Nor aught but aid from Egypt land is left: XXXVI "And well you see far distant is that aid, Upon our heels our danger treadeth still, For your advice was this assembly made, Each what he thinketh speak, and what he will." A whisper soft arose when this was said, As gentle winds the groves with murmur fill, But with bold face, high looks and merry cheer, Argantes rose, the rest their talk forbear. XXXVII "O worthy sovereign," thus began to say The hardy young man to the tyrant wise, "What words be these? what fears do you dismay? Who knows not this, you need not our advice! But on your hand your hope of conquest lay, And, for no loss true virtue damnifies, Make her our shield, pray her us succors give, And without her let us not wish to live. XXXVIII "Nor say I this for that I aught misdeem That Egypt's promised succors fail us might, Doubtful of my great master's words to seem To me were neither lawful, just, nor right! I speak these words, for spurs I them esteem To waken up each dull and fearful sprite, And make our hearts resolved to all assays, To win with honor, or to die with praise." XXXIX Thus much Argantes said, and said no more, As if the case were clear of which he spoke. Orcano rose, of princely stem ybore, Whose presence 'mongst them bore a mighty stroke, A man esteemed well in arms of yore, But now was coupled new in marriage yoke; Young babes he had, to fight which made him loth, He was a husband and a father both. XL "My lord," quoth he, "I will not reprehend The earnest zeal of this audacious speech, From courage sprung, which seld is close ypend In swelling stomach without violent breach: And though to you our good Circassian friend In terms too bold and fervent oft doth preach, Yet hold I that for good, in warlike feat For his great deeds respond his speeches great. XLI "But if it you beseem, whom graver age And long experience hath made wise and sly, To rule the heat of youth and hardy rage, Which somewhat have misled this knight awry, In equal balance ponder then and gauge Your hopes far distant, with your perils nigh; This town's old walls and rampires new compare With Godfrey's forces and his engines rare. XLII "But, if I may say what I think unblamed, This town is strong, by nature, site and art, But engines huge and instruments are framed Gainst these defences by our adverse part, Who thinks him most secure is eathest shamed; I hope the best, yet fear unconstant mart, And with this siege if we be long up pent, Famine I doubt, our store will all be spent. XLIII "For all that store of cattle and of grain Which yesterday within these walls you brought, While your proud foes triumphant through the plain On naught but shedding blood, and conquest thought, Too little is this city to sustain, To raise the siege unless some means be sought; And it must last till the prefixed hour That it be raised by Egypt's aid and power. XLIV "But what if that appointed day they miss? Or else, ere we expect, what if they came? The victory yet is not ours for this, Oh save this town from ruin, us from shame! With that same Godfrey still our warfare is, These armies, soldiers, captains are the same Who have so oft amid the dusty plain Turks, Persians, Syrians and Arabians slain. XLV "And thou Argantes wotest what they be; Oft hast thou fled from that victorious host, Thy shoulders often hast thou let them see, And in thy feet hath been thy safeguard most; Clorinda bright and I fled eke with thee, None than his fellows had more cause to boast, Nor blame I any; for in every fight We showed courage, valor, strength and might. XLVI "And though this hardy knight the certain threat Of near-approaching death to hear disdain; Yet to this state of loss and danger great, From this strong foe I see the tokens plain; No fort how strong soe'er by art or seat, Can hinder Godfrey why he should not reign: This makes me say,--to witness heaven I bring, Zeal to this state, love to my lord and king-- XLVII "The king of Tripoli was well advised To purchase peace, and so preserve his crown: But Solyman, who Godfrey's love despised, Is either dead or deep in prison thrown; Else fearful is he run away disguised, And scant his life is left him for his own, And yet with gifts, with tribute, and with gold, He might in peace his empire still have hold." XLVIII Thus spake Orcanes, and some inkling gave In doubtful words of that he would have said; To sue for peace or yield himself a slave He durst not openly his king persuade: But at those words the Soldan gan to rave, And gainst his will wrapt in the cloud he stayed, Whom Ismen thus bespake, "How can you bear These words, my lord? or these reproaches hear?" XLIX "Oh, let me speak," quoth he, "with ire and scorn I burn, and gains, my will thus hid I stay!" This said, the smoky cloud was cleft and torn, Which like a veil upon them stretched lay, And up to open heaven forthwith was borne, And left the prince in view of lightsome day, With princely look amid the press he shined, And on a sudden, thus declared his mind. L "Of whom you speak behold the Soldan here, Neither afraid nor run away for dread, And that these slanders, lies and fables were, This hand shall prove upon that coward's head, I, who have shed a sea of blood well near, And heaped up mountains high of Christians dead, I in their camp who still maintained the fray, My men all murdered, I that run away. LI "If this, or any coward vile beside, False to his faith and country, dares reply; And speak of concord with yon men of pride, By your good leave, Sir King, here shall he die, The lambs and wolves shall in one fold abide, The doves and serpents in one nest shall lie, Before one town us and these Christians shall In peace and love unite within one wall." LII While thus he spoke, his broad and trenchant sword His hand held high aloft in threatening guise; Dumb stood the knights, so dreadful was his word; A storm was in his front, fire in his eyes, He turned at last to Sion's aged lord, And calmed his visage stern in humbler wise: "Behold," quoth he, "good prince, what aid I bring, Since Solyman is joined with Juda's king." LIII King Aladine from his rich throne upstart And said, "Oh how I joy thy face to view, My noble friend! it lesseneth in some part My grief, for slaughter of my subjects true; My weak estate to stablish come thou art, And mayest thine own again in time renew, If Heavens consent:" with that the Soldan bold In dear embracements did he long enfold. LIV Their greetings done, the king resigned his throne To Solyman, and set himself beside, In a rich seat adorned with gold and stone, And Ismen sage did at his elbow bide, Of whom he asked what way they two had gone, And he declared all what had them betide: Clorinda bright to Solyman addressed Her salutations first, then all the rest. LV Among them rose Ormusses' valiant knight, Whom late the Soldan with a convoy sent, And when most hot and bloody was the fight, By secret paths and blind byways he went, Till aided by the silence and the night Safe in the city's walls himself he pent, And there refreshed with corn and cattle store The pined soldiers famished nigh before. LVI With surly countenance and disdainful grace, Sullen and sad, sat the Circassian stout, Like a fierce lion grumbling in his place, His fiery eyes that turns and rolls about; Nor durst Orcanes view the Soldan's face, But still upon the floor did pore and tout: Thus with his lords and peers in counselling, The Turkish monarch sat with Juda's king. LVII Godfrey this while gave victory the rein, And following her the straits he opened all; Then for his soldiers and his captains slain, He celebrates a stately funeral, And told his camp within a day or twain He would assault the city's mighty wall, And all the heathen there enclosed doth threat, With fire and sword, with death and danger great. LVIII And for he had that noble squadron known, In the last fight which brought him so great aid, To be the lords and princes of his own Who followed late the sly enticing maid, And with them Tancred, who had late been thrown In prison deep, by that false witch betrayed, Before the hermit and some private friends, For all those worthies, lords and knights, he sends; LIX And thus he said, "Some one of you declare Your fortunes, whether good or to be blamed, And to assist us with your valors rare In so great need, how was your coming framed?" They blush, and on the ground amazed stare, For virtue is of little guilt ashamed, At last the English prince with countenance bold, The silence broke, and thus their errors told: LX "We, not elect to that exploit by lot, With secret flight from hence ourselves withdrew, Following false Cupid, I deny it not, Enticed forth by love and beauty's hue; A jealous fire burnt in our stomachs hot, And by close ways we passed least in view, Her words, her looks, alas I know too late, Nursed our love, our jealousy, our hate. LXI "At last we gan approach that woful clime, Where fire and brimstone down from Heaven was sent To take revenge for sin and shameful crime Gainst kind commit, by those who nould repent; A loathsome lake of brimstone, pitch and lime, O'ergoes that land, erst sweet and redolent, And when it moves, thence stench and smoke up flies Which dim the welkin and infect the skies. LXII "This is the lake in which yet never might Aught that hath weight sink to the bottom down, But like to cork or leaves or feathers light, Stones, iron, men, there fleet and never drown; Therein a castle stands, to which by sight But o'er a narrow bridge no way is known, Hither us brought, here welcomed us the witch, The house within was stately, pleasant, rich. LXIII "The heavens were clear, and wholsome was the air, High trees, sweet meadows, waters pure and good; For there in thickest shade of myrtles fair A crystal spring poured out a silver flood; Amid the herbs, the grass and flowers rare, The falling leaves down pattered from the wood, The birds sung hymns of love; yet speak I naught Of gold and marble rich, and richly wrought. LXIV "Under the curtain of the greenwood shade, Beside the brook upon the velvet grass, In massy vessel of pure silver made, A banquet rich and costly furnished was, All beasts, all birds beguiled by fowler's trade, All fish were there in floods or seas that pass, All dainties made by art, and at the table An hundred virgins served, for husbands able. LXV "She with sweet words and false enticing smiles, Infused love among the dainties set, And with empoisoned cups our souls beguiles, And made each knight himself and God forget: She rose and turned again within short whiles, With changed looks where wrath and anger met, A charming rod, a book with her she brings, On which she mumbled strange and secret things. LXVI "She read, and change I felt my will and thought, I longed to change my life, and place of biding, That virtue strange in me no pleasure wrought, I leapt into the flood myself there hiding, My legs and feet both into one were brought, Mine arms and hands into my shoulders sliding, My skin was full of scales, like shields of brass, Now made a fish, where late a knight I was. LXVII "The rest with me like shape, like garments wore, And dived with me in that quicksilver stream, Such mind, to my remembrance, then I bore, As when on vain and foolish things men dream; At last our shade it pleased her to restore, Then full of wonder and of fear we seem, And with an ireful look the angry maid Thus threatened us, and made us thus afraid. LXVIII "'You see,' quoth she, 'my sacred might and skill, How you are subject to my rule and power, In endless thraldom damned if I will I can torment and keep you in this tower, Or make you birds, or trees on craggy hill, To bide the bitter blasts of storm and shower; Or harden you to rocks on mountains old, Or melt your flesh and bones to rivers cold: LXIX "'Yet may you well avoid mine ire and wrath, If to my will your yielding hearts you bend, You must forsake your Christendom and faith, And gainst Godfredo false my crown defend.' We all refused, for speedy death each prayeth, Save false Rambaldo, he became her friend, We in a dungeon deep were helpless cast, In misery and iron chained fast. LXX "Then, for alone they say falls no mishap, Within short while Prince Tancred thither came, And was unwares surprised in the trap: But there short while we stayed, the wily dame In other folds our mischiefs would upwrap. From Hidraort an hundred horsemen came, Whose guide, a baron bold to Egypt's king, Should us disarmed and bound in fetters bring. LXXI "Now on our way, the way to death we ride, But Providence Divine thus for us wrought, Rinaldo, whose high virtue is his guide To great exploits, exceeding human thought, Met us, and all at once our guard defied, And ere he left the fight to earth them brought. And in their harness armed us in the place, Which late were ours, before our late disgrace. LXXII "I and all these the hardy champion knew, We saw his valor, and his voice we heard; Then is the rumor of his death untrue, His life is safe, good fortune long it guard, Three times the golden sun hath risen new, Since us he left and rode to Antioch-ward; But first his armors, broken, hacked and cleft, Unfit for service, there he doft and left." LXXIII Thus spake the Briton prince, with humble cheer The hermit sage to heaven cast up his eyne, His color and his countenance changed were, With heavenly grace his looks and visage shine, Ravished with zeal his soul approached near The seat of angels pure, and saints divine, And there he learned of things and haps to come, To give foreknowledge true, and certain doom. LXXIV At last he spoke, in more than human sound, And told what things his wisdom great foresaw, And at his thundering voice the folk around Attentive stood, with trembling and with awe: "Rinaldo lives," he said, "the tokens found From women's craft their false beginnings draw, He lives, and heaven will long preserve his days, To greater glory, and to greater praise. LXXV "These are but trifles yet, though Asia's kings Shrink at his name, and tremble at his view, I well foresee he shall do greater things, And wicked emperors conquer and subdue; Under the shadow of his eagle's wings Shall holy Church preserve her sacred crew, From Caesar's bird he shall the sable train Pluck off, and break her talons sharp in twain. LXXVI "His children's children at his hardiness And great attempts shall take example fair, From emperors unjust in all distress They shall defend the state of Peter's chair, To raise the humble up, pride to suppress, To help the innocents shall be their care. This bird of east shall fly with conquest great, As far as moon gives light or sun gives heat; LXXVII "Her eyes behold the truth and purest light, And thunders down in Peter's aid she brings, And where for Christ and Christian faith men fight, There forth she spreadeth her victorious wings, This virtue nature gives her and this might; Then lure her home, for on her presence hings The happy end of this great enterprise, So Heaven decrees, and so command the skies." LXXVIII These words of his of Prince Rinaldo's death Out of their troubled hearts, the fear had rased; In all this joy yet Godfrey smiled uneath. In his wise thought such care and heed was placed. But now from deeps of regions underneath Night's veil arose, and sun's bright lustre chased, When all full sweetly in their cabins slept, Save he, whose thoughts his eyes still open kept. ELEVENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. With grave procession, songs and psalms devout Heaven's sacred aid the Christian lords invoke; That done, they scale the wall which kept them out: The fort is almost won, the gates nigh broke: Godfrey is wounded by Clorinda stout, And lost is that day's conquest by the stroke; The angel cures him, he returns to fight, But lost his labor, for day lost his light. I The Christian army's great and puissant guide, To assault the town that all his thoughts had bent, Did ladders, rams, and engines huge provide, When reverend Peter to him gravely went, And drawing him with sober grace aside, With words severe thus told his high intent; "Right well, my lord, these earthly strengths you move, But let us first begin from Heaven above: II "With public prayer, zeal and faith devout, The aid, assistance, and the help obtain Of all the blessed of the heavenly rout, With whose support you conquest sure may gain; First let the priests before thine armies stout With sacred hymns their holy voices strain. And thou and all thy lords and peers with thee, Of godliness and faith examples be." III Thus spake the hermit grave in words severe: Godfrey allowed his counsel, sage, and wise, "Of Christ the Lord," quoth he, "thou servant dear, I yield to follow thy divine advice, And while the princes I assemble here, The great procession, songs and sacrifice, With Bishop William, thou and Ademare, With sacred and with solemn pomp prepare." IV Next morn the bishops twain, the heremite, And all the clerks and priests of less estate, Did in the middest of the camp unite Within a place for prayer consecrate, Each priest adorned was in a surplice white, The bishops donned their albes and copes of state, Above their rochets buttoned fair before, And mitres on their heads like crowns they wore. V Peter alone, before, spread to the wind The glorious sign of our salvation great, With easy pace the choir come all behind, And hymns and psalms in order true repeat, With sweet respondence in harmonious kind Their humble song the yielding air doth beat, "Lastly, together went the reverend pair Of prelates sage, William and Ademare, VI The mighty duke came next, as princes do, Without companion, marching all alone, The lords and captains then came two and two, With easy pace thus ordered, passing through The trench and rampire, to the fields they gone, No thundering drum, no trumpet shrill they hear, Their godly music psalms and prayers were. VII To thee, O Father, Son, and sacred Sprite, One true, eternal, everlasting King; To Christ's dear mother, Mary, vlrgin bright, Psalms of thanksgiving and of praise they sing; To them that angels down from heaven to fight Gainst the blasphemous beast and dragon bring; To him also that of our Saviour good, Washed the sacred font in Jordan's flood. VIII Him likewise they invoke, called the Rock Whereon the Lord, they say, his Church did rear, Whose true successors close or else unlock The blessed gates of grace and mercy dear; And all the elected twelve the chosen flock, Of his triumphant death who witness bear; And them by torment, slaughter, fire and sword Who martyrs died to confirm his word; IX And them also whose books and writings tell What certain path to heavenly bliss us leads; And hermits good, and ancresses that dwell Mewed up in walls, and mumble on their beads, And virgin nuns in close and private cell, Where, but shrift fathers, never mankind treads: On these they called, and on all the rout Of angels, martyrs, and of saints devout. X Singing and saying thus, the camp devout Spread forth her zealous squadrons broad and wide'; Toward mount Olivet went all this route, So called of olive trees the hills which hide, A mountain known by fame the world throughout, Which riseth on the city's eastern side, From it divided by the valley green Of Josaphat, that fills the space between. XI Hither the armies went, and chanted shrill, That all the deep and hollow dales resound; From hollow mounts and caves in every hill, A thousand echoes also sung around, It seemed some clever, that sung with art and skill, Dwelt in those savage dens and shady ground, For oft resounds from the banks they hear, The name of Christ and of his mother dear. XII Upon the walls the Pagans old and young Stood hushed and still, amated and amazed, At their grave order and their humble song, At their strange pomp and customs new they gazed: But when the show they had beholden long, An hideous yell the wicked miscreants raised, That with vile blasphemies the mountain hoar, The woods, the waters, and the valleys roar. XIII But yet with sacred notes the hosts proceed, Though blasphemies they hear and cursed things; So with Apollo's harp Pan tunes his reed, So adders hiss where Philomela sings; Nor flying darts nor stones the Christians dreed, Nor arrows shot, nor quarries cast from slings; But with assured faith, as dreading naught, The holy work begun to end they brought. XIV A table set they on the mountain's height To minister thereon the sacrament, In golden candlesticks a hallowed light At either end of virgin wax there brent; In costly vestments sacred William dight, With fear and trembling to the altar went, And prayer there and service loud begins, Both for his own and all the army's sins. XV Humbly they heard his words that stood him nigh, The rest far off upon him bent their eyes, But when he ended had the service high, "You servants of the Lord depart," he cries: His hands he lifted then up to the sky, And blessed all those warlike companies; And they dismissed returned the way they came, Their order as before, their pomp the same. XVI Within their camp arrived, this voyage ended, Toward his tent the duke himself withdrew, Upon their guide by heaps the bands attended, Till his pavilion's stately door they view, There to the Lord his welfare they commended, And with him left the worthies of the crew, Whom at a costly and rich feast he placed, And with the highest room old Raymond graced. XVII Now when the hungry knights sufficed are With meat, with drink, with spices of the best, Quoth he, "When next you see the morning star, To assault the town be ready all and prest: To-morrow is a day of pains and war, This of repose, of quiet, peace, and rest; Go, take your ease this evening, and this night, And make you strong against to-morrow's fight." XVIII They took their leave, and Godfrey's heralds rode To intimate his will on every side, And published it through all the lodgings broad, That gainst the morn each should himself provide; Meanwhile they might their hearts of cares unload, And rest their tired limbs that eveningtide; Thus fared they till night their eyes did close, Night friend to gentle rest and sweet repose. XIX With little sign as yet of springing day Out peeped, not well appeared the rising morn, The plough yet tore not up the fertile lay, Nor to their feed the sheep from folds return, The birds sate silent on the greenwood spray Amid the groves unheard was hound and horn, When trumpets shrill, true signs of hardy fights, Called up to arms the soldiers, called the knights: XX "Arm, arm at once!" an hundred squadrons cried, And with their cry to arm them all begin. Godfrey arose, that day he laid aside His hauberk strong he wonts to combat in, And donned a breastplate fair, of proof untried, Such one as footmen use, light, easy, thin. Scantly the warlord thus clothed had his gromes, When aged Raymond to his presence comes. XXI And furnished to us when he the man beheld, By his attire his secret thought he guessed, "Where is," quoth he, "your sure and trusty shield? Your helm, your hauberk strong? where all the rest? Why be you half disarmed? why to the field Approach you in these weak defences dressed? I see this day you mean a course to run, Wherein may peril much, small praise be won. XXII "Alas, do you that idle prise expect, To set first foot this conquered wall above? Of less account some knight thereto object Whose loss so great and harmful cannot prove; My lord, your life with greater care protect, And love yourself because all us you love, Your happy life is spirit, soul, and breath Of all this camp, preserve it then from death." XXIII To this he answered thus, "You know," he said, "In Clarimont by mighty Urban's hand When I was girded with this noble blade, For Christ's true faith to fight in every land, To God even then a secret vow I made, Not as a captain here this day to stand And give directions, but with shield and sword To fight, to win, or die for Christ my Lord. XXIV "When all this camp in battle strong shall be Ordained and ordered, well disposed all, And all things done which to the high degree And sacred place I hold belongen shall; Then reason is it, nor dissuade thou me, That I likewise assault this sacred wall, Lest from my vow to God late made I swerve: He shall this life defend, keep and preserve." XXV Thus he concludes, and every hardy knight His sample followed, and his brethren twain, The other princes put on harness light, As footmen use: but all the Pagan train Toward that side bent their defensive might Which lies exposed to view of Charles's wain And Zephyrus' sweet blasts, for on that part The town was weakest, both by side and art. XXVI On all parts else the fort was strong by site, With mighty hills defenced from foreign rage, And to this part the tyrant gan unite His subjects born and bands that serve for wage, From this exploit he spared nor great nor lite, The aged men, and boys of tender age, To fire of angry war still brought new fuel, Stones, darts, lime, brimstone and bitumen cruel. XXVII All full of arms and weapons was the wall, Under whose basis that fair plain doth run, There stood the Soldan like a giant tall, So stood at Rhodes the Coloss of the sun, Waist high, Argantes showed himself withal, At whose stern looks the French to quake begun, Clorinda on the corner tower alone, In silver arms like rising Cynthia shone. XXVIII Her rattling quiver at her shoulders hung, Therein a flash of arrows feathered weel. In her left hand her bow was bended strong, Therein a shaft headed with mortal steel, So fit to shoot she singled forth among Her foes who first her quarries' strength should feel, So fit to shoot Latona's daughter stood When Niobe she killed and all her brood. XXIX The aged tyrant tottered on his feet From gate to gate, from wall to wall he flew, He comforts all his bands with speeches sweet, And every fort and bastion doth review, For every need prepared in every street New regiments he placed and weapons new. The matrons grave within their temples high To idols false for succors call and cry, XXX "O Macon, break in twain the steeled lance On wicked Godfrey with thy righteous hands, Against thy name he doth his arm advance, His rebel blood pour out upon these sands;" These cries within his ears no enterance Could find, for naught he hears, naught understands. While thus the town for her defence ordains, His armies Godfrey ordereth on the plains; XXXI His forces first on foot he forward brought, With goodly order, providence and art, And gainst these towers which to assail he thought, In battles twain his strength he doth depart, Between them crossbows stood, and engines wrought To cast a stone, a quarry, or a dart, From whence like thunder's dint or lightnings new Against the bulwark stones and lances flew. XXXII His men at arms did back his bands on foot, The light horse ride far off and serve for wings, He gave the sign, so mighty was the rout Of those that shot with bows and cast with slings, Such storms of shafts and stones flew all about, That many a Pagan proud to death it brings, Some died, some at their loops durst scant outpeep, Some fled and left the place they took to keep. XXXIII The hardy Frenchmen, full of heat and haste, Ran boldly forward to the ditches large, And o'er their heads an iron pentice vast They built, by joining many a shield and targe, Some with their engines ceaseless shot and cast, And volleys huge of arrows sharp discharge, Upon the ditches some employed their pain To fill the moat and even it with the plain. XXXIV With slime or mud the ditches were not soft, But dry and sandy, void of waters clear, Though large and deep the Christians fill them oft, With rubbish, fagots, stones, and trees they bear: Adrastus first advanced his crest aloft, And boldly gan a strong scalado rear, And through the falling storm did upward climb Of stones, darts, arrows, fire, pitch and lime: XXXV The hardy Switzer now so far was gone That half way up with mickle pain he got, A thousand weapons he sustained alone, And his audacious climbing ceased not; At last upon him fell a mighty stone, As from some engine great it had been shot, It broke his helm, he tumbled from the height, The strong Circassian cast that wondrous weight; XXXVI Not mortal was the blow, yet with the fall On earth sore bruised the man lay in a swoon. Argantes gan with boasting words to call, "Who cometh next? this first is tumbled down, Come, hardy soldiers, come, assault this wall, I will not shrink, nor fly, nor hide my crown, If in your trench yourselves for dread you hold, There shall you die like sheep killed in their fold." XXXVII Thus boasted he; but in their trenches deep, The hidden squadrons kept themselves from scath, The curtain made of shields did well off keep Both darts and shot, and scorned all their wrath. But now the ram upon the rampiers steep, On mighty beams his head advanced hath, With dreadful horns of iron tough tree great, The walls and bulwarks trembled at his threat. XXXVIII An hundred able men meanwhile let fall The weights behind, the engine tumbled down And battered flat the battlements and wall: So fell Taigetus hill on Sparta town, It crushed the steeled shield in pieces small, And beat the helmet to the wearers' crown, And on the ruins of the walls and stones, Dispersed left their blood their brains and bones. XXXIX The fierce assailants kept no longer close Undcr the shelter of their target fine, But their bold fronts to chance of war expose, And gainst those towers let their virtue shine, The scaling ladders up to skies arose, The ground-works deep some closely undermine, The walls before the Frenchmen shrink and shake, And gaping sign of headlong falling make: XL And fallen they had, so far the strength extends Of that fierce ram and his redoubted stroke, But that the Pagan's care the place defends And saved by warlike skill the wall nigh broke: For to what part soe'er the engine bends, Their sacks of wool they place the blow to choke, Whose yielding breaks the strokes thereon which light, So weakness oft subdues the greatest might. XLI While thus the worthies of the western crew Maintained their brave assault and skirmish hot, Her mighty bow Clorinda often drew, And many a sharp and deadly arrow shot; And from her bow no steeled shaft there flew But that some blood the cursed engine got, Blood of some valiant knight or man of fame, For that proud shootress scorned weaker game. XLII The first she hit among the Christian peers Was the bold son of England's noble king, Above the trench himself he scantly rears, But she an arrow loosed from the string, The wicked steel his gauntlet breaks and tears, And through his right hand thrust the piercing sting; Disabled thus from fight, he gan retire, Groaning for pain, but fretting more for ire. XLIII Lord Stephen of Amboise on the ditch's brim, And on a ladder high, Clotharius died, From back to breast an arrow pierced him, The other was shot through from side to side: Then as he managed brave his courser trim, On his left arm he hit the Flemings' guide, He stopped, and from the wound the reed out-twined, But left the iron in his flesh behind. XLIV As Ademare stood to behold the fight High on the bank, withdrawn to breathe a space, A fatal shaft upon his forehead light, His hand he lifted up to feel the place, Whereon a second arrow chanced right, And nailed his hand unto his wounded face, He fell, and with his blood distained the land, His holy blood shed by a virgin's hand. XLV While Palamede stood near the battlement, Despising perils all, and all mishap, And upward still his hardy footings bent, On his right eye he caught a deadly clap, Through his right eye Clorinda's seventh shaft went, And in his neck broke forth a bloody gap; He underneath that bulwark dying fell, Which late to scale and win he trusted well. XLVI Thus shot the maid: the duke with hard assay And sharp assault, meanwhile the town oppressed, Against that part which to his campward lay An engine huge and wondrous he addressed, A tower of wood built for the town's decay As high as were the walls and bulwarks best, A turret full of men and weapons pent, And yet on wheels it rolled, moved, and went. XLVII This rolling fort his nigh approaches made, And darts and arrows spit against his foes, As ships are wont in fight, so it assayed With the strong wall to grapple and to close, The Pagans on each side the piece invade, And all their force against this mass oppose, Sometimes the wheels, sometimes the battlement With timber, logs and stones, they broke and rent, XLVIII So thick flew stones and darts, that no man sees The azure heavens, the sun his brightness lost, The clouds of weapons, like to swarms of bees, Move the air, and there each other crossed: And look how falling leaves drop down from trees, When the moist sap is nipped with timely frost, Or apples in strong winds from branches fall; The Saracens so tumbled from the wall. XLIX For on their part the greatest slaughter light, They had no shelter gainst so sharp a shower, Some left on live betook themselves to flight, So feared they this deadly thundering tower: But Solyman stayed like a valiant knight, And some with him, that trusted in his power, Argantes with a long beech tree in hand, Ran thither, this huge engine to withstand: L With this he pushed the tower, and back it drives The length of all his tree, a wondrous way, The hardy virgin by his side arrives, To help Argantes in this hard assay: The band that used the ram, this season strives To cut the cords, wherein the woolpacks lay, Which done, the sacks down in the trenches fall, And to the battery naked left the wall. LI The tower above, the ram beneath doth thunder, What lime and stone such puissance could abide? The wall began, new bruised and crushed asunder, Her wounded lap to open broad and wide, Godfrey himself and his brought safely under The shattered wall, where greatest breach he spied, Himself he saves behind his mighty targe, A shield not used but in some desperate charge. LII From hence he sees where Solyman descends, Down to the threshold of the gaping breach, And there it seems the mighty prince intends Godfredo's hoped entrance to impeach: Argantes, and with him the maid, defends The walls above, to which the tower doth reach, His noble heart, when Godfrey this beheld, With courage new with wrath and valor swelled. LIII He turned about and to good Sigiere spake, Who bare his greatest shield and mighty bow, "That sure and trusty target let me take, Impenetrable is that shield I know, Over these ruins will I passage make, And enter first, the way is eath and low, And time requires that by some noble feat I should make known my strength and puissance great." LIV He scant had spoken, scant received the charge, When on his leg a sudden shaft him hit, And through that part a hole made wide and large, Where his strong sinews fastened were and knit. Clorinda, thou this arrow didst discharge, And let the Pagans bless thy hand for it, For by that shot thou savedst them that day From bondage vile, from death and sure decay. LV The wounded duke, as though he felt no pain, Still forward went, and mounted up the breach His high attempt at first he nould refrain, And after called his lords with cheerful speech; But when his leg could not his weight sustain, He saw his will did far his power outreach, And more he strove his grief increased the more, The bold assault he left at length therefore: LVI And with his hand he beckoned Guelpho near, And said, "I must withdraw me to my tent, My place and person in mine absence bear, Supply my want, let not the fight relent, I go, and will ere long again be here; I go and straight return:" this said, he went, On a light steed he leaped, and o'er the green He rode, but rode not, as he thought, unseen. LVII When Godfrey parted, parted eke the heart, The strength and fortune of the Christian bands, Courage increased in their adverse part, Wrath in their hearts, and vigor in their hands: Valor, success, strength, hardiness and art, Failed in the princes of the western lands, Their swords were blunt, faint was their trumpet's blast, Their sun was set, or else with clouds o'ercast. LVIII Upon the bulwarks now appeared bold That fearful band that late for dread was fled! The women that Clorinda's strength behold, Their country's love to war encouraged, They weapons got, and fight like men they would, Their gowns tucked up, their locks were loose and spread, Sharp darts they cast, and without dread or fear, Exposed their breasts to save their fortress dear. LIX But that which most dismayed the Christian knights, And added courage to the Pagans most, Was Guelpho's sudden fall in all men's sights, Who tumbled headlong down, his footing lost, A mighty stone upon the worthy lights, But whence it came none wist, nor from what coast; And with like blow, which more their hearts dismayed, Beside him low in dust old Raymond laid: LX And Eustace eke within the ditches large, To narrow shifts and last extremes they drive, Upon their foes so fierce the Pagans charge, And with good-fortune so their blows they give, That whom they hit, in spite of helm or targe, They deeply wound, or else of life deprive. At this their good success Argantes proud, Waxing more fell, thus roared and cried aloud: LXI "This is not Antioch, nor the evening dark Can help your privy sleights with friendly shade, The sun yet shines, your falsehood can we mark, In other wise this bold assault is made; Of praise and glory quenched is the spark That made you first these eastern lands invade, Why cease you now? why take you not this fort? What! are you weary for a charge so short?" LXII Thus raged he, and in such hellish sort Increased the fury in the brain-sick knight, That he esteemed that large and ample fort Too strait a field, wherein to prove his might, There where the breach had framed a new-made port, Himself he placed, with nimble skips and light, He cleared the passage out, and thus he cried To Solyman, that fought close by his side: LXIII "Come, Solyman, the time and place behold, That of our valors well may judge the doubt, What sayest thou? amongst these Christians bold, First leap he forth that holds himself most stout:" While thus his will the mighty champion told, Both Solyman and he at once leaped out, Fury the first provoked, disdain the last, Who scorned the challenge ere his lips it passed. LXIV Upon their foes unlooked-for they flew, Each spited other for his virtue's sake, So many soldiers this fierce couple slew, So many shields they cleft and helms they break, So many ladders to the earth they threw, That well they seemed a mount thereof to make, Or else some vamure fit to save the town, Instead of that the Christians late beat down. LXV The folk that strove with rage and haste before Who first the wall and rampire should ascend, Retire, and for that honor strive no more, Scantly they could their limbs and lives defend, They fled, their engines lost the Pagans tore In pieces small, their rams to naught they rend, And all unfit for further service make With so great force and rage their beams they brake. LXVI The Pagans ran transported with their ire, Now here, now there, and woful slaughters wrought, At last they called for devouring fire, Two burning pines against the tower they brought, So from the palace of their hellish sire, When all this world they would consume to naught, The fury sisters come with fire in hands, Shaking their snaky locks and sparkling brands: LXVII But noble Tancred, who this while applied Grave exhortations to his bold Latines, When of these knights the wondrous acts he spied, And saw the champions with their burning pines, He left his talk, and thither forthwith hied, To stop the rage of those fell Saracines. And with such force the fight he there renewed, That now they fled and lost who late pursued. LXVIII Thus changed the state and fortune of the fray, Meanwhile the wounded duke, in grief and teen, Within his great pavilion rich and gay, Good Sigiere and Baldwin stood between; His other friends whom his mishap dismay, With grief and tears about assembled been: He strove in haste the weapon out to wind, And broke the reed, but left the head behind. LXIX He bade them take the speediest way they might, Of that unlucky hurt to make him sound, And to lay ope the depth thereof to sight, He willed them open, search and lance the wound, "Send me again," quoth he, "to end this fight, Before the sun be sunken under ground;" And leaning on a broken spear, he thrust His leg straight out, to him that cure it must. LXX Erotimus, born on the banks of Po, Was he that undertook to cure the knight, All what green herbs or waters pure could do, He knew their power, their virtue, and their might, A noble poet was the man also, But in this science had a more delight, He could restore to health death-wounded men, And make their names immortal with his pen. LXXI The mighty duke yet never changed cheer, But grieved to see his friends lamenting stand; The leech prepared his cloths and cleansing gear, And with a belt his gown about him band, Now with his herbs the steely head to tear Out of the flesh he proved, now with his hand, Now with his hand, now with his instrument He shaked and plucked it, yet not forth it went. LXXII His labor vain, his art prevailed naught, His luck was ill, although his skill were good, To such extremes the wounded prince he brought, That with fell pain he swooned as he stood: But the angel pure, that kept him, went and sought Divine dictamnum, out of Ida wood, This herb is rough, and bears a purple flower, And in his budding leaves lies all his power. LXXIII Kind nature first upon the craggy clift Bewrayed this herb unto the mountain goat, That when her sides a cruel shaft hath rift, With it she shakes the reed out of her coat; This in a moment fetched the angel swift, And brought from Ida hill, though far remote, The juice whereof in a prepared bath Unseen the blessed spirit poured hath. LXXIV Pure nectar from that spring of Lydia than, And panaces divine therein he threw, The cunning leech to bathe the wound began, And of itself the steely head outflew; The bleeding stanched, no vermile drop outran, The leg again waxed strong with vigor new: Erotimus cried out, "This hurt and wound No human art or hand so soon makes sound: LXXV "Some angel good I think come down from skies Thy surgeon is, for here plain tokens are Of grace divine which to thy help applies, Thy weapon take and haste again to war." In precious cloths his leg the chieftain ties, Naught could the man from blood and fight debar; A sturdy lance in his right hand he braced, His shield he took, and on his helmet laced: LXXVI And with a thousand knights and barons bold, Toward the town he hasted from his camp, In clouds of dust was Titan's face enrolled, Trembled the earth whereon the worthies stamp, His foes far off his dreadful looks behold, Which in their hearts of courage quenched the lamp, A chilling fear ran cold through every vein, Lord Godfrey shouted thrice and all his train: LXXVII Their sovereign's voice his hardy people knew, And his loud cries that cheered each fearful heart; Thereat new strength they took and courage new, And to the fierce assault again they start. The Pagans twain this while themselves withdrew Within the breach to save that battered part, And with great loss a skirmish hot they hold Against Tancredi and his squadron bold. LXXVIII Thither came Godfrey armed round about In trusty plate, with fierce and dreadful look; At first approach against Argantes stout Headed with poignant steel a lance he shook, No casting engine with such force throws out A knotty spear, and as the way it took, It whistled in the air, the fearless knight Opposed his shield against that weapon's might. LXXIX The dreadful blow quite through his target drove, And bored through his breastplate strong and thick, The tender skin it in his bosom rove, The purple-blood out-streamed from the quick; To wrest it out the wounded Pagan strove And little leisure gave it there to stick; At Godfrey's head the lance again he cast, And said, "Lo, there again thy dart thou hast." LXXX The spear flew back the way it lately came, And would revenge the harm itself had done, But missed the mark whereat the man did aim, He stepped aside the furious blow to shun: But Sigiere in his throat received the same, The murdering weapon at his neck out-run, Nor aught it grieved the man to lose his breath, Since in his prince's stead he suffered death. LXXXI Even then the Soldan struck with monstrous main The noble leader of the Norman band, He reeled awhile and staggered with the pain, And wheeling round fell grovelling on the sand: Godfrey no longer could the grief sustain Of these displeasures, but with flaming brand, Up to the breach in heat and haste he goes, And hand to hand there combats with his foes; LXXXII And there great wonders surely wrought he had, Mortal the fight, and fierce had been the fray, But that dark night, from her pavilion sad, Her cloudy wings did on the earth display, Her quiet shades she interposed glad To cause the knights their arms aside to lay; Godfrey withdrew, and to their tents they wend, And thus this bloody day was brought to end. LXXXIII The weak and wounded ere he left the field, The godly duke to safety thence conveyed, Nor to his foes his engines would he yield, In them his hope to win the fortress laid; Then to the tower he went, and it beheeld, The tower that late the Pagan lords dismayed But now stood bruised, broken, cracked and shivered, From some sharp storm as it were late delivered. LXXXIV From dangers great escaped, but late it was, And now to safety brought well-nigh it seems, But as a ship that under sail doth pass The roaring billows and the raging streams, And drawing nigh the wished port, alas, Breaks on some hidden rocks her ribs and beams; Or as a steed rough ways that well hath passed, Before his inn stumbleth and falls at last: LXXXV Such hap befell that tower, for on that side Gainst which the Pagans' force and battery bend, Two wheels were broke whereon the piece should ride, The maimed engine could no further wend, The troop that guarded it that part provide To underprop with posts, and it defend Till carpenters and cunning workmen came Whose skill should help and rear again the same. LXXXVI Thus Godfrey bids, and that ere springing-day, The cracks and bruises all amend they should, Each open passage, and each privy way About the piece, he kept with soldiers bold: But the loud rumor, both of that they say, And that they do, is heard within the hold, A thousand lights about the tower they view, And what they wrought all night both saw and knew. TWELFTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Clorinda hears her eunuch old report Her birth, her offspring, and her native land; Disguised she fireth Godfrey's rolling fort. The burned piece falls smoking on the sand: With Tancred long unknown in desperate sort She fights, and falls through pierced with his brand: Christened she dies; with sighs, with plaints and tears. He wails her death; Argant revengement swears. I Now in dark night was all the world embarred; But yet the tired armies took no rest, The careful French kept heedful watch and ward, While their high tower the workmen newly dressed, The Pagan crew to reinforce prepared The weakened bulwarks, late to earth down kest, Their rampiers broke and bruised walls to mend, Lastly their hurts the wounded knights attend. II Their wounds were dressed, part of the work was brought To wished end, part left to other days, A dull desire to rest deep midnight wrought, His heavy rod sleep on their eyelids lays: Yet rested not Clorinda's working thought, Which thirsted still for fame and warlike praise, Argantes eke accompanied the maid From place to place, which to herself thus said: III "This day Argantes strong, and Solyman, Strange things have done, and purchased great renown, Among our foes out of the walls they ran, Their rams they broke and rent their engines down: I used my bow, of naught else boast I can, My self stood safe meanwhile within this town, And happy was my shot, and prosperous too, But that was all a woman's hand could do. IV "On birds and beasts in forests wild that feed It were more fit mine arrows to bestow, Than for a feeble maid in warlike deed With strong and hardy knights herself to show. Why take I not again my virgin's weed, And spend my days in secret cell unknow?" Thus thought, thus mused, thus devised the maid, And turning to the knight, at last thus said: V "My thoughts are full, my lord, of strange desire Some high attempt of war to undertake, Whether high God my mind therewith inspire Or of his will his God mankind doth make, Among our foes behold the light and fire, I will among them wend, and burn or break The tower, God grant therein I have my will And that performed, betide me good or ill. VI "But if it fortune such my chance should be, That to this town I never turn again, Mine eunuch, whom I dearly love, with thee I leave my faithful maids, and all my train, To Egypt then conducted safely see Those woful damsels and that aged swain, Help them, my lord, in that distressed case, Their feeble sex, his age, deserveth grace." VII Argantes wondering stood, and felt the effect Of true renown pierce through his glorious mind, "And wilt thou go," quoth he, "and me neglect, Disgraced, despised, leave in this fort behind? Shall I while these strong walls my life protect Behold thy flames and fires tossed in the wind, No, no, thy fellow have I been in arms, And will be still, in praise, in death, in harms. VIII "This heart of mine death's bitter stroke despiseth, For praise this life, for glory take this breath." "My soul and more," quoth she, "thy friendship prizeth, For this thy proffered aid required uneath, I but a woman am, no loss ariseth To this besieged city by my death, But if, as God forbid, this night thou fall, Ah! who shall then, who can, defend this wall!" IX "Too late these 'scuses vain," the knight replied, "You bring; my will is firm, my mind is set, I follow you whereso you list me guide, Or go before if you my purpose let." This said, they hasted to the palace wide About their prince where all his lords were met, Clorinda spoke for both, and said, "Sir king, Attend my words, hear, and allow the thing: X "Argantes here, this bold and hardy knight, Will undertake to burn the wondrous tower, And I with him, only we stay till night Bury in sleep our foes at deadest hour." The king with that cast up his hands on height, The tears for joy upon his cheeks down pour. "Praised," quoth he, "be Macon whom we serve, This land I see he keeps and will preserve: XI "Nor shall so soon this shaken kingdom fall, While such unconquered hearts my state defend: But for this act what praise or guerdon shall I give your virtues, which so far extend? Let fame your praises sound through nations all, And fill the world therewith to either end, Take half my wealth and kingdom for your meed? You are rewarded half even with the deed." XII Thus spake the prince, and gently 'gan distrain, Now him, now her, between his friendly arms: The Soldan by, no longer could refrain That noble envy which his bosom warms, "Nor I," quoth he, "bear this broad sword in vain, Nor yet am unexpert in night alarms, Take me with you: ah." Quoth Clorinda, "no! Whom leave we here of prowess if you go?" XIII This spoken, ready with a proud refuse Argantes was his proffered aid to scorn, Whom Aladine prevents, and with excuse To Solyman thus gan his speeches torn: "Right noble prince, as aye hath been your use Your self so still you bear and long have borne, Bold in all acts, no danger can affright Your heart, nor tired is your strength with fight. XIV "If you went forth great things perform you would, In my conceit yet far unfit it seems That you, who most excel in courage bold, At once should leave this town in these extremes, Nor would I that these twain should leave this hold, My heart their noble lives far worthier deems, If this attempt of less importance were, Or weaker posts so great a weight could bear. XV "But for well-guarded is the mighty tower With hardy troops and squadrons round about, And cannot harmed be with little power, Nor fit the time to send whole armies out, This pair who passed have many a dreadful stowre, And proffer now to prove this venture stout, Alone to this attempt let them go forth, Alone than thousands of more price and worth. XVI "Thou, as it best beseems a mighty king, With ready bands besides the gate attend, That when this couple have performed the thing, And shall again their footsteps homeward bend, From their strong foes upon them following Thou may'st them keep, preserve, save and defend:" Thus said the king, "The Soldan must consent," Silent remained the Turk, and discontent. XVII Then Ismen said, "You twain that undertake This hard attempt, awhile I pray you stay, Till I a wildfire of fine temper make, That this great engine burn to ashes may; Haply the guard that now doth watch and wake, Will then lie tumbled sleeping on the lay;" Thus they conclude, and in their chambers sit, To wait the time for this adventure fit. XVIII Clorinda there her silver arms off rent, Her helm, her shield, her hauberk shining bright, An armor black as jet or coal she hent, Wherein withouten plume herself she dight; For thus disguised amid her foes she meant To pass unseen, by help of friendly night, To whom her eunuch, old Arsetes, came, That from her cradle nursed and kept the dame. XIX This aged sire had followed far and near, Through lands and seas, the strong and hardy maid, He saw her leave her arms and wonted gear, Her danger nigh that sudden change foresaid: By his white locks from black that changed were In following her, the woful man her prayed, By all his service and his taken pain, To leave that fond attempt, but prayed in vain. XX "At last," quoth he, "since hardened to thine ill, Thy cruel heart is to thy loss prepared, That my weak age, nor tears that down distil, Not humble suit, nor plaint, thou list regard; Attend awhile, strange things unfold I will, Hear both thy birth and high estate declared; Follow my counsel, or thy will that done," She sat to hear, the eunuch thus begun: XXI "Senapus ruled, and yet perchance doth reign In mighty Ethiop, and her deserts waste, The lore of Christ both he and all his train Of people black, hath kept and long embraced, To him a Pagan was I sold for gain, And with his queen, as her chief eunuch, placed; Black was this queen as jet, yet on her eyes Sweet loveliness, in black attired, lies. XXII "The fire of love and frost of jealousy, Her husband's troubled soul alike torment, The tide of fond suspicion flowed high, The foe to love and plague to sweet content, He mewed her up from sight of mortal eye, Nor day he would his beams on her had bent: She, wise and lowly, by her husband's pleasure, Her joy, her peace, her will, her wish did measure. XXIII "Her prison was a chamber, painted round With goodly portraits and with stories old, As white as snow there stood a virgin bound, Besides a dragon fierce, a champion bold The monster did with poignant spear through wound, The gored beast lay dead upon the mould; The gentle queen before this image laid. She plained, she mourned, she wept, she sighed, she prayed: XXIV "At last with child she proved, and forth she brought, And thou art she, a daughter fair and bright, In her thy color white new terror wrought, She wondered on thy face with strange affright, But yet she purposed in her fearful thought To hide thee from the king, thy father's sight, Lest thy bright hue should his suspect approve, For seld a crow begets a silver dove. XXV "And to her spouse to show she was disposed A negro's babe late born, in room of thee, And for the tower wherein she lay enclosed, Was with her damsels only wond and me, To me, on whose true faith she most reposed, She gave thee, ere thou couldest christened be, Nor could I since find means thee to baptize, In Pagan lands thou knowest it's not the guise. XXVI "To me she gave thee, and she wept withal, To foster thee in some far distant place. Who can her griefs and plaints to reckoning call, How oft she swooned at the last embrace: Her streaming tears amid her kisses fall, Her sighs, her dire complaints did interlace? And looking up at last, 'O God,' quoth she, 'Who dost my heart and inward mourning see, XXVII "'If mind and body spotless to this day, If I have kept my bed still undefiled, Not for myself a sinful wretch I pray, That in thy presence am an abject vilde, Preserve this babe, whose mother must denay To nourish it, preserve this harmless child, Oh let it live, and chaste like me it make, But for good fortune elsewhere sample take. XXVIII "'Thou heavenly soldier which delivered hast That sacred virgin from the serpent old, If on thine altars I have offerings placed, And sacrificed myrrh, frankincense and gold, On this poor child thy heavenly looks down cast, With gracious eye this silly babe behold;' This said, her strength and living sprite was fled, She sighed, she groaned, she swooned in her bed. XXIX "Weeping I took thee, in a little chest, Covered with herbs and leaves, I brought thee out So secretly, that none of all the rest Of such an act suspicion had or doubt, To wilderness my steps I first addressed, Where horrid shades enclosed me round about, A tigress there I met, in whose fierce eyes Fury and wrath, rage, death and terror lies: XXX "Up to a tree I leaped, and on the grass, Such was my sudden fear, I left thee lying, To thee the beast with furious course did pass, With curious looks upon thy visage prying, All suddenly both meek and mild she was, With friendly cheer thy tender body eying: At last she licked thee, and with gesture mild About thee played, and thou upon her smiled. XXXI "Her fearful muzzle full of dreadful threat, In thy weak hand thou took'st withouten dread; The gentle beast with milk-outstretched teat, As nurses' custom, proffered thee to feed. As one that wondereth on some marvel great, I stood this while amazed at the deed. When thee she saw well filled and satisfied, Unto the woods again the tigress hied. XXXII "She gone, down from the tree I came in haste, And took thee up, and on my journey wend, Within a little thorp I stayed at last, And to a nurse the charge of thee commend, And sporting with thee there long time I passed, Till term of sixteen months were brought to end, And thou begun, as little children do, With half clipped words to prattle, and to go. XXXIII "But having passed the August of mine age, When more than half my tap of life was run, Rich by rewards given by your mother sage, For merits past, and service yet undone, I longed to leave this wandering pilgrimage, And in my native soil again to won, To get some seely home I had desire, Loth still to warm me at another's fire. XXXIV "To Egypt-ward, where I was born, I went, And bore thee with me, by a rolling flood, Till I with savage thieves well-nigh was hent; Before the brook, the thieves behind me stood: Thee to forsake I never could consent, And gladly would I 'scape those outlaws wood, Into the flood I leaped far from the brim, My left hand bore thee, with the right I swim. XXXV "Swift was the current, in the middle stream A whirlpool gaped with devouring jaws, The gulf, on such mishap ere I could dream, Into his deep abyss my carcass draws, There I forsook thee, the wild waters seem To pity thee, a gentle wind there blows Whose friendly puffs safe to the shore thee drive, Where wet and weary I at last arrive: XXXVI "I took thee up, and in my dream that night, When buried was the world in sleep and shade, I saw a champion clad in armor bright That o'er my head shaked a flaming blade, He said, 'I charge thee execute aright, That charge this infant's mother on thee laid, Baptize the child, high Heaven esteems her dear, And I her keeper will attend her near: XXXVII "'I will her keep, defend, save and protect, I made the waters mild, the tigress tame, O wretch that heavenly warnings dost reject!' The warrior vanished having said the same. I rose and journeyed on my way direct When blushing morn from Tithon's bed forth came, But for my faith is true and sure I ween, And dreams are false, you still unchristened been. XXXVIII "A Pagan therefore thee I fostered have, Nor of thy birth the truth did ever tell, Since you increased are in courage brave, Your sex and nature's-self you both excel, Full many a realm have you made bond and slave, Your fortunes last yourself remember well, And how in peace and war, in joy and teen, I have your servant, and your tutor been. XXXIX "Last morn, from skies ere stars exiled were, In deep and deathlike sleep my senses drowned, The self-same vision did again appear, With stormy wrathful looks, and thundering sound, 'Villain,' quoth he, 'within short while thy dear Must change her life, and leave this sinful ground, Thine be the loss, the torment, and the care,' This said, he fled through skies, through clouds and air. XL "Hear then my joy, my hope, my darling, hear, High Heaven some dire misfortune threatened hath, Displeased pardie, because I did thee lere A lore repugnant to thy parents' faith; Ah, for my sake, this bold attempt forbear; Put off these sable arms, appease thy wrath." This said, he wept, she pensive stood and sad, Because like dream herself but lately had. XLI With cheerful smile she answered him at last, "I will this faith observe, it seems me true, Which from my cradle age thou taught me hast; I will not change it for religion new, Nor with vain shows of fear and dread aghast This enterprise forbear I to pursue, No, not if death in his most dreadful face Wherewith he scareth mankind, kept the place." XLII Approachen gan the time, while thus she spake, Wherein they ought that dreadful hazard try; She to Argantes went, who should partake Of her renown and praise, or with her die. Ismen with words more hasty still did make Their virtue great, which by itself did fly, Two balls he gave them made of hollow brass, Wherein enclosed fire, pitch, and brimstone was. XLIII And forth they went, and over dale and hill They hasted forward with a speedy pace, Unseen, unmarked, undescried, until Beside the engine close themselves they place, New courage there their swelling hearts did fill, Rage in their breasts, fury shown in their face, They yearned to blow the fire, and draw the sword. The watch descried them both, and gave the word. XLIV Silent they passed on, the watch begun To rear a huge alarm with hideous cries, Therewith the hardy couple forward run To execute their valiant enterprise: So from a cannon or a roaring gun At once the noise, the flame, and bullet flies, They run, they give the charge, begin the fray, And all at once their foes break, spoil and slay. XLV They passed first through thousand thousand blows, And then performed their designment bold, A fiery ball each on the engine throws, The stuff was dry, the fire took quickly hold, Furious upon the timber-work it grows, How it increased cannot well be told, How it crept up the piece, and how to skies The burning sparks and towering smoke upflies. XLVI A mass of solid fire burning bright Rolled up in smouldering fumes, there bursteth out, And there the blustering winds add strength and might And gather close the sparsed flames about: The Frenchmen trembled at the dreadful light, To arms in haste and fear ran all the rout, Down fell the piece dreaded so much in war, Thus what long days do make one hour doth mar. XLVII Two Christian bands this while came to the place With speedy haste, where they beheld the fire, Argantes to them cried with scornful grace, "Your blood shall quench these flames, and quench mine ire:" This said, the maid and he with sober pace Drew back, and to the banks themselves retire, Faster than brooks which falling showers increase Their foes augment, and faster on them press. XLVIII The gilden port was opened, and forth stepped With all his soldiers bold, the Turkish king, Ready to aid the two his force he kept, When fortune should them home with conquest bring, Over the bars the hardy couple leapt And after them a band of Christians fling, Whom Solyman drove back with courage stout, And shut the gate, but shut Clorinda out. XLIX Alone was she shut forth, for in that hour Wherein they closed the port, the virgin went, And full of heat and wrath, her strength and power Gainst Arimon, that struck her erst, she bent, She slew the knight, nor Argant in that stowre Wist of her parting, or her fierce intent, The fight, the press, the night, and darksome skies Care from his heart had ta'en, sight from his eyes. L But when appeased was her angry mood, Her fury calmed, and settled was her head, She saw the gates were shut, and how she stood Amid her foes, she held herself for dead; While none her marked at last she thought it good, To save her life, some other path to tread, She feigned her one of them, and close her drew Amid the press that none her saw or knew: LI Then as a wolf guilty of some misdeed Flies to some grove to hide himself from view, So favored with the night, with secret speed Dissevered from the press the damsel flew: Tancred alone of her escape took heed, He on that quarter was arrived new, When Arimon she killed he thither came, He saw it, marked it, and pursued the dame. LII He deemed she was some man of mickle might, And on her person would he worship win, Over the hills the nymph her journey dight Toward another port, there to get in: With hideous noise fast after spurred the knight, She heard and stayed, and thus her words begin, "What haste hast thou? ride softly, take thy breath, What bringest thou?" He answered, "War and death." LIII "And war and death," quoth she, "here mayest thou get If thou for battle come," with that she stayed: Tancred to ground his foot in haste down set, And left his steed, on foot he saw the maid, Their courage hot, their ire and wrath they whet, And either champion drew a trenchant blade, Together ran they, and together stroke, Like two fierce bulls whom rage and love provoke. LIV Worthy of royal lists and brightest day, Worthy a golden trump and laurel crown, The actions were and wonders of that fray Which sable knight did in dark bosom drown: Yet night, consent that I their acts display And make their deeds to future ages known, And in records of long enduring story Enrol their praise, their fame, their worth and glory. LV They neither shrunk, nor vantage sought of ground, They traverse not, nor skipped from part to part, Their blows were neither false nor feigned found, The night, their rage would let them use no art, Their swords together clash with dreadful sound, Their feet stand fast, and neither stir nor start, They move their hands, steadfast their feet remain, Nor blow nor loin they struck, or thrust in vain. LVI Shame bred desire a sharp revenge to take, And vengeance taken gave new cause of shame: So that with haste and little heed they strake, Fuel enough they had to feed the flame; At last so close their battle fierce they make, They could not wield their swords, so nigh they came, They used the hilts, and each on other rushed, And helm to helm, and shield to shield they crushed. LVII Thrice his strong arms he folds about her waist, And thrice was forced to let the virgin go, For she disdained to be so embraced, No lover would have strained his mistress so: They took their swords again, and each enchased Deep wounds in the soft flesh of his strong foe, Till weak and weary, faint, alive uneath, They both retired at once, at once took breath. LVIII Each other long beheld, and leaning stood Upon their swords, whose points in earth were pight, When day-break, rising from the eastern flood, Put forth the thousand eyes of blindfold night; Tancred beheld his foe's out-streaming blood, And gaping wounds, and waxed proud with the sight, Oh vanity of man's unstable mind, Puffed up with every blast of friendly wind! LIX Why joy'st thou, wretch? Oh, what shall be thy gain? What trophy for this conquest is't thou rears? Thine eyes shall shed, in case thou be not slain, For every drop of blood a sea of tears: The bleeding warriors leaning thus remain, Each one to speak one word long time forbears, Tancred the silence broke at last, and said, For he would know with whom this fight he made: LX "Evil is our chance and hard our fortune is Who here in silence, and in shade debate, Where light of sun and witness all we miss That should our prowess and our praise dilate: If words in arms find place, yet grant me this, Tell me thy name, thy country, and estate; That I may know, this dangerous combat done, Whom I have conquered, or who hath me won." LXI "What I nill tell, you ask," quoth she, "in vain, Nor moved by prayer, nor constrained by power, But thus much know, I am one of those twain Which late with kindled fire destroyed the tower." Tancred at her proud words swelled with disdain, "That hast thou said," quoth he, "in evil hour; Thy vaunting speeches, and thy silence both, Uncivil wretch, hath made my heart more wroth." LXII Ire in their chafed breasts renewed the fray, Fierce was the fight, though feeble were their might, Their strength was gone, their cunning was away, And fury in their stead maintained the fight, Their swords both points and edges sharp embay In purple blood, whereso they hit or light, And if weak life yet in their bosoms lie, They lived because they both disdained to die. LXIII As Aegean seas when storms be calmed again That rolled their tumbling waves with troublous blasts, Do yet of tempests past some shows retain, And here and there their swelling billows casts; So, though their strength were gone and might were vain, Of their first fierceness still the fury lasts, Wherewith sustained, they to their tackling stood, And heaped wound on wound, and blood on blood. LXIV But now, alas, the fatal hour arrives That her sweet life must leave that tender hold, His sword into her bosom deep he drives, And bathed in lukewarm blood his iron cold, Between her breasts the cruel weapon rives Her curious square, embossed with swelling gold, Her knees grow weak, the pains of death she feels, And like a falling cedar bends and reels. LXV The prince his hand upon her shield doth stretch, And low on earth the wounded damsel layeth, And while she fell, with weak and woful speech, Her prayers last and last complaints she sayeth, A spirit new did her those prayers teach, Spirit of hope, of charity, and faith; And though her life to Christ rebellious were, Yet died she His child and handmaid dear. LXVI "Friend, thou hast won, I pardon thee, nor save This body, that all torments can endure, But save my soul, baptism I dying crave, Come wash away my sins with waters pure:" His heart relenting nigh in sunder rave, With woful speech of that sweet creature, So that his rage, his wrath, and anger died, And on his cheeks salt tears for ruth down slide. LXVII With murmur loud down from the mountain's side A little runnel tumbled near the place, Thither he ran and filled his helmet wide, And quick returned to do that work of grace, With trembling hands her beaver he untied, Which done he saw, and seeing, knew her face, And lost therewith his speech and moving quite, Oh woful knowledge, ah unhappy sight! LXVIII He died not, but all his strength unites, And to his virtues gave his heart in guard, Bridling his grief, with water he requites The life that he bereft with iron hard, And while the sacred words the knight recites, The nymph to heaven with joy herself prepared; And as her life decays her joys increase, She smiled and said, "Farewell, I die in peace." LXIX As violets blue mongst lilies pure men throw, So paleness midst her native white begun; Her looks to heaven she cast, their eyes I trow Downward for pity bent both heaven and sun, Her naked hand she gave the knight, in show Of love and peace, her speech, alas, was done, And thus the virgin fell on endless sleep,-- Love, Beauty, Virtue, for your darling weep! LXX But when he saw her gentle soul was went, His manly courage to relent began, Grief, sorrow, anguish, sadness, discontent, Free empire got and lordship on the man, His life within his heart they close up pent, Death through his senses and his visage ran: Like his dead lady, dead seemed Tancred good, In paleness, stillness, wounds and streams of blood. LXXI And his weak sprite, to be unbodied From fleshly prison free that ceaseless strived, Had followed her fair soul but lately fled Had not a Christian squadron there arrived, To seek fresh water thither haply led, And found the princess dead, and him deprived Of signs of life; yet did the knight remain On live, nigh dead, for her himself had slain. LXXII Their guide far off the prince knew by his shield, And thither hasted full of grief and fear, Her dead, him seeming so, he there beheld, And for that strange mishap shed many a tear; He would not leave the corpses fair in field For food to wolves, though she a Pagan were, But in their arms the soldiers both uphent, And both lamenting brought to Tancred's tent. LXXIII With those dear burdens to their camp they pass, Yet would not that dead seeming knight awake, At last he deeply groaned, which token was His feeble soul had not her flight yet take: The other lay a still and heavy mass, Her spirit had that earthen cage forsake; Thus were they brought, and thus they placed were In sundry rooms, yet both adjoining near. LXXIV All skill and art his careful servants used To life again their dying lord to bring, At last his eyes unclosed, with tears suffused, He felt their hands and heard their whispering, But how he thither came long time he mused, His mind astonished was with everything; He gazed about, his squires in fine he knew, Then weak and woful thus his plaints out threw: LXXV "What, live I yet? and do I breathe and see Of this accursed day the hateful light? This spiteful ray which still upbraideth me With that accursed deed I did this night, Ah, coward hand, afraid why should'st thou be; Thou instrument of death, shame and despite, Why should'st thou fear, with sharp and trenchant knife, To cut the thread of this blood-guilty life? LXXVI "Pierce through this bosom, and my cruel heart In pieces cleave, break every string and vein; But thou to slaughters vile which used art, Think'st it were pity so to ease my pain: Of luckless love therefore in torments' smart A sad example must I still remain, A woful monster of unhappy love, Who still must live, lest death his comfort prove: LXXVII "Still must I live in anguish, grief, and care; Furies my guilty conscience that torment, The ugly shades, dark night, and troubled air In grisly forms her slaughter still present, Madness and death about my bed repair, Hell gapeth wide to swallow up this tent; Swift from myself I run, myself I fear, Yet still my hell within myself I bear. LXXVIII "But where, alas, where be those relics sweet, Wherein dwelt late all love, all joy, all good? My fury left them cast in open street, Some beast hath torn her flesh and licked her blood, Ah noble prey! for savage beast unmeet, Ah sweet! too sweet, and far too precious food, Ah, seely nymph! whom night and darksome shade To beasts, and me, far worse than beasts, betrayed. LXXIX "But where you be, if still you be, I wend To gather up those relics dear at least, But if some beast hath from the hills descend, And on her tender bowels made his feast, Let that fell monster me in pieces rend, And deep entomb me in his hollow chest: For where she buried is, there shall I have A stately tomb, a rich and costly grave." LXXX Thus mourned the knight, his squires him told at last, They had her there for whom those tears he shed; A beam of comfort his dim eyes outcast, Like lightning through thick clouds of darkness spread, The heavy burden of his limbs in haste, With mickle pain, he drew forth of his bed, And scant of strength to stand, to move or go, Thither he staggered, reeling to and fro. LXXXI When he came there, and in her breast espied His handiwork, that deep and cruel wound, And her sweet face with leaden paleness dyed, Where beauty late spread forth her beams around, He trembled so, that nere his squires beside To hold him up, he had sunk down to ground, And said, "O face in death still sweet and fair! Thou canst not sweeten yet my grief and care: LXXXII "O fair right hand, the pledge of faith and love? Given me but late, too late, in sign of peace, How haps it now thou canst not stir nor move? And you, dear limbs, now laid in rest and ease, Through which my cruel blade this flood-gate rove, Your pains have end, my torments never cease, O hands, O cruel eyes, accursed alike! You gave the wound, you gave them light to strike. LXXXIII "But thither now run forth my guilty blood, Whither my plaints, my sorrows cannot wend." He said no more, but, as his passion wood Inforced him, he gan to tear and rend His hair, his face, his wounds, a purple flood Did from each side in rolling streams descend, He had been slain, but that his pain and woe Bereft his senses, and preserved him so. LXXXIV Cast on his bed his squires recalled his sprite To execute again her hateful charge, But tattling fame the sorrows of the knight And hard mischance had told this while at large: Godfrey and all his lords of worth and might, Ran thither, and the duty would discharge Of friendship true, and with sweet words the rage Of bitter grief and woe they would assuage. LXXXV But as a mortal wound the more doth smart The more it searched is, handled or sought; So their sweet words to his afflicted heart More grief, more anguish, pain and torment brought But reverend Peter that would set apart Care of his sheep, as a good shepherd ought, His vanity with grave advice reproved And told what mourning Christian knights behoved: LXXXVI "O Tancred, Tancred, how far different From thy beginnings good these follies be? What makes thee deaf? what hath thy eyesight blent? What mist, what cloud thus overshadeth thee? This is a warning good from heaven down sent, Yet His advice thou canst not hear nor see Who calleth and conducts thee to the way From which thou willing dost and witting stray: LXXXVII "To worthy actions and achievements fit For Christian knights He would thee home recall; But thou hast left that course and changed it, To make thyself a heathen damsel's thrall; But see, thy grief and sorrow's painful fit Is made the rod to scourge thy sins withal, Of thine own good thyself the means He makes, But thou His mercy, goodness, grace forsakes. LXXXVIII "Thou dost refuse of heaven the proffered And gainst it still rebel with sinful ire, Oh wretch! Oh whither doth thy rage thee chase? Refrain thy grief, bridle thy fond desire, At hell's wide gate vain sorrow doth thee place, Sorrow, misfortune's son, despair's foul fire: Oh see thine evil, thy plaint and woe refrain, The guides to death, to hell, and endless pain." LXXXIX This said, his will to die the patient Abandoned, that second death he feared, These words of comfort to his heart down went, And that dark night of sorrow somewhat cleared; Yet now and then his grief deep sighs forth sent, His voice shrill plaints and sad laments oft reared, Now to himself, now to his murdered love, He spoke, who heard perchance from heaven above. XC Till Phoebus' rising from his evening fall To her, for her, he mourns, he calls, he cries; The nightingale so when her children small Some churl takes before their parents' eyes, Alone, dismayed, quite bare of comforts all, Tires with complaints the seas, the shores, the skies, Till in sweet sleep against the morning bright She fall at last; so mourned, so slept the knight. XCI And clad in starry veil, amid his dream, For whose sweet sake he mourned, appeared the maid, Fairer than erst, yet with that heavenly beam. Not out of knowledge was her lovely shade, With looks of ruth her eyes celestial seem To pity his sad plight, and thus she said, "Behold how fair, how glad thy love appears, And for my sake, my dear, forbear these tears. XCII "Thine be the thanks, my soul thou madest flit At unawares out of her earthly nest, Thine be the thanks, thou hast advanced it In Abraham's dear bosom long to rest, There still I love thee, there for Tancred fit A seat prepared is among the blest; There in eternal joy, eternal light, Thou shalt thy love enjoy, and she her knight; XCIII "Unless thyself, thyself heaven's joys envy, And thy vain sorrow thee of bliss deprive, Live, know I love thee, that I nill deny, As angels, men: as saints may wights on live:" This said, of zeal and love forth of her eye An hundred glorious beams bright shining drive, Amid which rays herself she closed from sigh, And with new joy, new comfort left her knight. XCIV Thus comforted he waked, and men discreet In surgery to cure his wounds were sought, Meanwhile of his dear love the relics sweet, As best he could, to grave with pomp he brought: Her tomb was not of varied Spartan greet, Nor yet by cunning hand of Scopas wrought, But built of polished stone, and thereon laid The lively shape and portrait of the maid. XCV With sacred burning lamps in order long And mournful pomp the corpse was brought to ground Her arms upon a leafless pine were hung, The hearse, with cypress; arms, with laurel crowned: Next day the prince, whose love and courage strong Drew forth his limbs, weak, feeble, and unsound, To visit went, with care and reverence meet, The buried ashes of his mistress sweet: XCVI Before her new-made tomb at last arrived, The woful prison of his living sprite, Pale, cold, sad, comfortless, of sense deprived, Upon the marble gray he fixed his sight, Two streams of tears were from his eyes derived: Thus with a sad "Alas!" began the knight, "O marble dear on my dear mistress placed! My flames within, without my tears thou hast. XCVII "Not of dead bones art thou the mournful grave, But of quick love the fortress and the hold, Still in my heart thy wonted brands I have More bitter far, alas! but not more cold; Receive these sighs, these kisses sweet receive, In liquid drops of melting tears enrolled, And give them to that body pure and chaste, Which in thy bosom cold entombed thou hast. XCVIII "For if her happy soul her eye doth bend On that sweet body which it lately dressed, My love, thy pity cannot her offend, Anger and wrath is not in angels blessed, She pardon will the trespass of her friend, That hope relieves me with these griefs oppressed, This hand she knows hath only sinned, not I, Who living loved her, and for love now die: XCIX "And loving will I die, oh happy day Whene'er it chanceth! but oh far more blessed If as about thy polished sides I stray, My bones within thy hollow grave might rest, Together should in heaven our spirits stay, Together should our bodies lie in chest; So happy death should join what life doth sever, O Death, O Life! sweet both, both blessed ever." C Meanwhile the news in that besieged town Of this mishap was whispered here and there, Forthwith it spread, and for too true was known, Her woful loss was talked everywhere, Mingled with cries and plaints to heaven upthrown, As if the city's self new taken were With conquering foes, or as if flame and fire, Nor house, nor church, nor street had left entire. CI But all men's eyes were on Arsetes bent, His sighs were deep, his looks full of despair, Out of his woful eyes no tear there went, His heart was hardened with his too much care, His silver locks with dust he foul besprent, He knocked his breast, his face he rent and tare, And while the press flocked to the eunuch old, Thus to the people spake Argantes bold: CII "I would, when first I knew the hardy maid Excluded was among her Christian foes, Have followed her to give her timely aid, Or by her side this breath and life to lose, What did I not, or what left I unsaid To make the king the gates again unclose? But he denied, his power did aye restrain My will, my suit was waste, my speech was vain: CIII "Ah, had I gone, I would from danger free Have brought to Sion that sweet nymph again, Or in the bloody fight, where killed was she, In her defence there nobly have been slain: But what could I do more? the counsels be Of God and man gainst my designments plain, Dead is Clorinda fair, laid in cold grave, Let me revenge her whom I could not save. CIV "Jerusalem, hear what Argantes saith, Hear Heaven, and if he break his oath and word, Upon this head cast thunder in thy wrath: I will destroy and kill that Christian lord Who this fair dame by night thus murdered hath, Nor from my side I will ungird this sword Till Tancred's heart it cleave, and shed his blood, And leave his corpse to wolves and crows for food." CV This said, the people with a joyful shout Applaud his speeches and his words approve, And calmed their grief in hope the boaster stout Would kill the prince, who late had slain his love. O promise vain! it otherwise fell out: Men purpose, but high gods dispose above, For underneath his sword this boaster died Whom thus he scorned and threatened in his pride. THIRTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismeno sets to guard the forest old The wicked sprites, whose ugly shapes affray And put to flight the men, whose labor would To their dark shades let in heaven's golden ray: Thither goes Tancred hardy, faithful, bold, But foolish pity lets him not assay His strength and courage: heat the Christian power Annoys, whom to refresh God sends a shower. I But scant, dissolved into ashes cold, The smoking tower fell on the scorched grass, When new device found out the enchanter old By which the town besieged secured was, Of timber fit his foes deprive he would, Such terror bred that late consumed mass: So that the strength of Sion's walls to shake, They should no turrets, rams, nor engines make. II From Godfrey's camp a grove a little way Amid the valleys deep grows out of sight, Thick with old trees whose horrid arms display An ugly shade, like everlasting night; There when the sun spreads forth his clearest ray, Dim, thick, uncertain, gloomy seems the light; As when in evening, day and darkness strive Which should his foe from our horizon drive. III But when the sun his chair in seas doth steep, Night, horror, darkness thick the place invade, Which veil the mortal eyes with blindness deep And with sad terror make weak hearts afraid, Thither no groom drives forth his tender sheep To browse, or ease their faint in cooling shade, Nor traveller nor pilgrim there to enter, So awful seems that forest old, dare venture. IV United there the ghosts and goblins meet To frolic with their mates in silent night, With dragons' wings some cleave the welkin fleet, Some nimbly run o'er hills and valleys light, A wicked troop, that with allurements sweet Draws sinful man from that is good and right, And there with hellish pomp their banquets brought They solemnize, thus the vain Parians thought. V No twist, no twig, no bough nor branch, therefore, The Saracens cut from that sacred spring; But yet the Christians spared ne'er the more The trees to earth with cutting steel to bring: Thither went Ismen old with tresses hoar, When night on all this earth spread forth her wing, And there in silence deaf and mirksome shade His characters and circles vain he made: VI He in the circle set one foot unshod, And whispered dreadful charms in ghastly wise, Three times, for witchcraft loveth numbers odd, Toward the east he gaped, westward thrice, He struck the earth thrice with his charmed rod Wherewith dead bones he makes from grave to rise, And thrice the ground with naked foot he smote, And thus he cried loud, with thundering note: VII "Hear, hear, you spirits all that whilom fell, Cast down from heaven with dint of roaring thunder; Hear, you amid the empty air that dwell And storms and showers pour on these kingdoms under; Hear, all you devils that lie in deepest hell And rend with torments damned ghosts asunder, And of those lands of death, of pain and fear, Thou monarch great, great Dis, great Pluto, hear! VIII "Keep you this forest well, keep every tree, Numbered I give you them and truly told; As souls of men in bodies clothed be So every plant a sprite shall hide and hold, With trembling fear make all the Christians flee, When they presume to cut these cedars old:" This said, his charms he gan again repeat, Which none can say but they that use like feat. IX At those strange speeches, still night's splendent fires Quenched their lights, and shrunk away for doubt, The feeble moon her silver beams retires, And wrapt her horns with folding clouds about, Ismen his sprites to come with speed requires, "Why come you not, you ever damned rout? Why tarry you so long? pardie you stay Till stronger charms and greater words I say. X "I have not yet forgot for want of use, What dreadful terms belong this sacred feat, My tongue, if still your stubborn hearts refuse, That so much dreaded name can well repeat, Which heard, great Dis cannot himself excuse, But hither run from his eternal seat, O great and fearful!"--More he would have said, But that he saw the sturdy sprites obeyed. XI Legions of devils by thousands thither come, Such as in sparsed air their biding make, And thousands also which by Heavenly doom Condemned lie in deep Avernus lake, But slow they came, displeased all and some Because those woods they should in keeping take, Yet they obeyed and took the charge in hand, And under every branch and leaf they stand. XII When thus his cursed work performed was, The wizard to his king declared the feat, "My lord, let fear, let doubt and sorrow pass, Henceforth in safety stands your regal seat, Your foe, as he supposed, no mean now has To build again his rams and engines great:" And then he told at large from part to part, All what he late performed by wondrous art. XIII "Besides this help, another hap," quoth he, "Will shortly chance that brings not profit small. Within few days Mars and the Sun I see Their fiery beams unite in Leo shall; And then extreme the scorching heat will be, Which neither rain can quench nor dews that fall, So placed are the planets high and low, That heat, fire, burning all the heavens foreshow: XIV "So great with us will be the warmth therefore, As with the Garamants or those of Inde; Yet nill it grieve us in this town so sore, We have sweet shade and waters cold by kind: Our foes abroad will be tormented more, What shield can they or what refreshing find? Heaven will them vanquish first, then Egypt's crew Destroy them quite, weak, weary, faint and few: XV "Thou shalt sit still and conquer; prove no more The doubtful hazard of uncertain fight. But if Argantes bold, that hates so sore All cause of quiet peace, though just and right, Provoke thee forth to battle, as before, Find means to calm the rage of that fierce knight, For shortly Heaven will send thee ease and peace, And war and trouble mongst thy foes increase." XVI The king assured by these speeches fair, Held Godfrey's power, his might and strength in scorn, And now the walls he gan in part repair, Which late the ram had bruised with iron horn, With wise foresight and well advised care He fortified each breach and bulwark torn, And all his folk, men, women, children small, With endless toil again repaired the wall. XVII But Godfrey nould this while bring forth his power To give assault against that fort in vain, Till he had builded new his dreadful tower, And reared high his down-fallen rams again: His workmen therefore he despatched that hour To hew the trees out of the forest main, They went, and scant the wood appeared in sight When wonders new their fearful hearts affright: XVIII As silly children dare not bend their eye Where they are told strange bugbears haunt the place, Or as new monsters, while in bed they lie, Their fearful thoughts present before their face; So feared they, and fled, yet wist not why, Nor what pursued them in that fearful chase. Except their fear perchance while thus they fled, New chimeras, sphinxes, or like monsters bred: XIX Swift to the camp they turned back dismayed, With words confused uncertain tales they told, That all which heard them scorned what they said And those reports for lies and fables hold. A chosen crew in shining arms arrayed Duke Godfrey thither sent of soldiers bold, To guard the men and their faint arms provoke To cut the dreadful trees with hardy stroke: XX These drawing near the wood where close ypent The wicked sprites in sylvan pinfolds were, Their eyes upon those shades no sooner bent But frozen dread pierced through their entrails dear; Yet on they stalked still, and on they went, Under bold semblance hiding coward fear, And so far wandered forth with trembling pace, Till they approached nigh that enchanted place: XXI When from the grove a fearful sound outbreaks, As if some earthquake hill and mountain tore, Wherein the southern wind a rumbling makes, Or like sea waves against the scraggy shore; There lions grumble, there hiss scaly snakes, There howl the wolves, the rugged bears there roar, There trumpets shrill are heard and thunders fell, And all these sounds one sound expressed well. XXII Upon their faces pale well might you note A thousand signs of heart-amating fear, Their reason gone, by no device they wot How to press nigh, or stay still where they were, Against that sudden dread their breasts which smote, Their courage weak no shield of proof could bear, At last they fled, and one than all more bold, Excused their flight, and thus the wonders told: XXIII "My lord, not one of us there is, I grant, That dares cut down one branch in yonder spring, I think there dwells a sprite in every plant, There keeps his court great Dis infernal king, He hath a heart of hardened adamant That without trembling dares attempt the thing, And sense he wanteth who so hardy is To hear the forest thunder, roar and hiss." XXIV This said, Alcasto to his words gave heed, Alcasto leader of the Switzers grim, A man both void of wit and void of dreed, Who feared not loss of life nor loss of limb. No savage beasts in deserts wild that feed Nor ugly monster could dishearten him, Nor whirlwind, thunder, earthquake, storm, or aught That in this world is strange or fearful thought. XXV He shook his head, and smiling thus gan say, "The hardiness have I that wood to fell, And those proud trees low in the dust to lay Wherein such grisly fiends and monsters dwell; No roaring ghost my courage can dismay, No shriek of birds, beast's roar, or dragon's yell; But through and through that forest will I wend, Although to deepest hell the paths descend." XXVI Thus boasted he, and leave to go desired, And forward went with joyful cheer and will, He viewed the wood and those thick shades admired, He heard the wondrous noise and rumbling shrill; Yet not one foot the audacious man retired, He scorned the peril, pressing forward still, Till on the forest's outmost marge he stepped, A flaming fire from entrance there him kept. XXVII The fire increased, and built a stately wall Of burning coals, quick sparks, and embers hot, And with bright flames the wood environed all, That there no tree nor twist Alcasto got; The higher stretched the flames seemed bulwarks tall, Castles and turrets full of fiery shot, With slings and engines strong of every sort;-- What mortal wight durst scale so strange a fort? XXVIII Oh what strange monsters on the battlement In loathsome forms stood to defend the place? Their frowning looks upon the knight they bent, And threatened death with shot, with sword and mace: At last he fled, and though but slow he went, As lions do whom jolly hunters chase; Yet fled the man and with sad fear withdrew, Though fear till then he never felt nor knew. XXIX That he had fled long time he never wist, But when far run he had discoverd it, Himself for wonder with his hand he blist, A bitter sorrow by the heart him bit, Amazed, ashamed, disgraced, sad, silent, trist, Alone he would all day in darkness sit, Nor durst he look on man of worth or fame, His pride late great, now greater made his shame. XXX Godfredo called him, but he found delays And causes why he should his cabin keep, At length perforce he comes, but naught he says, Or talks like those that babble in their sleep. His shamefacedness to Godfrey plain bewrays His flight, so does his sighs and sadness deep: Whereat amazed, "What chance is this?" quoth he. "These witchcrafts strange or nature's wonders be. XXXI "But if his courage any champion move To try the hazard of this dreadful spring, I give him leave the adventure great to prove, Some news he may report us of the thing:" This said, his lords attempt the charmed grove, Yet nothing back but fear and flight they bring, For them inforced with trembling to retire, The sight, the sound, the monsters and the fire. XXXII This happed when woful Tancred left his bed To lay in marble cold his mistress dear, The lively color from his cheek was fled, His limbs were weak his helm or targe to bear; Nathless when need to high attempts him led, No labor would he shun, no danger fear, His valor, boldness, heart and courage brave, To his faint body strength and vigor gave. XXXIII To this exploit forth went the venturous knight, Fearless, yet heedful; silent, well advised, The terrors of that forest's dreadful sight, Storms, earthquakes, thunders, cries, he all despised: He feared nothing, yet a motion light, That quickly vanished, in his heart arised When lo, between him and the charmed wood, A fiery city high as heaven up stood. XXXIV The knight stepped back and took a sudden pause, And to himself, "What help these arms?" quoth he, "If in this fire, or monster's gaping jaws I headlong cast myself, what boots it me? For common profit, or my country's cause, To hazard life before me none should be: But this exploit of no such weight I hold, For it to lose a prince or champion bold. XXXV But if I fly, what will the Pagans say? If I retire, who shall cut down this spring? Godfredo will attempt it every day. What if some other knight perform the thing? These flames uprisen to forestall my way Perchance more terror far than danger bring. But hap what shall;" this said, he forward stepped, And through the fire, oh wondrous boldness, leapt! XXXVI He bolted through, but neither warmth nor heat! He felt, nor sign of fire or scorching flame; Yet wist he not in his dismayed conceit, If that were fire or no through which he came; For at first touch vanished those monsters great, And in their stead the clouds black night did frame And hideous storms and showers of hail and rain; Yet storms and tempests vanished straight again. XXXVII Amazed but not afraid the champion good Stood still, but when the tempest passed he spied, He entered boldly that forbidden wood, And of the forest all the secrets eyed, In all his walk no sprite or phantasm stood That stopped his way or passage free denied, Save that the growing trees so thick were set, That oft his sight, and passage oft they let. XXXVIII At length a fair and spacious green he spied, Like calmest waters, plain, like velvet, soft, Wherein a cypress clad in summer's pride, Pyramid-wise, lift up his tops aloft; In whose smooth bark upon the evenest side, Strange characters he found, and viewed them oft, Like those which priests of Egypt erst instead Of letters used, which none but they could read. XXXIX Mongst them he picked out these words at last, Writ in the Syriac tongue, which well he could, "Oh hardy knight, who through these woods hast passed: Where Death his palace and his court doth hold! Oh trouble not these souls in quiet placed, Oh be not cruel as thy heart is bold, Pardon these ghosts deprived of heavenly light, With spirits dead why should men living fight?" XL This found he graven in the tender rind, And while he mused on this uncouth writ, Him thought he heard the softly whistling wind His blasts amid the leaves and branches knit And frame a sound like speech of human kind, But full of sorrow grief and woe was it, Whereby his gentle thoughts all filled were With pity, sadness, grief, compassion, fear. XLI He drew his sword at last, and gave the tree A mighty blow, that made a gaping wound, Out of the rift red streams he trickling see That all bebled the verdant plain around, His hair start up, yet once again stroke he, He nould give over till the end he found Of this adventure, when with plaint and moan, As from some hollow grave, he heard one groan. XLII "Enough, enough!" the voice lamenting said, "Tancred, thou hast me hurt, thou didst me drive Out of the body of a noble maid Who with me lived, whom late I kept on live, And now within this woful cypress laid, My tender rind thy weapon sharp doth rive, Cruel, is't not enough thy foes to kill, But in their graves wilt thou torment them still? XLIII "I was Clorinda, now imprisoned here, Yet not alone within this plant I dwell, For every Pagan lord and Christian peer, Before the city's walls last day that fell, In bodies new or graves I wot not clear, But here they are confined by magic's spell, So that each tree hath life, and sense each bough, A murderer if thou cut one twist art thou." XLIV As the sick man that in his sleep doth see Some ugly dragon, or some chimera new, Though he suspect, or half persuaded be, It is an idle dream, no monster true, Yet still he fears, he quakes, and strives to flee, So fearful is that wondrous form to view; So feared the knight, yet he both knew and thought All were illusions false by witchcraft wrought: XLV But cold and trembling waxed his frozen heart, Such strange effects, such passions it torment, Out of his feeble hand his weapon start, Himself out of his wits nigh, after went: Wounded he saw, he thought, for pain and smart, His lady weep, complain, mourn, and lament, Nor could he suffer her dear blood to see, Or hear her sighs that deep far fetched be. XLVI Thus his fierce heart which death had scorned oft, Whom no strange shape or monster could dismay, With feigned shows of tender love made soft, A spirit false did with vain plaints betray; A whirling wind his sword heaved up aloft, And through the forest bare it quite away. O'ercome retired the prince, and as he came, His sword he found, and repossessed the same, XLVII Yet nould return, he had no mind to try His courage further in those forests green; But when to Godfrey's tent he proached nigh, His spirits waked, his thoughts composed been, "My Lord." quoth he, "a witness true am I Of wonders strange, believe it scant though seen, What of the fire, the shades, the dreadful sound You heard, all true by proof myself have found; XLVIII "A burning fire, so are those deserts charmed, Built like a battled wall to heaven was reared; Whereon with darts and dreadful weapons armed, Of monsters foul mis-shaped whole bands appeared; But through them all I passed, unhurt, unharmed, No flame or threatened blow I felt or feared, Then rain and night I found, but straight again To day, the night, to sunshine turned the rain. XLIX "What would you more? each tree through all that wood Hath sense, hath life, hath speech, like human kind, I heard their words as in that grove I stood, That mournful voice still, still I bear in mind: And, as they were of flesh, the purple blood At every blow streams from the wounded rind; No, no, not I, nor any else, I trow, Hath power to cut one leaf, one branch, one bough." L While thus he said, the Christian's noble guide Felt uncouth strife in his contentious thought, He thought, what if himself in perzon tried Those witchcrafts strange, and bring those charms to naught, For such he deemed them, or elsewhere provide For timber easier got though further sought, But from his study he at last abraid, Called by the hermit old that to him said: LI "Leave off thy hardy thought, another's hands Of these her plants the wood dispoilen shall, Now, now the fatal ship of conquest lands, Her sails are struck, her silver anchors fall, Our champion broken hath his worthless bands, And looseth from the soil which held him thrall, The time draws nigh when our proud foes in field Shall slaughtered lie, and Sion's fort shall yield." LII This said, his visage shone with beams divine, And more than mortal was his voice's sound, Godfredo's thought to other acts incline, His working brain was never idle found. But in the Crab now did bright Titan shine, And scorched with scalding beams the parched ground, And made unfit for toil or warlike feat His soldiers, weak with labor, faint with sweat: LIII The planets mild their lamps benign quenched out, And cruel stars in heaven did signorize, Whose influence cast fiery flames about And hot impressions through the earth and skies, The growing heat still gathered deeper rout, The noisome warmth through lands and kingdoms flies, A harmful night a hurtful day succeeds, And worse than both next morn her light outspreads. LIV When Phoebus rose he left his golden weed, And donned a gite in deepest purple dyed, His sanguine beams about his forehead spread, A sad presage of ill that should betide, With vermeil drops at even his tresses bleed, Foreshows of future heat, from the ocean wide When next he rose, and thus increased still Their present harms with dread of future ill, LV While thus he bent gainst earth his scorching rays, He burnt the flowers, burnt his Clytie dear, The leaves grew wan upon the withered sprays, The grass and growing herbs all parched were, Earth cleft in rifts, in floods their streams decays, The barren clouds with lightning bright appear, And mankind feared lest Climenes' child again Had driven awry his sire's ill-guided wain. LVI As from a furnace flew the smoke to skies, Such smoke as that when damned Sodom brent, Within his caves sweet Zephyr silent lies, Still was the air, the rack nor came nor went, But o'er the lands with lukewarm breathing flies The southern wind, from sunburnt Afric sent, Which thick and warm his interrupted blasts Upon their bosoms, throats, and faces casts. LVII Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night, In her thick shades was burning heat uprolled, Her sable mantle was embroidered bright With blazing stars and gliding fires for gold, Nor to refresh, sad earth, thy thirsty sprite, The niggard moon let fall her May dews cold, And dried up the vital moisture was, In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass. LVIII Sleep to his quiet dales exiled fled From these unquiet nights, and oft in vain The soldiers restless sought the god in bed, But most for thirst they mourned and most complain; For Juda's tyrant had strong poison shed, Poison that breeds more woe and deadly pain, Than Acheron or Stygian waters bring, In every fountain, cistern, well and spring: LIX And little Siloe that his store bestows Of purest crystal on the Christian bands, The pebbles naked in his channel shows And scantly glides above the scorched sands, Nor Po in May when o'er his banks he flows, Nor Ganges, waterer of the Indian lands, Nor seven-mouthed Nile that yields all Egypt drink, To quench their thirst the men sufficient think. LX He that the gliding rivers erst had seen Adown their verdant channels gently rolled, Or falling streams which to the valleys green Distilled from tops of Alpine mountains cold, Those he desired in vain, new torments been, Augmented thus with wish of comforts old, Those waters cool he drank in vain conceit, Which more increased his thirst, increased his heat. LXI The sturdy bodies of the warriors strong, Whom neither marching far, nor tedious way, Nor weighty arms which on their shoulders hung, Could weary make, nor death itself dismay; Now weak and feeble cast their limbs along, Unwieldly burdens, on the burned clay, And in each vein a smouldering fire there dwelt, Which dried their flesh and solid bones did melt. LXII Languished the steed late fierce, and proffered grass, His fodder erst, despised and from him cast, Each step he stumbled, and which lofty was And high advanced before now fell his crest, His conquests gotten all forgotten pass, Nor with desire of glory swelled his breast, The spoils won from his foe, his late rewards, He now neglects, despiseth, naught regards. LXIII Languished the faithful dog, and wonted care Of his dear lord and cabin both forgot, Panting he laid, and gathered fresher air To cool the burning in his entrails hot: But breathing, which wise nature did prepare To suage the stomach's heat, now booted not, For little ease, alas, small help, they win That breathe forth air and scalding fire suck in. LXIV Thus languished the earth, in this estate Lay woful thousands of the Christians stout, The faithful people grew nigh desperate Of hoped conquest, shameful death they doubt, Of their distress they talk and oft debate, These sad complaints were heard the camp throughout: "What hope hath Godfrey? shall we still here lie Till all his soldiers, all our armies die? LXV "Alas, with what device, what strength, thinks he To scale these walls, or this strong fort to get? Whence hath he engines new? doth he not see, How wrathful Heaven gainst us his sword doth whet? These tokens shown true signs and witness be Our angry God our proud attempts doth let, And scorching sun so hot his beams outspreads, That not more cooling Inde nor Aethiop needs. LXVI "Or thinks he it an eath or little thing That us despised, neglected, and disdained, Like abjects vile, to death he thus should bring, That so his empire may be still maintained? Is it so great a bliss to be a king, When he that wears the crown with blood is stained And buys his sceptre with his people's lives? See whither glory vain, fond mankind drives. LXVII "See, see the man, called holy, just, and good, That courteous, meek, and humble would be thought, Yet never cared in what distress we stood If his vain honor were diminished naught, When dried up from us his spring and flood His water must from Jordan streams be brought, And how he sits at feasts and banquets sweet And mingleth waters fresh with wines of Crete." LXVIII The French thus murmured, but the Greekish knight Tatine, that of this war was weary grown: "Why die we here," quoth he, "slain without fight, Killed, not subdued, murdered, not overthrown? Upon the Frenchmen let the penance light Of Godfrey's folly, let me save mine own," And as he said, without farewell, the knight And all his comet stole away by night. LXIX His bad example many a troop prepares To imitate, when his escape they know, Clotharius his band, and Ademare's, And all whose guides in dust were buried low, Discharged of duty's chains and bondage snares, Free from their oath, to none they service owe, But now concluded all on secret flight, And shrunk away by thousands every night. LXX Godfredo this both heard, and saw, and knew, Yet nould with death them chastise though he mought, But with that faith wherewith he could renew The steadfast hills and seas dry up to naught He prayed the Lord upon his flock to rue, To ope the springs of grace and ease this drought, Out of his looks shone zeal, devotion, faith, His hands and eyes to heaven he heaves, and saith: LXXI "Father and Lord, if in the deserts waste Thou hadst compassion on thy children dear, The craggy rock when Moses cleft and brast, And drew forth flowing streams of waters clear, Like mercy, Lord, like grace on us down cast; And though our merits less than theirs appear, Thy grace supply that want, for though they be Thy first-born son, thy children yet are we." LXXII These prayers just, from humble hearts forth sent, Were nothing slow to climb the starry sky, But swift as winged bird themselves present Before the Father of the heavens high: The Lord accepted them, and gently bent Upon the faithful host His gracious eye, And in what pain and what distress it laid, He saw, and grieved to see, and thus He said: LXXIII "Mine armies dear till now have suffered woe, Distress and danger, hell's infernal power Their enemy hath been, the world their foe, But happy be their actions from this hour: What they begin to blessed end shall go, I will refresh them with a gentle shower; Rinaldo shall return, the Egyptian crew They shall encounter, conquer, and subdue." LXXIV At these high words great heaven began to shake, The fixed stars, the planets wandering still, Trembled the air, the earth and ocean quake, Spring, fountain, river, forest, dale and hill; From north to east, a lightning flash outbrake, And coming drops presaged with thunders shrill: With joyful shouts the soldiers on the plain, These tokens bless of long-desired rain. LXXV A sudden cloud, as when Helias prayed, Not from dry earth exhaled by Phoebus' beams, Arose, moist heaven his windows open laid, Whence clouds by heaps out rush, and watery streams, The world o'erspread was with a gloomy shade, That like a dark mirksome even it seems; The crashing rain from molten skies down fell, And o'er their banks the brooks and fountains swell. LXXVI In summer season, when the cloudy sky Upon the parched ground doth rain down send, As duck and mallard in the furrows dry With merry noise the promised showers attend, And spreading broad their wings displayed lie To keep the drops that on their plumes descend, And where the streams swell to a gathered lake, Therein they dive, and sweet refreshing take: LXXVII So they the streaming showers with shouts and cries Salute, which heaven shed on the thirsty lands, The falling liquor from the dropping skies He catcheth in his lap, he barehead stands, And his bright helm to drink therein unties, In the fresh streams he dives his sweaty hands, Their faces some, and some their temples wet, And some to keep the drops large vessels set. LXXVIII Nor man alone to ease his burning sore, Herein doth dive and wash, and hereof drinks, But earth itself weak, feeble, faint before, Whose solid limbs were cleft with rifts and chinks, Received the falling showers and gathered store Of liquor sweet, that through her veins down sinks, And moisture new infused largely was In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass. LXXIX Earth, like the patient was, whose lively blood Hath overcome at last some sickness strong, Whose feeble limbs had been the bait and food Whereon this strange disease depastured long, But now restored, in health and welfare stood, As sound as erst, as fresh, as fair, as young; So that forgetting all his grief and pain, His pleasant robes and crowns he takes again. LXXX Ceased the rain, the sun began to shine, With fruitful, sweet, benign, and gentle ray, Full of strong power and vigor masculine, As be his beams in April or in May. O happy zeal! who trusts in help divine The world's afflictions thus can drive away, Can storms appease, and times and seasons change, And conquer fortune, fate, and destiny strange. FOURTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The Lord to Godfrey in a dream doth show His will; Rinaldo must return at last; They have their asking who for pardon sue: Two knights to find the prince are sent in haste, But Peter, who by vision all foreknew, Sendeth the searchers to a wizard, placed Deep in a vault, who first at large declares Armida's trains, then how to shun those snares. I Now from the fresh, the soft and tender bed Of her still mother, gentle night out flew, The fleeting balm on hills and dales she shed, With honey drops of pure and precious dew, And on the verdure of green forests spread The virgin primrose and the violet blue, And sweet-breathed Zephyr on his spreading wings, Sleep, ease, repose, rest, peace and quiet brings. II The thoughts and troubles of broad-waking day, They softly dipped in mild Oblivion's lake; But he whose Godhead heaven and earth doth sway, In his eternal light did watch and wake, And bent on Godfrey down the gracious ray Of his bright eye, still ope for Godfrey's sake, To whom a silent dream the Lord down sent. Which told his will, his pleasure and intent. III Far in the east, the golden gate beside Whence Phoebus comes, a crystal port there is, And ere the sun his broad doors open wide The beam of springing day uncloseth this, Hence comes the dreams, by which heaven's sacred guide Reveals to man those high degrees of his, Hence toward Godfrey ere he left his bed A vision strange his golden plumes bespread. IV Such semblances, such shapes, such portraits fair, Did never yet in dream or sleep appear, For all the forms in sea, in earth or air, The signs in heaven, the stars in every sphere All that was wondrous, uncouth, strange and rare, All in that vision well presented were. His dream had placed him in a crystal wide, Beset with golden fires, top, bottom, side, V There while he wondereth on the circles vast, The stars, their motions, course and harmony, A knight, with shining rays and fire embraced, Presents himself unwares before his eye, Who with a voice that far for sweetness passed All human speech, thus said, approaching nigh: "What, Godfrey, knowest thou not thy Hugo here? Come and embrace thy friend and fellow dear!" VI He answered him, "Thy glorious shining light Which in thine eyes his glistering beams doth place, Estranged hath from my foreknowledge quite Thy countenance, thy favor, and thy face:" This said, three times he stretched his hands outright And would in friendly arms the knight embrace, And thrice the spirit fled, that thrice he twined Naught in his folded arms but air and wind. VII Lord Hugo smiled, "Not as you think," quoth he, "I clothed am in flesh and earthly mould, My spirit pure, and naked soul, you see, A citizen of this celestial hold: This place is heaven, and here a room for thee Prepared is among Christ's champions bold:" "Ah when," quoth he, "these mortal bonds unknit, Shall I in peace, in ease and rest there sit?" VIII Hugo replied, "Ere many years shall run, Amid the saints in bliss here shalt thou reign; But first great wars must by thy hand be done, Much blood be shed, and many Pagans slain, The holy city by assault be won, The land set free from servile yoke again, Wherein thou shalt a Christian empire frame, And after thee shall Baldwin rule the same. IX "But to increase thy love and great desire To heavenward, this blessed place behold, These shining lamps, these globes of living fire, How they are turned, guided, moved and rolled; The angels' singing hear, and all their choir; Then bend thine eyes on yonder earth and mould, All in that mass, that globe and compass see, Land, sea, spring, fountain, man, beast, grass and tree. X "How vile, how small, and of how slender price, Is their reward of goodness, virtue's gain! A narrow room our glory vain upties, A little circle doth our pride contain, Earth like an isle amid the water lies, Which sea sometime is called, sometime the main, Yet naught therein responds a name so great, It's but a lake, a pond, a marish strait." XI Thus said the one, the other bended down His looks to ground, and half in scorn he smiled, He saw at once earth, sea, flood, castle, town, Strangely divided, strangely all compiled, And wondered folly man so far should drown, To set his heart on things so base and vild, That servile empire searcheth and dumb fame, And scorns heaven's bliss, yet proffereth heaven the same. XII Wherefore he answered, "Since the Lord not yet Will free my spirit from this cage of clay, Lest worldly error vain my voyage let, Teach me to heaven the best and surest way:" Hugo replied, "Thy happy foot is set In the true path, nor from this passage stray, Only from exile young Rinaldo call, This give I thee in charge, else naught at all. XIII "For as the Lord of hosts, the King of bliss, Hath chosen thee to rule the faithful band; So he thy stratagems appointed is To execute, so both shall win this land: The first is thine, the second place is his, Thou art this army's head, and he the hand, No other champion can his place supply, And that thou do it doth thy state deny. XIV "The enchanted forest, and her charmed treen, With cutting steel shall he to earth down hew, And thy weak armies which too feeble been To scale again these walls reinforced new, And fainting lie dispersed on the green, Shall take new strength new courage at his view, The high-built towers, the eastern squadrons all, Shall conquered be, shall fly, shall die, shall fall." XV He held his peace; and Godfrey answered so: "Oh, how his presence would recomfort me! You that man's hidden thoughts perceive and know: If I say truth, or if I love him, see. But say, what messengers shall for him go? What shall their speeches, what their errand be? Shall I entreat, or else command the man? With credit neither well perform I can." XVI "The eternal Lord," the other knight replied, "That with so many graces hath thee blest, Will, that among the troops thou hast to guide, Thou honored be and feared of most and least: Then speak not thou lest blemish some betide Thy sacred empire if thou make request; But when by suit thou moved art to ruth, Then yield, forgive, and home recall the youth. XVII "Guelpho shall pray thee, God shall him inspire, To pardon this offence, this fault commit By hasty wrath, by rash and headstrong ire, To call the knight again; yield thou to it: And though the youth, enwrapped in fond desire, Far hence in love and looseness idle sit, Year fear it not, he shall return with speed, When most you wish him and when most you need. XVIII "Your hermit Peter, to whose sapient heart High Heaven his secrets opens, tells and shews, Your messengers direct can to that part, Where of the prince they shall hear certain news, And learn the way, the manner, and the art To bring him back to these thy warlike crews, That all thy soldiers, wandered and misgone, Heaven may unite again and join in one. XIX "But this conclusion shall my speeches end: Know that his blood shall mixed be with thine, Whence barons bold and worthies shall descend, That many great exploits shall bring to fine." This said, he vanished from his sleeping friend, Like smoke in wind, or mist in Titan's shine; Sleep fled likewise, and in his troubled thought, With wonder, pleasure; joy, with marvel fought. XX The duke looked up, and saw the azure sky With argent beams of silver morning spread, And started up, for praise axed virtue lie In toil and travel, sin and shame in bed: His arms he took, his sword girt to his thigh, To his pavilion all his lords them sped, And there in council grave the princes sit, For strength by wisdom, war is ruled by wit. XXI Lord Guelpho there, within whose gentle breast Heaven had infused that new and sudden thought, His pleasing words thus to the duke addressed: "Good prince, mild, though unasked, kind, unbesought, Oh let thy mercy grant my just request, Pardon this fault by rage not malice wrought; For great offence, I grant, so late commit, My suit too hasty is, perchance unfit. XXII But since to Godfrey meek benign and kind, For Prince Rinaldo bold, I humbly sue, And that the suitor's self is not behind Thy greatest friends in state or friendship true; I trust I shall thy grace and mercy find Acceptable to me and all this crew; Oh call him home, this trespass to amend, He shall his blood in Godfrey's service spend. XXIII "And if not he, who else dares undertake Of this enchanted wood to cut one tree? Gainst death and danger who dares battle make, With so bold face, so fearless heart as he? Beat down these walls, these gates in pieces break, Leap o'er these rampires high, thou shalt him see, Restore therefore to this desirous band Their wish, their hope, their strength, their shield, their hand; XXIV "To me my nephew, to thyself restore A trusty help, when strength of hand thou needs, In idleness let him consume no more, Recall him to his noble acts and deeds! Known be his worth as was his strength of yore Wher'er thy standard broad her cross outspreads, Oh, let his fame and praise spread far and wide, Be thou his lord, his teacher and his guidel" XXV Thus he entreated, and the rest approve His words, with friendly murmurs whispered low. Godfrey as though their suit his mind did move To that whereon he never thought tell now, "How can my heart," quoth he, "if you I love, To your request and suit but bend and bow? Let rigor go, that right and justice be Wherein you all consent and all agree. XXVI "Rinaldo shall return; let him restrain Henceforth his headstrong wrath and hasty ire, And with his hardy deeds let him take pain To correspond your hope and my desire: Guelpho, thou must call home the knight again, See that with speed he to these tents retire, The messengers appoint as likes thy mind, And teach them where they should the young man find." XXVII Up start the Dane that bare Prince Sweno's brand, "I will," quoth he, "that message undertake, I will refuse no pains by sea or land, To give the knight this sword, kept for his sake." This man was bold of courage, strong of hand, Guelpho was glad he did the proffer make: "Thou shalt," quoth he, "Ubaldo shalt thou have To go with thee, a knight, stout, wise, and grave." XXVIII Ubaldo in his youth had known and seen The fashions strange of many an uncouth land, And travelled over all the realms between The Arctic circle and hot Meroe's strand, And as a man whose wit his guide had been, Their customs use he could, tongues understand, Forthy when spent his youthful seasons were Lord Guelpho entertained and held him dear. XXIX To these committed was the charge and care To find and bring again the champion bold, Guelpho commands them to the fort repair, Where Boemond doth his seat and sceptre hold, For public fame said that Bertoldo's heir There lived, there dwelt, there stayed; the hermit old, That knew they were misled by false report, Among them came, and parleyed in this sort: XXX "Sir knights," quoth he, "if you intend to ride, And follow each report fond people say, You follow but a rash and truthless guide That leads vain men amiss and makes them stray; Near Ascalon go to the salt seaside, Where a swift brook fails in with hideous sway, An aged sire, our friend, there shall you find, All what he saith, that do, that keep in mind. XXXI "Of this great voyage which you undertake, Much by his skill, and much by mine advise Hath he foreknown, and welcome for my sake You both shall be, the man is kind and wise." Instructed thus no further question make The twain elected for this enterprise, But humbly yielded to obey his word, For what the hermit said, that said the Lord. XXXII They took their leave, and on their journey went, Their will could brook no stay, their zeal, no let; To Ascalon their voyage straight they bent, Whose broken shores with brackish waves are wet, And there they heard how gainst the cliffs, besprent With bitter foam, the roaring surges bet, A tumbling brook their passage stopped and stayed, Which late-fall'n rain had proud and puissant made, XXXIII So proud that over all his banks he grew, And through the fields ran swift as shaft from bow, While here they stopped and stood, before them drew An aged sire, grave and benign in show, Crowned with a beechen garland gathered new, Clad in a linen robe that raught down low, In his right hand a rod, and on the flood Against the stream he marched, and dry shod yode. XXXIV As on the Rhene, when winter's freezing cold Congeals the streams to thick and hardened glass, The beauties fair of shepherds' daughters bold With wanton windlays run, turn, play and pass; So on this river passed the wizard old, Although unfrozen soft and swift it was, And thither stalked where the warriors stayed, To whom, their greetings done, he spoke and said: XXXV "Great pains, great travel, lords, you have begun, And of a cunning guide great need you stand, Far off, alas! is great Bertoldo's son, Imprisoned in a waste and desert land, What soil remains by which you must not run, What promontory, rock, sea, shore or sand Your search must stretch before the prince be found, Beyond our world, beyond our half of ground! XXXVI But yet vouchsafe to see my cell I pray, In hidden caves and vaults though builded low, Great wonders there, strange things I will bewray, Things good for you to hear, and fit to know:" This said, he bids the river make them way, The flood retired, backward gan to flow, And here and there two crystal mountains rise, So fled the Red Sea once, and Jordan thrice. XXXVII He took their hands, and led them headlong down Under the flood, through vast and hollow deeps, Such light they had as when through shadows brown Of thickest deserts feeble Cynthia peeps, Their spacious caves they saw all overflown, There all his waters pure great Neptune keeps, And thence to moisten all the earth he brings Seas, rivers, floods, lakes, fountains, wells and springs: XXXVIII Whence Ganges, Indus, Volga, Ister, Po, Whence Euphrates, whence Tigris' spring they view, Whence Tanais, whence Nilus comes also, Although his head till then no creature knew, But under these a wealthy stream doth go, That sulphur yields and ore, rich, quick and new, Which the sunbeams doth polish, purge and fine, And makes it silver pure, and gold divine. XXXIX And all his banks the rich and wealthy stream Hath fair beset with pearl and precious stone Like stars in sky or lamps on stage that seem, The darkness there was day, the night was gone, There sparkled, clothed in his azure-beam, The heavenly sapphire, there the jacinth shone, The carbuncle there flamed, the diamond sheen, There glistered bright, there smiled the emerald green. XL Amazed the knights amid these wonders passed, And fixed so deep the marvels in their thought, That not one word they uttered, till at last Ubaldo spake, and thus his guide besought: "O father, tell me by what skill thou hast These wonders done? and to what place us brought? For well I know not if I wake or sleep, My heart is drowned in such amazement deep." XLI "You are within the hollow womb," quoth he, "Of fertile earth, the nurse of all things made, And but you brought and guided are by me, Her sacred entrails could no wight invade; My palace shortly shall you splendent see, With glorious light, though built in night and shade. A Pagan was I born, but yet the Lord To grace, by baptism, hath my soul restored. XLII "Nor yet by help of devil, or aid from hell, I do this uncouth work and wondrous feat, The Lord forbid I use or charm or spell To raise foul Dis from his infernal seat: But of all herbs, of every spring and well, The hidden power I know and virtue great, And all that kind hath hid from mortal sight, And all the stars, their motions, and their might. XLIII "For in these caves I dwell not buried still From sight of Heaven, but often I resort To tops of Lebanon or Carmel hill, And there in liquid air myself disport, There Mars and Venus I behold at will! As bare as erst when Vulcan took them short, And how the rest roll, glide and move, I see, How their aspects benign or froward be." XLIV "And underneath my feet the clouds I view, Now thick, now thin, now bright with Iris' bow, The frost and snow, the rain, the hail, the dew, The winds, from whence they come and whence they blow, How Jove his thunder makes and lightning new, How with the bolt he strikes the earth below, How comate, crinite, caudate stars are framed I knew; my skill with pride my heart inflamed. XLV "So learned, cunning, wise, myself I thought, That I supposed my wit so high might climb To know all things that God had framed or wrought, Fire, air, sea, earth, man, beast, sprite, place and time; But when your hermit me to baptism brought, And from my soul had washed the sin and crime, Then I perceived my sight was blindness still, My wit was folly, ignorance my skill. XLVI "Then saw I, that like owls in shining sun, So gainst the beams of truth our souls are blind, And at myself to smile I then begun, And at my heart, puffed up with folly's wind, Yet still these arts, as I before had done, I practised, such was the hermit's mind: Thus hath he changed my thoughts, my heart, my will, And rules mine art, my knowledge, and my skill. XLVII "In him I rest, on him my thoughts depend, My lord, my teacher, and my guide is he, This noble work he strives to bring to end, He is the architect, the workmen we, The hardy youth home to this camp to send From prison strong, my care, my charge shall be; So He commands, and me ere this foretold Your coming oft, to seek the champion bold." XLVIII While this he said, he brought the champions twain Down to a vault, wherein he dwells and lies, It was a cave, high, wide, large, ample, plain, With goodly rooms, halls, chambers, galleries, All what is bred in rich and precious vein Of wealthy earth, and hid from mortal eyes, There shines, and fair adorned was every part With riches grown by kind, not framed by art: XLIX An hundred grooms, quick, diligent and neat, Attendance gave about these strangers bold, Against the wall there stood a cupboard great Of massive plate, of silver, crystal, gold. But when with precious wines and costly meat They filled were, thus spake the wizard old: "Now fits the time, sir knights, I tell and show What you desire to hear, and long to know. L "Armida's craft, her sleight and hidden guile You partly wot, her acts and arts untrue, How to your camp she came, and by what wile The greatest lords and princes thence she drew; You know she turned them first to monsters vile, And kept them since closed up in secret mew, Lastly, to Gaza-ward in bonds them sent, Whom young Rinaldo rescued as they went. LI "What chanced since I will at large declare, To you unknown, a story strange and true. When first her prey, got with such pain and care, Escaped and gone the witch perceived and knew, Her hands she wrung for grief, her clothes she tare, And full of woe these heavy words outthrew: 'Alas! my knights are slain, my prisoners free, Yet of that conquest never boast shall he, LII "'He in their place shall serve me, and sustain Their plagues, their torments suffer, sorrows bear, And they his absence shall lament in vain, And wail his loss and theirs with many a tear:' Thus talking to herself she did ordain A false and wicked guile, as you shall hear; Thither she hasted where the valiant knight Had overcome and slain her men in fight. LIII "Rinaldo there had dolt and left his own, And on his back a Pagan's harness tied, Perchance he deemed so to pass unknown, And in those arms less noted false to ride. A headless corse in fight late overthrown, The witch in his forsaken arms did hide, And by a brook exposed it on the sand Whither she wished would come a Christian band: LIV "Their coming might the dame foreknow right well, For secret spies she sent forth thousand ways, Which every day news from the camp might tell, Who parted thence, booties to search or preys: Beside, the sprites conjured by sacred spell, All what she asks or doubts, reveals and says, The body therefore placed she in that part That furthered best her sleight, her craft and art; LV "And near the corpse a varlet false and sly She left, attired in shepherd's homely weed, And taught him how to counterfeit and lie As time required, and he performed the deed; With him your soldiers spoke, of jealousy And false suspect mongst them he strewed the seed, That since brought forth the fruit of strife and jar, Of civil brawls, contention, discord, war. LVI "And as she wished so the soldiers thought By Godfrey's practice that the prince was slain, Yet vanished that suspicion false to naught When truth spread forth her silver wings again Her false devices thus Armida wrought, This was her first deceit, her foremost train; What next she practised, shall you hear me tell, Against our knight, and what thereof befell. LVII "Armida hunted him through wood and plain, Till on Orontes' flowery banks he stayed, There, where the stream did part and meet again And in the midst a gentle island made, A pillar fair was pight beside the main, Near which a little frigate floating laid, The marble white the prince did long behold, And this inscription read, there writ in gold: LVIII "'Whoso thou art whom will or chance doth bring With happy steps to flood Orontes' sides, Know that the world hath not so strange a thing, Twixt east and west, as this small island hides, Then pass and see, without more tarrying.' The hasty youth to pass the stream provides, And for the cogs was narrow, small and strait, Alone he rowed, and bade his squires there wait; LIX "Landed he stalks about, yet naught he sees But verdant groves, sweet shades, and mossy rocks With caves and fountains, flowers, herbs and trees, So that the words he read he takes for mocks: But that green isle was sweet at all degrees, Wherewith enticed down sits he and unlocks His closed helm, and bares his visage fair, To take sweet breath from cool and gentle air. LX "A rumbling sound amid the waters deep Meanwhile he heard, and thither turned his sight, And tumbling in the troubled stream took keep How the strong waves together rush and fight, Whence first he saw, with golden tresses, peep The rising visage of a virgin bright, And then her neck, her breasts, and all, as low As he for shame could see, or she could show. LXI "So in the twilight does sometimes appear A nymph, a goddess, or a fairy queen, And though no siren but a sprite this were Yet by her beauty seemed it she had been One of those sisters false which haunted near The Tyrrhene shores and kept those waters sheen, Like theirs her face, her voice was, and her sound, And thus she sung, and pleased both skies and ground: LXII "'Ye happy youths, who April fresh and May Attire in flowering green of lusty age, For glory vain, or virtue's idle ray, Do not your tender limbs to toil engage; In calm streams, fishes; birds, in sunshine play, Who followeth pleasure he is only sage, So nature saith, yet gainst her sacred will Why still rebel you, and why strive you still? LXIII "'O fools who youth possess, yet scorn the same, A precious, but a short-abiding treasure, Virtue itself is but an idle name, Prized by the world 'bove reason all and measure, And honor, glory, praise, renown and fame, That men's proud harts bewitch with tickling pleasure, An echo is, a shade, a dream, a flower, With each wind blasted, spoiled with every shower. LXIV "'But let your happy souls in joy possess The ivory castles of your bodies fair, Your passed harms salve with forgetfulness, Haste not your coming evils with thought and care, Regard no blazing star with burning tress, Nor storm, nor threatening sky, nor thundering air, This wisdom is, good life, and worldly bliss, Kind teacheth us, nature commands us this.' LXV "Thus sung the spirit false, and stealing sleep, To which her tunes enticed his heavy eyes, By step and step did on his senses creep, Still every limb therein unmoved lies, Not thunders loud could from this slumber deep, Of quiet death true image, make him rise: Then from her ambush forth Armida start, Swearing revenge, and threatening torments smart. LXVI "But when she looked on his face awhile, And saw how sweet he breathed, how still he lay, How his fair eyes though closed seemed to smile, At first she stayed, astound with great dismay, Then sat her down, so love can art beguile, And as she sat and looked, fled fast away Her wrath, that on his forehead gazed the maid, As in his spring Narcissus tooting laid; LXVII "And with a veil she wiped now and then From his fair cheeks the globes of silver sweat, And cool air gathered with a trembling fan, To mitigate the rage of melting heat, Thus, who would think it, his hot eye-glance can Of that cold frost dissolve the hardness great Which late congealed the heart of that fair dame, Who late a foe, a lover now became. LXVIII "Of woodbines, lilies, and of roses sweet, Which proudly flowered through that wanton plain, All platted fast, well knit, and joined meet, She framed a soft but surely holding chain, Wherewith she bound his neck his hands and feet; Thus bound, thus taken, did the prince remain, And in a coach which two old dragons drew, She laid the sleeping knight, and thence she flew: LXIX "Nor turned she to Damascus' kingdoms large, Nor to the fort built in Asphalte's lake, But jealous of her dear and precious charge, And of her love ashamed, the way did take, To the wide ocean whither skiff or barge From us doth seld or never voyage make, And there to frolic with her love awhile, She chose a waste, a sole and desert isle. LXX "An isle that with her fellows bears the name Of Fortunate, for temperate air and mould, There in a mountain high alight the dame, A hill obscured with shades of forests old, Upon whose sides the witch by art did frame Continual snow, sharp frost and winter cold, But on the top, fresh, pleasant, sweet and green, Beside a lake a palace built this queen. LXXI "There in perpetual sweet and flowering spring, She lives at ease, and joys her lord at will; The hardy youth from this strange prison bring Your valors must, directed by my skill, And overcome each monster and each thing, That guards the palace or that keeps the hill, Nor shall you want a guide, or engines fit, To bring you to the mount, or conquer it. LXXII "Beside the stream, yparted shall you find A dame, in visage young, but old in years, Her curled locks about her front are twined, A party-colored robe of silk she wears: This shall conduct you swift as air or wind, Or that flit bird that Jove's hot weapon bears, A faithful pilot, cunning, trusty, sure, As Tiphys was, or skilful Palinure. LXXIII "At the hill's foot, whereon the witch doth dwell, The serpents hiss, and cast their poison vilde, The ugly boars do rear their bristles fell, There gape the bears, and roar the lions wild; But yet a rod I have can easily quell Their rage and wrath, and make them meek and mild. Yet on the top and height of all the hill, The greatest danger lies, and greatest ill: LXXIV "There welleth out a fair, clear, bubbling spring, Whose waters pure the thirsty guests entice, But in those liquors cold the secret sting Of strange and deadly poison closed lies, One sup thereof the drinker's heart doth bring To sudden joy, whence laughter vain doth rise, Nor that strange merriment once stops or stays, Till, with his laughter's end, he end his days: LXXV "Then from those deadly, wicked streams refrain Your thirsty lips, despise the dainty cheer You find exposed upon the grassy plain, Nor those false damsels once vouchsafe to hear, That in melodious tunes their voices strain, Whose faces lovely, smiling, sweet, appear; But you their looks, their voice, their songs despise, And enter fair Armida's paradise. LXXVI "The house is builded like a maze within, With turning stairs, false doors and winding ways, The shape whereof plotted in vellum thin I will you give, that all those sleights bewrays, In midst a garden lies, where many a gin And net to catch frail hearts, false Cupid lays; There in the verdure of the arbors green, With your brave champion lies the wanton queen. LXXVII "But when she haply riseth from the knight, And hath withdrawn her presence from the place, Then take a shield I have of diamonds bright, And hold the same before the young man's face, That he may glass therein his garments light, And wanton soft attire, and view his case, That with the sight shame and disdain may move His heart to leave that base and servile love. LXXVIII "Now resteth naught that needful is to tell, But that you go secure, safe, sure and bold, Unseen the palace may you enter well, And pass the dangers all I have foretold, For neither art, nor charm, nor magic spell, Can stop your passage or your steps withhold, Nor shall Armida, so you guarded be, Your coming aught foreknow or once foresee: LXXIX "And eke as safe from that enchanted fort You shall return and scape unhurt away; But now the time doth us to rest exhort, And you must rise by peep of springing day." This said, he led them through a narrow port, Into a lodging fair wherein they lay, There glad and full of thoughts he left his guests, And in his wonted bed the old man rests. FIFTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The well instructed knights forsake their host, And come where their strange bark in harbor lay, And setting sail behold on Egypt's coast The monarch's ships and armies in array: Their wind and pilot good, the seas in post They pass, and of long journeys make short way: The far-sought isle they find; Armida's charms They scorn, they shun her sleights, despise her arms. I The rosy-fingered morn with gladsome ray Rose to her task from old Tithonus' lap When their grave host came where the warriors lay, And with him brought the shield, the rod, the map. "Arise," quoth he, "ere lately broken day, In his bright arms the round world fold or wrap, All what I promised, here I have them brought, Enough to bring Armida's charms to naught." II They started up, and every tender limb In sturdy steel and stubborn plate they dight, Before the old man stalked, they followed him Through gloomy shades of sad and sable night, Through vaults obscure again and entries dim, The way they came their steps remeasured right; But at the flood arrived, "Farewell," quoth he, "Good luck your aid, your guide good fortune be." III The flood received them in his bottom low And lilt them up above his billows thin; The waters so east up a branch or bough, By violence first plunged and dived therein: But when upon the shore the waves them throw, The knights for their fair guide to look begin, And gazing round a little bark they spied, Wherein a damsel sate the stern to guide. IV Upon her front her locks were curled new, Her eyes were courteous, full of peace and love; In look a saint, an angel bright in show, So in her visage grace and virtue strove; Her robe seemed sometimes red and sometimes blue, And changed still as she did stir or move; That look how oft man's eye beheld the same So oft the colors changed, went and came. V The feathers so, that tender, soft, and plain, About the dove's smooth neck close couched been, Do in one color never long remain, But change their hue gainst glimpse of Phoebus' sheen; And now of rubies bright a vermeil chain, Now make a carknet rich of emeralds green; Now mingle both, now alter, turn and change To thousand colors, rich, pure, fair, and strange. VI "Enter this boat, you happy men," she says, "Wherein through raging waves secure I ride, To which all tempest, storm, and wind obeys, All burdens light, benign is stream and tide: My lord, that rules your journeys and your ways, Hath sent me here, your servant and your guide." This said, her shallop drove she gainst the sand, And anchor cast amid the steadfast land. VII They entered in, her anchors she upwound, And launched forth to sea her pinnace flit, Spread to the wind her sails she broad unbound, And at the helm sat down to govern it, Swelled the flood that all his banks he drowned To bear the greatest ship of burthen fit; Yet was her fatigue little, swift and light, That at his lowest ebb bear it he might. VIII Swifter than thought the friendly wind forth bore The sliding boat upon the rolling wave, With curded foam and froth the billows hoar About the cable murmur roar and rave; At last they came where all his watery store The flood in one deep channel did engrave, And forth to greedy seas his streams he sent, And so his waves, his name, himself he spent. IX The wondrous boat scant touched the troubled main But all the sea still, hushed and quiet was, Vanished the clouds, ceased the wind and rain, The tempests threatened overblow and pass, A gentle breathing air made even and plain The azure face of heaven's smooth looking-glass, And heaven itself smiled from the skies above With a calm clearness on the earth his love. X By Ascalon they sailed, and forth drived, Toward the west their speedy course they frame, In sight of Gaza till the bark arrived, A little port when first it took that name; But since, by others' loss so well it thrived A city great and rich that it became, And there the shores and borders of the land They found as full of armed men as sand. XI The passengers to landward turned their sight, And there saw pitched many a stately tent, Soldier and footman, captain, lord and knight, Between the shore and city, came and went: Huge elephants, strong camels, coursers light, With horned hoofs the sandy ways outrent, And in the haven many a ship and boat, With mighty anchors fastened, swim and float; XII Some spread their sails, some with strong oars sweep The waters smooth, and brush the buxom wave, Their breasts in sunder cleave the yielding deep, The broken seas for anger foam and rave, When thus their guide began, "Sir knights, take keep How all these shores are spread with squadrons brave And troops of hardy knights, yet on these sands The monarch scant hath gathered half his bands. XIII "Of Egypt only these the forces are, And aid from other lands they here attend, For twixt the noon-day sun and morning star, All realms at his command do bow and bend; So that I trust we shall return from far, And bring our journey long to wished end, Before this king or his lieutenant shall These armies bring to Zion's conquered wall." XIV While thus she said, as soaring eagles fly Mongst other birds securely through the air, And mounting up behold with wakeful eye, The radiant beams of old Hyperion's hair, Her gondola so passed swiftly by Twixt ship and ship, withouten fear or care Who should her follow, trouble, stop or stay, And forth to sea made lucky speed and way. XV Themselves fornenst old Raffia's town they fand, A town that first to sailors doth appear As they from Syria pass to Egypt land: The sterile coasts of barren Rhinocere They passed, and seas where Casius hill doth stand That with his trees o'erspreads the waters near, Against whose roots breaketh the brackish wave Where Jove his temple, Pompey hath his grave: XVI Then Damiata next, where they behold How to the sea his tribute Nilus pays By his seven mouths renowned in stories old, And by an hundred more ignoble ways: They pass the town built by the Grecian bold, Of him called Alexandria till our days, And Pharaoh's tower and isle removed of yore Far from the land, now joined to the shore: XVII Both Crete and Rhodes they left by north unseen, And sailed along the coasts of Afric lands, Whose sea towns fair, but realms more inward been All full of monsters and of desert sands: With her five cities then they left Cyrene, Where that old temple of false Hammon stands: Next Ptolemais, and that sacred wood Whence spring the silent streams of Lethe flood. XVIII The greater Syrte, that sailors often cast In peril great of death and loss extreme, They compassed round about, and safely passed, The Cape Judeca and flood Magra's stream; Then Tripoli, gainst which is Malta placed, That low and hid, to lurk in seas doth seem: The little Syrte then, and Alzerhes isle, Where dwelt the folk that Lotos ate erewhile. XIX Next Tunis on the crooked shore they spied, Whose bay a rock on either side defends, Tunis all towns in beauty, wealth and pride Above, as far as Libya's bounds extends; Gainst which, from fair Sicilia's fertile side, His rugged front great Lilybaeum bends. The dame there pointed out where sometime stood Rome's stately rival whilom, Carthage proud; XX Great Carthage low in ashes cold doth lie, Her ruins poor the herbs in height scant pass, So cities fall, so perish kingdoms high, Their pride and pomp lies hid in sand and grass: Then why should mortal man repine to die, Whose life, is air; breath, wind; and body, glass? From thence the seas next Bisert's walls they cleft, And far Sardinia on their right hand left. XXI Numidia's mighty plains they coasted then, Where wandering shepherds used their flocks to feed, Then Bugia and Argier, the infamous den Of pirates false, Oran they left with speed, All Tingitan they swiftly overren, Where elephants and angry lions breed, Where now the realms of Fez and Maroc be, Gainst which Granada's shores and coasts they see. XXII Now are they there, where first the sea brake in By great Alcides' help, as stories feign, True may it be that where those floods begin It whilom was a firm and solid main Before the sea there through did passage win And parted Afric from the land of Spain, Abila hence, thence Calpe great upsprings, Such power hath time to change the face of things. XXIII Four times the sun had spread his morning ray Since first the dame launched forth her wondrous barge And never yet took port in creek or bay, But fairly forward bore the knights her charge; Now through the strait her jolly ship made way, And boldly sailed upon the ocean large; But if the sea in midst of earth was great, Oh what was this, wherein earth hath her seat? XXIV Now deep engulphed in the mighty flood They saw not Gades, nor the mountains near, Fled was the land, and towns on land that stood, Heaven covered sea, sea seemed the heavens to bear. "At last, fair lady," quoth Ubaldo good, "That in this endless main dost guide us here, If ever man before here sailed tell, Or other lands here be wherein men dwell." XXV "Great Hercules," quoth she, "when he had quailed The monsters fierce in Afric and in Spain, And all along your coasts and countries sailed, Yet durst he not assay the ocean main, Within his pillars would he have impaled The overdaring wit of mankind vain, Till Lord Ulysses did those bounders pass, To see and know he so desirous was. XXVI "He passed those pillars, and in open wave Of the broad sea first his bold sails untwined, But yet the greedy ocean was his grave, Naught helped him his skill gainst tide and wind; With him all witness of his voyage brave Lies buried there, no truth thereof we find, And they whom storm hath forced that way since, Are drowned all, or unreturned from thence: XXVII "So that this mighty sea is yet unsought, Where thousand isles and kingdoms lie unknown, Not void of men as some have vainly thought, But peopled well, and wonned like your own; The land is fertile ground, but scant well wrought, Air wholesome, temperate sun, grass proudly grown." "But," quoth Ubaldo, "dame, I pray thee teach Of that hid world, what be the laws and speech?" XXVIII "As diverse be their nations," answered she, "Their tongues, their rites, their laws so different are; Some pray to beasts, some to a stone or tree, Some to the earth, the sun, or morning star; Their meats unwholesome, vile, and hateful be, Some eat man's flesh, and captives ta'en in war, And all from Calpe's mountain west that dwell, In faith profane, in life are rude and fell." XXIX "But will our gracious God," the knight replied, "That with his blood all sinful men hath bought, His truth forever and his gospel hide From all those lands, as yet unknown, unsought?" "Oh no," quoth she, "his name both far and wide Shall there be known, all learning thither brought, Nor shall these long and tedious ways forever Your world and theirs, their lands, your kingdoms sever. XXX "The time shall come that sailors shall disdain To talk or argue of Alcides' streat, And lands and seas that nameless yet remain, Shall well be known, their boundaries, site and seat, The ships encompass shall the solid main, As far as seas outstretch their waters great, And measure all the world, and with the sun About this earth, this globe, this compass, run. XXXI "A knight of Genes shall have the hardiment Upon this wondrous voyage first to wend, Nor winds nor waves, that ships in sunder rent, Nor seas unused, strange clime, or pool unkenned, Nor other peril nor astonishment That makes frail hearts of men to bow and bend, Within Abilas' strait shall keep and hold The noble spirit of this sailor bold. XXXII "Thy ship, Columbus, shall her canvas wing Spread o'er that world that yet concealed lies, That scant swift fame her looks shall after bring, Though thousand plumes she have, and thousand eyes; Let her of Bacchus and Alcides sing, Of thee to future age let this suffice, That of thine acts she some forewarning give, Which shall in verse and noble story live." XXXIII Thus talking, swift twixt south and west they run, And sliced out twixt froth and foam their way; At once they saw before, the setting sun; Behind, the rising beam of springing day; And when the morn her drops and dews begun To scatter broad upon the flowering lay, Far off a hill and mountain high they spied, Whose top the clouds environ, clothe and hide; XXXIV And drawing near, the hill at ease they view, When all the clouds were molten, fallen and fled, Whose top pyramid-wise did pointed show, High, narrow, sharp, the sides yet more outspread, Thence now and then fire, flame and smoke outflew, As from that hill, whereunder lies in bed Enceladus, whence with imperious sway Bright fire breaks out by night, black smoke by day. XXXV About the hill lay other islands small, Where other rocks, crags, cliffs, and mountains stood, The Isles Fortunate these elder time did call, To which high Heaven they reigned so kind and good, And of his blessings rich so liberal, That without tillage earth gives corn for food, And grapes that swell with sweet and precious wine There without pruning yields the fertile vine. XXXVI The olive fat there ever buds and flowers, The honey-drops from hollow oaks distil, The falling brook her silver streams downpours With gentle murmur from their native hill, The western blast tempereth with dews and showers The sunny rays, lest heat the blossoms kill, The fields Elysian, as fond heathen sain, Were there, where souls of men in bliss remain. XXXVII To these their pilot steered, "And now," quoth she, "Your voyage long to end is brought well-near, The happy Isles of Fortune now you see, Of which great fame, and little truth, you hear, Sweet, wholesome, pleasant, fertile, fat they be, Yet not so rich as fame reports they were." This said, toward an island fresh she bore, The first of ten, that lies next Afric's shore; XXXVIII When Charles thus, "If, worthy governess, To our good speed such tarriance be no let, Upon this isle that Heaven so fair doth bless, To view the place, on land awhile us set, To know the folk and what God they confess, And all whereby man's heart may knowledge get, That I may tell the wonders therein seen Another day, and say, there have I been." XXXIX She answered him, "Well fits this high desire Thy noble heart, yet cannot I consent; For Heaven's decree, firm, stable, and entire, Thy wish repugns, and gainst thy will is bent, Nor yet the time hath Titan's gliding fire Met forth, prefixed for this discoverment, Nor is it lawful of the ocean main That you the secrets know, or known explain. XL "To you withouten needle, map or card It's given to pass these seas, and there arrive Where in strong prison lies your knight imbarred, And of her prey you must the witch deprive: If further to aspire you be prepared, In vain gainst fate and Heaven's decree you strive." While thus she said, the first seen isle gave place, And high and rough the second showed his face. XLI They saw how eastward stretched in order long, The happy islands sweetly flowering lay; And how the seas betwixt those isles enthrong, And how they shouldered land from land away: In seven of them the people rude among The shady trees their sheds had built of clay, The rest lay waste, unless wild beasts unseen, Or wanton nymphs, roamed on the mountains green. XLII A secret place they found in one of those, Where the cleft shore sea in his bosom takes, And 'twixt his stretched arms doth fold and close An ample bay, a rock the haven makes, Which to the main doth his broad back oppose, Whereon the roaring billow cleaves and breaks, And here and there two crags like turrets high, Point forth a port to all that sail thereby: XLIII The quiet seas below lie safe and still, The green wood like a garland grows aloft, Sweet caves within, cool shades and waters shrill, Where lie the nymphs on moss and ivy soft; No anchor there needs hold her frigate still, Nor cable twisted sure, though breaking oft: Into this desert, silent, quiet, glad, Entered the dame, and there her haven made. XLIV "The palace proudly built," quoth she, "behold, That sits on top of yonder mountain's height, Of Christ's true faith there lies the champion bold In idleness, love, fancy, folly light; When Phoebus shall his rising beams unfold, Prepare you gainst the hill to mount upright, Nor let this stay in your bold hearts breed care, For, save that one, all hours unlucky are; XLV "But yet this evening, if you make good speed, To that hill's foot with daylight might you pass." Thus said the dame their guide, and they agreed, And took their leave and leaped forth on the grass; They found the way that to the hill doth lead, And softly went that neither tired was, But at the mountain's foot they both arrived, Before the sun his team in waters dived. XLVI They saw how from the crags and clefts below His proud and stately pleasant top grew out, And how his sides were clad with frost and snow, The height was green with herbs and flowerets sout, Like hairy locks the trees about him grow, The rocks of ice keep watch and ward about, The tender roses and the lilies new, Thus art can nature change, and kind subdue. XLVII Within a thick, a dark and shady plot, At the hill's foot that night the warriors dwell, But when the sun his rays bright, shining, hot, Dispread of golden light the eternal well, "Up, up," they cried, and fiercely up they got, And climbed boldly gainst the mountain fell; But forth there crept, from whence I cannot say, An ugly serpent which forestalled their way. XLVIII Armed with golden scales his head and crest He lifted high, his neck swelled great with ire, Flamed his eyes, and hiding with his breast All the broad path, he poison breathed and fire, Now reached he forth in folds and forward pressed, Now would he back in rolls and heaps retire, Thus he presents himself to guard the place, The knights pressed forward with assured pace: XLIX Charles drew forth his brand to strike the snake; Ubaldo cried, "Stay, my companion dear, Will you with sword or weapon battle make Against this monster that affronts us here?" This said, he gan his charmed rod to shake, So that the serpent durst not hiss for fear, But fled, and dead for dread fell on the grass, And so the passage plain, eath, open was. L A little higher on the way they met A lion fierce that hugely roared and cried, His crest he reared high, and open set Of his broad-gaping jaws the furnace wide, His stern his back oft smote, his rage to whet, But when the sacred staff he once espied A trembling fear through his bold heart was spread, His native wrath was gone, and swift he fled. LI The hardy couple on their way forth wend, And met a host that on them roar and gape, Of savage beasts, tofore unseen, unkend, Differing in voice, in semblance, and in shape; All monsters which hot Afric doth forthsend, Twixt Nilus, Atlas, and the southern cape, Were all there met, and all wild beasts besides Hyrcania breeds, or Hyrcane forest hides. LII But yet that fierce, that strange and savage host Could not in presence of those worthies stand, But fled away, their heart and courage lost, When Lord Ubaldo shook his charming wand. No other let their passage stopped or crossed; Till on the mountain's top themselves they land, Save that the ice, the frost, and drifted snow, Oft made them feeble, weary, faint and slow. LIII But having passed all that frozen ground, And overgone that winter sharp and keen, A warm, mild, pleasant, gentle sky they found, That overspread a large and ample green, The winds breathed spikenard, myrrh, and balm around, The blasts were firm, unchanged, stable been, Not as elsewhere the winds now rise now fall, And Phoebus there aye shines, sets not at all. LIV Not as elsewhere now sunshine bright now showers, Now heat now cold, there interchanged were, But everlasting spring mild heaven down pours,-- In which nor rain, nor storm, nor clouds appear,-- Nursing to fields, their grass; to grass, his flowers; To flowers their smell; to trees, the leaves they bear: There by a lake a stately palace stands, That overlooks all mountains, seas and lands: LV The passage hard against the mountain steep These travellers had faint and weary made, That through those grassy plains they scantly creep; They walked, they rested oft, they went, they stayed, When from the rocks, that seemed for joy to weep, Before their feet a dropping crystal played Enticing them to drink, and on the flowers The plenteous spring a thousand streams down pours, LVI All which, united in the springing grass, Ate forth a channel through the tender green And underneath eternal shade did pass, With murmur shrill, cold, pure, and scantly seen; Yet so transparent, that perceived was The bottom rich, and sands that golden been, And on the brims the silken grass aloft Proffered them seats, sweet, easy, fresh and soft. LVII "See here the stream of laughter, see the spring," Quoth they, "of danger and of deadly pain, Here fond desire must by fair governing Be ruled, our lust bridled with wisdom's rein, Our ears be stopped while these Sirens sing, Their notes enticing man to pleasure vain." Thus passed they forward where the stream did make An ample pond, a large and spacious lake. LVIII There on a table was all dainty food That sea, that earth, or liquid air could give, And in the crystal of the laughing flood They saw two naked virgins bathe and dive, That sometimes toying, sometimes wrestling stood, Sometimes for speed and skill in swimming strive, Now underneath they dived, now rose above, And ticing baits laid forth of lust and love. LIX These naked wantons, tender, fair and white, Moved so far the warriors' stubborn hearts, That on their shapes they gazed with delight; The nymphs applied their sweet alluring arts, And one of them above the waters quite, Lift up her head, her breasts and higher parts, And all that might weak eyes subdue and take, Her lower beauties veiled the gentle lake. LX As when the morning star, escaped and fled From greedy waves, with dewy beams up flies, Or as the Queen of Love, new born and bred Of the Ocean's fruitful froth, did first arise: So vented she her golden locks forth shed Round pearls and crystal moist therein which lies: But when her eyes upon the knights she cast, She start, and feigned her of their sight aghast. LXI And her fair locks, that in a knot were tied High on her crown, she 'gan at large unfold; Which falling long and thick and spreading wide, The ivory soft and white mantled in gold: Thus her fair skin the dame would clothe and hide, And that which hid it no less fair was hold; Thus clad in waves and locks, her eyes divine, From them ashamed did she turn and twine. LXII Withal she smiled and she blushed withal, Her blush, her smilings, smiles her blushing graced: Over her face her amber tresses fall, Whereunder Love himself in ambush placed: At last she warbled forth a treble small, And with sweet looks her sweet songs interlaced; "Oh happy men I that have the grace," quoth she, "This bliss, this heaven, this paradise to see. LXIII "This is the place wherein you may assuage Your sorrows past, here is that joy and bliss That flourished in the antique golden age, Here needs no law, here none doth aught amiss: Put off those arms and fear not Mars his rage, Your sword, your shield, your helmet needless is; Then consecrate them here to endless rest, You shall love's champions be, and soldiers blest. LXIV "The fields for combat here are beds of down, Or heaped lilies under shady brakes; But come and see our queen with golden crown, That all her servants blest and happy makes, She will admit you gently for her own, Numbered with those that of her joy partakes: But first within this lake your dust and sweat Wash off, and at that table sit and eat." LXV While thus she sung, her sister lured them nigh With many a gesture kind and loving show, To music's sound as dames in court apply Their cunning feet, and dance now swift now slow: But still the knights unmoved passed by, These vain delights for wicked charms they know, Nor could their heavenly voice or angel's look, Surprise their hearts, if eye or ear they took. LXVI For if that sweetness once but touched their hearts, And proffered there to kindle Cupid's fire, Straight armed Reason to his charge up starts, And quencheth Lust, and killeth fond Desire; Thus scorned were the dames, their wiles and arts And to the palace gates the knights retire, While in their stream the damsels dived sad, Ashamed, disgraced, for that repulse they had. SIXTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The searchers pass through all the palace bright Where in sweet prison lies Rinaldo pent, And do so much, that full of rage and spite, With them he goes sad, shamed, discontent: With plaints and prayers to retain her knight Armida strives; he hears, but thence he went, And she forlorn her palace great and fair Destroys for grief, and flies thence through the air. I The palace great is builded rich and round, And in the centre of the inmost hold There lies a garden sweet, on fertile ground, Fairer than that where grew the trees of gold: The cunning sprites had buildings reared around With doors and entries false a thousandfold, A labyrinth they made that fortress brave, Like Daedal's prison, or Porsenna's grave. II The knights passed through the castle's largest gate, Though round about an hundred ports there shine, The door-leaves framed of carved silver-plate, Upon their golden hinges turn and twine. They stayed to view this work of wit and state. The workmanship excelled the substance fine, For all the shapes in that rich metal wrought, Save speech, of living bodies wanted naught. III Alcides there sat telling tales, and spun Among the feeble troops of damsels mild, He that the fiery gates of hell had won And heaven upheld; false Love stood by and smiled: Armed with his club fair Iole forth run, His club with blood of monsters foul defiled, And on her back his lion's skin had she, Too rough a bark for such a tender tree. IV Beyond was made a sea, whose azure flood The hoary froth crushed from the surges blue, Wherein two navies great well ranged stood Of warlike ships, fire from their arms outflew, The waters burned about their vessels good, Such flames the gold therein enchased threw, Caesar his Romans hence, the Asian kings Thence Antony and Indian princes brings. V The Cyclades seemed to swim amid the main, And hill gainst hill, and mount gainst mountain smote, With such great fury met those armies twain; Here burnt a ship, there sunk a bark or boat, Here darts and wild-fire flew, there drowned or slain Of princes dead the bodies fleet and float; Here Caesar wins, and yonder conquered been The Eastern ships, there fled the Egyptian queen: VI Antonius eke himself to flight betook, The empire lost to which he would aspire, Yet fled not he nor fight for fear forsook, But followed her, drawn on by fond desire: Well might you see within his troubled look, Strive and contend, love, courage, shame and ire; Oft looked he back, oft gazed he on the fight, But oftener on his mistress and her flight. VII Then in the secret creeks of fruitful Nile, Cast in her lap, he would sad death await, And in the pleasure of her lovely smile Sweeten the bitter stroke of cursed fate: All this did art with curious hand compile In the rich metal of that princely gate. The knights these stories viewed first and last, Which seen, they forward pressed, and in they passed: VIII As through his channel crooked Meander glides With turns and twines, and rolls now to, now fro, Whose streams run forth there to the salt sea sides Here back return and to their springward go: Such crooked paths, such ways this palace hides; Yet all the maze their map described so, That through the labyrinth they got in fine, As Theseus did by Ariadne's line. IX When they had passed all those troubled ways, The garden sweet spread forth her green to show, The moving crystal from the fountains plays, Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new, Sunshiny hills, dales hid from Phoebus' rays, Groves, arbors, mossy caves, at once they view, And that which beauty moat, most wonder brought, Nowhere appeared the art which all this wrought. X So with the rude the polished mingled was That natural seemed all and every part, Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass, And imitate her imitator art: Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass, The trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest smart, But ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes, This springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms. XI The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide Beside the young the old and ripened fig, Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side, The apples new and old grew on one twig, The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide That bended underneath their clusters big, The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour, There purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour. XII The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade, Sung merry notes on every branch and bough, The wind that in the leaves and waters played With murmur sweet, now sung, and whistled now; Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made, And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low; Thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art, The wind in this strange music bore his part. XIII With party-colored plumes' and purple bill, A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill, Her leden was like human language true; So much she talked, and with such wit and skill, That strange it seemed how much good she knew, Her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear, Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were. XIV "The gently budding rose," quoth she, "behold, That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams, Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold In their dear leaves, and less seen, fairer seems, And after spreads them forth more broad and bold, Then languisheth and dies in last extremes, Nor seems the same, that decked bed and bower Of many a lady late, and paramour; XV "So, in the passing of a day, doth pass The bud and blossom of the life of man, Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass Cut down, becometh withered, pale and wan: Oh gather then the rose while time thou hast Short is the day, done when it scant began, Gather the rose of love, while yet thou mayest, Loving, be loved; embracing, be embraced." XVI He ceased, and as approving all he spoke, The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew, The turtles sighed, and sighs with kisses broke, The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew; It seemed the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak, And all the gentle trees on earth that grew, It seemed the land, the sea, and heaven above, All breathed out fancy sweet, and sighed out love. XVII Through all this music rare, and strong consent Of strange allurements, sweet bove mean and measure, Severe, firm, constant, still the knights forthwent, Hardening their hearts gainst false enticing pleasure, Twixt leaf and leaf their sight before they sent, And after crept themselves at ease and leisure, Till they beheld the queen, set with their knight Besides the lake, shaded with boughs from sight: XVIII Her breasts were naked, for the day was hot, Her locks unbound waved in the wanton wind; Some deal she sweat, tired with the game you wot, Her sweat-drops bright, white, round, like pearls of Ind; Her humid eyes a fiery smile forthshot That like sunbeams in silver fountains shined, O'er him her looks she hung, and her soft breast The pillow was, where he and love took rest. XIX His hungry eyes upon her face he fed, And feeding them so, pined himself away; And she, declining often down her head, His lips, his cheeks, his eyes kissed, as he lay, Wherewith he sighed, as if his soul had fled From his frail breast to hers, and there would stay With her beloved sprite: the armed pair These follies all beheld and this hot fare. XX Down by the lovers' side there pendent was A crystal mirror, bright, pure, smooth, and neat, He rose, and to his mistress held the glass, A noble page, graced with that service great; She, with glad looks, he with inflamed, alas, Beauty and love beheld, both in one seat; Yet them in sundry objects each espies, She, in the glass, he saw them in her eyes: XXI Her, to command; to serve, it pleased the knight; He proud of bondage; of her empire, she; "My dear," he said, "that blessest with thy sight Even blessed angels, turn thine eyes to me, For painted in my heart and portrayed right Thy worth, thy beauties and perfections be, Of which the form; the shape and fashion best, Not in this glass is seen, but in my breast. XXII "And if thou me disdain, yet be content At least so to behold thy lovely hue, That while thereon thy looks are fixed and bent Thy happy eyes themselves may see and view; So rare a shape no crystal can present, No glass contain that heaven of beauties true; Oh let the skies thy worthy mirror be! And in dear stars try shape and image see." XXIII And with that word she smiled, and ne'ertheless Her love-toys still she used, and pleasures bold! Her hair, that done, she twisted up in tress, And looser locks in silken laces rolled, Her curles garlandwise she did up-dress, Wherein, like rich enamel laid on gold, The twisted flowers smiled, and her white breast The lilies there that spring with roses dressed. XXIV The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair The eyed feathers of his pompous train; Nor golden Iris so bends in the air Her twenty-colored bow, through clouds of rain; Yet all her ornaments, strange, rich and rare, Her girdle did in price and beauty stain, Nor that, with scorn, which Tuscan Guilla lost, Igor Venus Ceston, could match this for cost. XXV Of mild denays, of tender scorns, of sweet Repulses, war, peace, hope, despair, joy, fear, Of smiles, jests, mirth, woe, grief, and sad regreet, Sighs, sorrows, tears, embracements, kisses dear, That mixed first by weight and measure meet, Then at an easy fire attempered were, This wondrous girdle did Armida frame, And, when she would be loved, wore the same. XXVI But when her wooing fit was brought to end, She congee took, kissed him, and went her way; For once she used every day to wend Bout her affairs, her spells and charms to say: The youth remained, yet had no power to bend One step from thence, but used there to stray Mongst the sweet birds, through every walk and grove Alone, save for an hermit false called Love. XXVII And when the silence deep and friendly shade Recalled the lovers to their wonted sport, In a fair room for pleasure built, they laid, And longest nights with joys made sweet and short. Now while the queen her household things surveyed, And left her lord her garden and disport, The twain that hidden in the bushes were Before the prince in glistering arms appear: XXVIII As the fierce steed for age withdrawn from war Wherein the glorious beast had always wone, That in vile rest from fight sequestered far, Feeds with the mares at large, his service done, If arms he see, or hear the trumpet's jar, He neigheth loud and thither fast doth run, And wiseth on his back the armed knight, Longing for jousts, for tournament and fight: XXIX So fared Rinaldo when the glorious light Of their bright harness glistered in his eyes, His noble sprite awaked at that sight His blood began to warm, his heart to rise, Though, drunk with ease, devoid of wonted might On sleep till then his weakened virtue lies. Ubaldo forward stepped, and to him hield Of diamonds clear that pure and precious shield. XXX Upon the targe his looks amazed he bent, And therein all his wanton habit spied, His civet, balm, and perfumes redolent, How from his locks they smoked and mantle wide, His sword that many a Pagan stout had shent, Bewrapped with flowers, hung idly by his side, So nicely decked that it seemed the knight Wore it for fashion's sake but not for fight. XXXI As when, from sleep and idle dreams abraid, A man awaked calls home his wits again; So in beholding his attire he played, But yet to view himself could not sustain, His looks he downward cast and naught he said, Grieved, shamed, sad, he would have died fain, And oft he wished the earth or ocean wide Would swallow him, and so his errors hide. XXXII Ubaldo took the time, and thus begun, "All Europe now and Asia be in war, And all that Christ adore and fame have won, In battle strong, in Syria fighting are; But thee alone, Bertoldo's noble son, This little corner keeps, exiled far From all the world, buried in sloth and shame, A carpet champion for a wanton dame. XXXIII "What letharge hath in drowsiness up-penned Thy courage thus? what sloth doth thee infect? Up, up, our camp and Godfrey for thee send, Thee fortune, praise and victory expect, Come, fatal champion, bring to happy end This enterprise begun, all that sect Which oft thou shaken hast to earth full low With thy sharp brand strike down, kill, overthrow." XXXIV This said, the noble infant stood a space Confused, speechless, senseless, ill-ashamed; But when that shame to just disdain gave place, To fierce disdain, from courage sprung untamed, Another redness blushed through his face, Whence worthy anger shone, displeasure flamed, His nice attire in scorn he rent and tore, For of his bondage vile that witness bore; XXXV That done, he hasted from the charmed fort, And through the maze passed with his searchers twain. Armida of her mount and chiefest port Wondered to find the furious keeper slain, Awhile she feared, but she knew in short, That her dear lord was fled, then saw she plain, Ah, woful sight! how from her gates the man In haste, in fear, in wrath, in anger ran. XXXVI "Whither, O cruel! leavest thou me alone?" She would have cried, her grief her speeches stayed, So that her woful words are backward gone, And in her heart a bitter echo made; Poor soul, of greater skill than she was one Whose knowledge from her thus her joy conveyed, This wist she well, yet had desire to prove If art could keep, if charms recall her love. XXXVII All what the witches of Thessalia land, With lips unpure yet ever said or spake, Words that could make heaven's rolling circles stand, And draw the damned ghosts from Limbo lake, All well she knew, but yet no time she fand To use her knowledge or her charms to make, But left her arts, and forth she ran to prove If single beauty were best charm for love. XXXVIII She ran, nor of her honor took regard, Oh where be all her vaunts and triumphs now? Love's empire great of late she made or marred, To her his subjects humbly bend and bow, And with her pride mixed was a scorn so hard, That to be loved she loved, yet whilst they woo Her lovers all she hates; that pleased her will To conquer men, and conquered so, to kill. XXXIX But now herself disdained, abandoned, Ran after him; that from her fled in scorn, And her despised beauty labored With humble plaints and prayers to adorn: She ran and hasted after him that fled, Through frost and snow, through brier, bush and thorn, And sent her cries on message her before, That reached not him till he had reached the shore. XL "Oh thou that leav'st but half behind," quoth she, "Of my poor heart, and half with thee dost carry, Oh take this part, or render that to me, Else kill them both at once, ah tarry, tarry: Hear my last words, no parting kiss of thee I crave, for some more fit with thee to marry Keep them, unkind; what fear'st thou if thou stay? Thou may'st deny, as well as run away." XLI At this Rinaldo stopped, stood still, and stayed, She came, sad, breathless, weary, faint and weak, So woe-begone was never nymph or maid And yet her beauty's pride grief could not break, On him she looked, she gazed, but naught she said, She would not, could not, or she durst not speak, At her he looked not, glanced not, if he did, Those glances shamefaced were, close, secret, hid. XLII As cunning singers, ere they strain on high, In loud melodious tunes, their gentle voice, Prepare the hearers' ears to harmony With feignings sweet, low notes and warbles choice: So she, not having yet forgot pardie Her wonted shifts and sleights in Cupid's toys, A sequence first of sighs and sobs forthcast, To breed compassion dear, then spake at last: XLIII "Suppose not, cruel, that I come to vow Or pray, as ladies do their loves and lords; Such were we late, if thou disdain it now, Or scorn to grant such grace as love affords, At least yet as an enemy listen thou: Sworn foes sometimes will talk and chaffer words, For what I ask thee, may'st thou grant right well, And lessen naught thy wrath and anger fell. XLIV "If me thou hate, and in that hate delight, I come not to appease thee, hate me still, It's like for like; I bore great hate and spite Gainst Christians all, chiefly I wish thee ill: I was a Pagan born, and all my might Against Godfredo bent, mine art and skill: I followed thee, took thee, and bore thee far, To this strange isle, and kept thee safe from war. XLV "And more, which more thy hate may justly move, More to thy loss, more to thy shame and grief, I thee inchanted, and allured to love, Wicked deceit, craft worthy sharp reprief; Mine honor gave I thee all gifts above, And of my beauties made thee lord and chief, And to my suitors old what I denayed, That gave I thee, my lover new, unprayed. XLVI "But reckon that among, my faults, and let Those many wrongs provoke thee so to wrath, That hence thou run, and that at naught thou set This pleasant house, so many joys which hath; Go, travel, pass the seas, fight, conquest get, Destroy our faith, what shall I say, our faith? Ah no! no longer ours; before thy shrine Alone I pray, thou cruel saint of mine; XLVII "All only let me go with thee, unkind, A small request although I were thy foe, The spoiler seldom leaves the prey behind, Who triumphs lets his captives with him go; Among thy prisoners poor Armida bind, And let the camp increase thy praises so, That thy beguiler so thou couldst beguile, And point at me, thy thrall and bondslave vile. XLVIII "Despised bondslave, since my lord doth hate These locks, why keep I them or hold them dear? Come cut them off, that to my servile state My habit answer may, and all my gear: I follow thee in spite of death and fate, Through battles fierce where dangers most appear, Courage I have, and strength enough perchance, To lead thy courser spare, and bear thy lance: XLIX "I will or bear, or be myself, thy shield, And to defend thy life, will lose mine own: This breast, this bosom soft shall be thy bield Gainst storms of arrows, darts and weapons thrown; Thy foes, pardie, encountering thee in field, Will spare to strike thee, mine affection known, Lest me they wound, nor will sharp vengeance take On thee, for this despised beauty's sake. L "O wretch! dare I still vaunt, or help invoke From this poor beauty, scorned and disdained?" She said no more, her tears her speeches broke, Which from her eyes like streams from springs down rained: She would have caught him by the hand or cloak, But he stepped backward, and himself restrained, Conquered his will, his heart ruth softened not, There plaints no issue, love no entrance got. LI Love entered not to kindle in his breast, Which Reason late had quenched, his wonted flame; Yet entered Pity in the place at least, Love's sister, but a chaste and sober dame, And stirred him so, that hardly he suppressed The springing tears that to his eyes up came; But yet even there his plaints repressed were, And, as he could, he looked, and feigned cheer. LII "Madam," quoth he, "for your distress I grieve, And would amend it, if I might or could. From your wise heart that fond affection drive: I cannot hate nor scorn you though I would, I seek no vengeance, wrongs I all forgive, Nor you my servant nor my foe I hold, Truth is, you erred, and your estate forgot, Too great your hate was, and your love too hot. LIII "But those are common faults, and faults of kind, Excused by nature, by your sex and years; I erred likewise, if I pardon find None can condemn you, that our trespass hears; Your dear remembrance will I keep in mind, In joys, in woes, in comforts, hopes and fears, Call me your soldier and your knight, as far As Christian faith permits, and Asia's war. LIV "Ah, let our faults and follies here take end, And let our errors past you satisfy, And in this angle of the world ypend, Let both the fame and shame thereof now die, From all the earth where I am known and kenned, I wish this fact should still concealed lie: Nor yet in following me, poor knight, disgrace Your worth, your beauty, and your princely race. LV "Stay here in peace, I go, nor wend you may With me, my guide your fellowship denies, Stay here or hence depart some better way, And calm your thoughts, you are both sage and wise." While thus he spoke, her passions found no stay, But here and there she turned and rolled her eyes, And staring on his face awhile, at last Thus in foul terms, her bitter wrath forth brast: LVI "Of Sophia fair thou never wert the child, Nor of the Azzain race ysprung thou art, The mad sea-waves thee hare, some tigress wild On Caucasus' cold crags nursed thee apart; Ah, cruel man l in whom no token mild Appears, of pity, ruth, or tender heart, Could not my griefs, my woes, my plaints, and all One sigh strain from thy breast, one tear make fall? LVII "What shall I say, or how renew my speech? He scorns me, leaves me, bids me call him mine: The victor hath his foe within his reach; Yet pardons her, that merits death and pine; Hear how he counsels me; how he can preach, Like chaste Xenocrates, gainst love divine; O heavens, O gods! why do these men of shame, Thus spoil your temples and blaspheme your name? LVIII "Go cruel, go, go with such peace, such rest, Such joy, such comfort, as thou leavest me here: My angry soul discharged from this weak breast, Shall haunt thee ever, and attend thee near, And fury-like in snakes and firebrands dressed, Shall aye torment thee, whom it late held dear: And if thou 'scape the seas, the rocks, and sands And come to fight among the Pagan bands, LIX "There lying wounded, mongst the hurt and slain, Of these my wrongs thou shalt the vengeance bear, And oft Armida shalt thou call in vain, At thy last gasp; this hope I soon to hear:" Here fainted she, with sorrow, grief and pain, Her latest words scant well expressed were, But in a swoon on earth outstretched she lies, Stiff were her frozen limbs, closed were her eyes. LX Thou closed thine eyes, Armida, heaven envied Ease to thy grief, or comfort to thy woe; Ah, open then again, see tears down slide From his kind eyes, whom thou esteem'st thy foe, If thou hadst heard, his sighs had mollified Thine anger, hard he sighed and mourned so; And as he could with sad and rueful look His leave of thee and last farewell he took. LXI What should he do? leave on the naked sand This woful lady half alive, half dead? Kindness forbade, pity did that withstand; But hard constraint, alas! did thence him lead; Away he went, the west wind blew from land Mongst the rich tresses of their pilot's head, And with that golden sail the waves she cleft, To land he looked, till land unseen he left. LXII Waked from her trance, foresaken, speechless, sad, Armida wildly stared and gazed about, "And is he gone," quoth she, "nor pity had To leave me thus twixt life and death in doubt? Could he not stay? could not the traitor-lad From this last trance help or recall me out? And do I love him still, and on this sand Still unrevenged, still mourn, still weeping stand? LXIII "Fie no! complaints farewell! with arms and art I will pursue to death this spiteful knight, Not earth's low centre, nor sea's deepest part, Not heaven, nor hell, can shield him from my might, I will o'ertake him, take him, cleave his heart, Such vengeance fits a wronged lover's spite, In cruelty that cruel knight surpass I will, but what avail vain words, alas? LXIV "O fool! thou shouldest have been cruel than, For then this cruel well deserved thine ire, When thou in prison hadst entrapped the man, Now dead with cold, too late thou askest fire; But though my wit, my cunning nothing can, Some other means shall work my heart's desire, To thee, my beauty, thine be all these wrongs, Vengeance to thee, to thee revenge belongs. LXV "Thou shalt be his reward, with murdering brand That dare this traitor of his head deprive, O you my lovers, on this rock doth stand The castle of her love for whom you strive, I, the sole heir of all Damascus land, For this revenge myself and kingdom give, If by this price my will I cannot gain, Nature gives beauty; fortune, wealth in vain. LXVI "But thee, vain gift, vain beauty, thee I scorn, I hate the kingdom which I have to give, I hate myself, and rue that I was born, Only in hope of sweet revenge I live." Thus raging with fell ire she gan return From that bare shore in haste, and homeward drive, And as true witness of her frantic ire, Her locks waved loose, face shone, eyes sparkled fire. LXVII When she came home, she called with outcries shrill, A thousand devils in Limbo deep that won, Black clouds the skies with horrid darkness fill, And pale for dread became the eclipsed sun, The whirlwind blustered big on every hill, And hell to roar under her feet begun, You might have heard how through the palace wide, Some spirits howled, some barked, some hissed, some cried. LXVIII A shadow, blacker than the mirkest night, Environed all the place with darkness sad, Wherein a firebrand gave a dreadful light, Kindled in hell by Tisiphone the mad; Vanished the shade, the sun appeared in sight, Pale were his beams, the air was nothing glad, And all the palace vanished was and gone, Nor of so great a work was left one stone. LXIX As oft the clouds frame shapes of castles great Amid the air, that little time do last, But are dissolved by wind or Titan's heat, Or like vain dreams soon made, and sooner past: The palace vanished so, nor in his seat Left aught but rocks and crags, by kind there placed; She in her coach which two old serpents drew, Sate down, and as she used, away she flew. LXX She broke the clouds, and cleft the yielding sky, And bout her gathered tempest, storm and wind, The lands that view the south pole flew she by, And left those unknown countries far behind, The Straits of Hercules she passed, which lie Twixt Spain and Afric, nor her flight inclined To north or south, but still did forward ride O'er seas and streams, till Syria's coasts she spied. LXXI Now she went forward to Damascus fair, But of her country dear she fled the sight, And guided to Asphaltes' lake her chair, Where stood her castle, there she ends her flight, And from her damsels far, she made repair To a deep vault, far from resort and light, Where in sad thoughts a thousand doubts she cast, Till grief and shame to wrath gave place at last. LXXII "I will not hence," quoth she, "till Egypt's lord In aid of Zion's king his host shall move; Then will I use all helps that charms afford, And change my shape or sex if so behove: Well can I handle bow, or lance, or sword, The worthies all will aid me, for my love: I seek revenge, and to obtain the same, Farewell, regard of honor; farewell, shame. LXXIII "Nor let mine uncle and protector me Reprove for this, he most deserves the blame, My heart and sex, that weak and tender be, He bent to deeds that maidens ill became; His niece a wandering damsel first made he, He spurred my youth, and I cast off my shame, His be the fault, if aught gainst mine estate I did for love, or shall commit for hate." LXXIV This said, her knights, her ladies, pages, squires She all assembleth, and for journey fit In such fair arms and vestures them attires As showed her wealth, and well declared her wit; And forward marched, full of strange desires, Nor rested she by day or night one whit, Till she came there, where all the eastern bands, Their kings and princes, lay on Gaza's sands. SEVENTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Egypt's great host in battle-ray forth brought, The Caliph sends with Godfrey's power to fight; Armida, who Rinaldo's ruin sought, To them adjoins herself and Syria's might. To satisfy her cruel will and thought, She gives herself to him that kills her knight: He takes his fatal arms, and in his shield His ancestors and their great deeds beheld. I Gaza the city on the frontier stands Of Juda's realm, as men to Egypt ride, Built near the sea, beside it of dry sands Huge wildernesses lie and deserts wide Which the strong winds lift from the parched lands And toss like roaring waves in roughest tide, That from those storms poor passengers almost No refuge find, but there are drowned and lost. II Within this town, won from the Turks of yore Strong garrison the king of Egypt placed, And for it nearer was, and fitted more That high emprise to which his thoughts he cast, He left great Memphis, and to Gaza bore His regal throne, and there, from countries vast Of his huge empire all the puissant host Assembled he, and mustered on the coast. III Come say, my Muse, what manner times these were, And in those times how stood the state of things, What power this monarch had, what arms they bear, What nations subject, and what friends he brings; From all lands the southern ocean near, Or morning star, came princes, dukes and kings, And only thou of half the world well-nigh The armies, lords, and captains canst descry. IV When Egypt from the Greekish emperor Rebelled first, and Christ's true faith denied, Of Mahomet's descent a warrior There set his throne and ruled that kingdom wide, Caliph he hight, and Caliphs since that hour Are his successors named all beside: So Nilus old his kings long time had seen That Ptolemies and Pharaohs called had been. V Established was that kingdom in short while, And grew so great, that over Asia's lands And Lybia's realms it stretched many a mile, From Syria's coasts as far as Cirene sands, And southward passed gainst the course of Nile, Through the hot clime where burnt Syene stands, Hence bounded in with sandy deserts waste, And thence with Euphrates' rich flood embraced. VI Maremma, myrrh and spices that doth bring, And all the rich red sea it comprehends, And to those lands, toward the morning spring That lie beyond that gulf, it far extends; Great is that empire, greater by the king That rules it now, whose worth the land amends, And makes more famous, lord thereof by blood, By wisdom, valor, and all virtues good. VII With Turks and Persians war he oft did wage, And oft he won, and sometimes lost the field, Nor could his adverse fortune aught assuage His valor's heat or make his proud heart yield, But when he grew unfit for war through age, He sheathed his sword and laid aside his shield: But yet his warlike mind he laid not down, Nor his great thirst of rule, praise and renown, VIII But by his knights still cruel wars maintained. So wise his words, so quick his wit appears, That of the kingdom large o'er which he reigned, The charge seemed not too weighty for his years; His greatness Afric's lesser kings constrained To tremble at his name, all Ind him fears, And other realms that would his friendship hold; Some armed soldiers sent, some gifts, some gold. IX This mighty prince assembled had the flower Of all his realms, against the Frenchmen stout, To break their rising empire and their power, Nor of sure conquest had he fear or doubt: To him Armida came, even at the hour When in the plains, old Gaza's walls without, The lords and leaders all their armies bring In battle-ray, mustered before their king. X He on his throne was set, to which on height Who clomb an hundred ivory stairs first told, Under a pentise wrought of silver bright, And trod on carpets made of silk and gold; His robes were such as best beseemen might A king, so great, so grave, so rich, so old, And twined of sixty ells of lawn and more A turban strange adorned his tresses hoar. XI His right hand did his precious sceptre wield, His beard was gray, his looks severe and grave, And from his eyes, not yet made dim with eild, Sparkled his former worth and vigor brave, His gestures all the majesty upheild And state, as his old age and empire crave, So Phidias carved, Apelles so, pardie, Erst painted Jove, Jove thundering down from sky. XII On either side him stood a noble lord, Whereof the first held in his upright hand Of severe justice the unpartial sword; The other bare the seal, and causes scanned, Keeping his folk in peace and good accord, And termed was lord chancellor of the land; But marshal was the first, and used to lead His armies forth to war, oft with good speed. XIII Of bold Circassians with their halberts long, About his throne his guards stood in a ring, All richly armed in gilden corslets strong, And by their sides their crooked swords down hing: Thus set, thus seated, his grave lords among, His hosts and armies great beheld the king, And every band as by his throne it went, Their ensigns low inclined, and arms down bent: XIV Their squadrons first the men of Egypt show, In four troops, and each his several guide, Of the high country two, two of the low Which Nile had won out of the salt seaside, His fertile slime first stopped the waters' flow, Then hardened to firm land the plough to bide, So Egypt still increased, within far placed That part is now where ships erst anchor cast. XV The foremost band the people were that dwelled In Alexandria's rich and fertile plain, Along the western shore, whence Nile expelled The greedy billows of the swelling main; Araspes was their guide, who more excelled In wit and craft than strength or warlike pain, To place an ambush close, or to devise A treason false, was none so sly, so wise. XVI The people next that gainst the morning rays Along the coasts of Asia have their seat, Arontes led them, whom no warlike praise Ennobled, but high birth and titles great, His helm ne'er made him sweat in toilsome frays, Nor was his sleep e'er broke with trumpet's threat, But from soft ease to try the toil of fight His fond ambition brought this carpet knight. XVII The third seemed not a troop or squadron small, But an huge host; nor seemed it so much grain In Egypt grew as to sustain them all; Yet from one town thereof came all that train, A town in people to huge shires equal, That did a thousand streets and more contain, Great Caire it hight, whose commons from each side Came swarming out to war, Campson their guide. XVIII Next under Gazel marched they that plough The fertile lands above that town which lie Up to the place where Nilus tumbling low Falls from his second cataract from high; The Egyptians weaponed were with sword and bow, No weight of helm or hauberk list they try, And richly armed, in their strong foes no dreed Of death but great desire of spoil they breed. XIX The naked folk of Barca these succeed, Unarmed half, Alarcon led that band, That long in deserts lived, in extreme need, On spoils and preys purchased by strength of hand. To battle strong unfit, their king did lead His army next brought from Zumara land. Then he of Tripoli, for sudden fight And skirmish short, both ready, bold, and light. XX Two captains next brought forth their bands to show Whom Stony sent and Happy Araby, Which never felt the cold of frost and snow, Or force of burning heat, unless fame lie, Where incense pure and all sweet odors grow, Where the sole phoenix doth revive, not die, And midst the perfumes rich and flowerets brave Both birth and burial, cradle hath and grave. XXI Their clothes not rich, their garments were not gay, But weapons like the Egyptian troops they had, The Arabians next that have no certain stay, No house, no home, no mansion good or bad, But ever, as the Scythian hordes stray, From place to place their wandering cities gad: These have both voice and stature feminine, Hair long and black, black face, and fiery eyne. XXII Long Indian canes, with iron armed, they bear, And as upon their nimble steeds they ride, Like a swift storm their speedy troops appear, If winds so fast bring storms from heavens wide: By Syphax led the first Arabians were; Aldine the second squadron had no guide, And Abiazar proud, brought to the fight The third, a thief, a murderer, not a knight. XXIII The islanders came then their prince before Whose lands Arabia's gulf enclosed about, Wherein they fish and gather oysters store, Whose shells great pearls rich and round pour out; The Red Sea sent with them from his left shore, Of negroes grim a black and ugly rout; These Agricalt and those Osmida brought, A man that set law, faith and truth at naught. XXIV The Ethiops next which Meroe doth breed, That sweet and gentle isle of Meroe, Twixt Nile and Astrabore that far doth spread, Where two religions are, and kingdoms three, These Assimiro and Canario led, Both kings, both Pagans, and both subjects be To the great Caliph, but the third king kept Christ's sacred faith, nor to these wars outstepped. XXV After two kings, both subjects also, ride, And of two bands of archers had the charge, The first Soldan of Ormus placed in the wide Huge Persian Bay, a town rich, fair, and large: The last of Boecan, which at every tide The sea cuts off from Persia's southern marge, And makes an isle; but when it ebbs again, The passage there is sandy, dry and plain. XXVI Nor thee, great Altamore, in her chaste bed Thy loving queen kept with her dear embrace, She tore her locks, she smote her breast, and shed Salt tears to make thee stay in that sweet place, "Seem the rough seas more calm, cruel," she said, "Than the mild looks of thy kind spouse's face? Or is thy shield, with blood and dust defiled, A dearer armful than thy tender child?" XXVII This was the mighty king of Samarcand, A captain wise, well skilled in feats of war, In courage fierce, matchless for strength of hand, Great was his praise, his force was noised far; His worth right well the Frenchmen understand, By whom his virtues feared and loved are: His men were armed with helms and hauberks strong, And by their sides broad swords and maces hong. XXVIII Then from the mansions bright of fresh Aurore Adrastus came, the glorious king of Ind, A snake's green skin spotted with black he wore, That was made rich by art and hard by kind, An elephant this furious giant bore, He fierce as fire, his mounture swift as wind; Much people brought he from his kingdoms wide, Twixt Indus, Ganges, and the salt seaside. XXIX The king's own troop come next, a chosen crew, Of all the camp the strength, the crown, the flower, Wherein each soldier had with honors due Rewarded been, for service ere that hour; Their arms were strong for need, and fair for show, Upon fierce steeds well mounted rode this power, And heaven itself with the clear splendor shone Of their bright armor, purple, gold and stone. XXX Mongst these Alarco fierce, and Odemare The muster master was, and Hidraort, And Rimedon, whose rashness took no care To shun death's bitter stroke, in field or fort, Tigranes, Rapold stem, the men that fare By sea, that robbed in each creek and port, Ormond, and Marlabust the Arabian named, Because that land rebellious he reclaimed. XXXI There Pirga, Arimon, Orindo are, Brimarte the scaler, and with him Suifant The breaker of wild horses brought from far; Then the great wresteler strong Aridamant, And Tisapherne, the thunderbolt of war, Whom none surpassed, whom none to match durst vaunt At tilt, at tourney, or in combat brave, With spear or lance, with sword, with mace or glaive. XXXII A false Armenian did this squadron guide, That in his youth from Christ's true faith and light To the blind lore of Paganism did slide, That Clement late, now Emireno, hight; Yet to his king he faithful was, and tried True in all causes, his in wrong and right: A cunning leader and a soldier bold, For strength and courage, young; for wisdom, old. XXXIII When all these regiments were passed and gone, Appeared Armide, and came her troop to show; Set in a chariot bright with precious stone, Her gown tucked up, and in her hand a bow; In her sweet face her new displeasures shone, Mixed with the native beauties there which grow, And quickened so her looks that in sharp wise It seems she threats and yet her threats entice. XXXIV Her chariot like Aurora's glorious wain, With carbuncles and jacinths glistered round: Her coachman guided with the golden rein Four unicorns, by couples yoked and bound; Of squires and lovely ladies hundreds twain, Whose rattling quivers at their backs resound, On milk-white steeds, wait on the chariot bright, Their steeds to manage, ready; swift, to flight. XXXV Followed her troop led forth by Aradin, Which Hidraort from Syria's kingdom sent, As when the new-born phoenix doth begin To fly to Ethiop-ward, at the fair bent Of her rich wings strange plumes and feathers thin Her crowns and chains with native gold besprent, The world amazed stands; and with her fly An host of wondering birds, that sing and cry: XXXVI So passed Armida, looked on, gazed on, so, A wondrous dame in habit, gesture, face; There lived no wight to love so great a foe But wished and longed those beauties to embrace, Scant seen, with anger sullen, sad for woe, She conquered all the lords and knights in place, What would she do, her sorrows passed, think you, When her fair eyes, her looks and smiles shall woo? XXXVII She passed, the king commanded Emiren Of his rich throne to mount the lofty stage, To whom his host, his army, and his men, He would commit, now in his graver age. With stately grace the man approached then; His looks his coming honor did presage: The guard asunder cleft and passage made, He to the throne up went, and there he stayed. XXXVIII To earth he cast his eyes, and bent his knee: To whom the king thus gan his will explain, "To thee this sceptre, Emiren, to thee These armies I commit, my place sustain Mongst them, go set the king of Judah free, And let the Frenchmen feel my just disdain, Go meet them, conquer them, leave none alive; Or those that scape from battle, bring captive." XXXIX Thus spake the tyrant, and the sceptre laid With all his sovereign power upon the knight: "I take this sceptre at your hand," he said, "And with your happy fortune go to fight, And trust, my lord, in your great virtue's aid To venge all Asia's harms, her wrongs to right, Nor e'er but victor will I see your face; Our overthrow shall bring death, not disgrace. XL "Heavens grant if evil, yet no mishap I dread, Or harm they threaten against this camp of thine, That all that mischief fall upon my head, Theirs be the conquest, and the danger mine; And let them safe bring home their captain dead, Buried in pomp of triumph's glorious shine." He ceased, and then a murmur loud up went, With noise of joy and sound of instrument. XLI Amid the noise and shout uprose the king, Environed with many a noble peer That to his royal tent the monarch bring, And there he feasted them and made them cheer, To him and him he talked, and carved each thing, The greatest honored, meanest graced were; And while this mirth, this joy and feast doth last, Armida found fit time her nets to cast: XLII But when the feast was done, she, that espied All eyes on her fair visage fixed and bent, And by new notes and certain signs described, How love's empoisoned fire their entrails brent, Arose, and where the king sate in his pride, With stately pace and humble gestures, went; And as she could in looks in voice she strove Fierce, stern, bold, angry, and severe to prove. XLIII "Great Emperor, behold me here," she said. "For thee, my country, and my faith to fight, A dame, a virgin, but a royal maid; And worthy seems this war a princess hight, For by the sword the sceptre is upstayed, This hand can use them both with skill and might, This hand of mine can strike, and at each blow Thy foes and ours kill, wound, and overthrow. XLIV "Nor yet suppose this is the foremost day Wherein to war I bent my noble thought, But for the surety of thy realms, and stay Of our religion true, ere this I wrought: Yourself best know if this be true I say, Or if my former deeds rejoiced you aught, When Godfrey's hardy knights and princes strong I captive took, and held in bondage long. XLV "I took them, bound them, and so sent them bound To thee, a noble gift, with whom they had Condemned low in dungeon under ground Forever dwelt, in woe and torment sad: So might thine host an easy way have found To end this doubtful war, with conquest glad, Had not Rinaldo fierce my knights all slain, And set those lords, his friends, at large again. XLVI "Rinaldo is well known," and there a long And true rehearsal made she of his deeds, "This is the knight that since hath done me wrong, Wrong yet untold, that sharp revengement needs: Displeasure therefore, mixed with reason strong, This thirst of war in me, this courage breeds; Nor how he injured me time serves to tell, Let this suffice, I seek revengement fell, XLVII "And will procure it, for all shafts that fly Light not in vain; some work the shooter's will, And Jove's right hand with thunders cast from sky Takes open vengeance oft for secret ill: But if some champion dare this knight defy To mortal battle, and by fight him kill, And with his hateful head will me present, That gift my soul shall please, my heart content: XLVIII "So please, that for reward enjoy he shall, The greatest gift I can or may afford, Myself, my beauty, wealth, and kingdoms all, To marry him, and take him for my lord, This promise will I keep whate'er befall, And thereto bind myself by oath and word: Now he that deems this purchase worth his pain, Let him step forth and speak, I none disdain." XLIX While thus the princess said, his hungry eyne Adrastus fed on her sweet beauty's light, "The gods forbid," quoth he, "one shaft of thine Should be discharged gainst that discourteous knight, His heart unworthy is, shootress divine, Of thine artillery to feel the might; To wreak thine ire behold me prest and fit, I will his head cut off, and bring thee it. L "I will his heart with this sharp sword divide, And to the vultures cast his carcass out." Thus threatened he, but Tisapherne envied To hear his glorious vaunt and boasting stout, And said, "But who art thou, that so great pride Thou showest before the king, me, and this rout? Pardie here are some such, whose worth exceeds Thy vaunting much yet boast not of their deeds." LI The Indian fierce replied, "I am the man Whose acts his words and boasts have aye surpassed; But if elsewhere the words thou now began Had uttered been, that speech had been thy last." Thus quarrelled they; the monarch stayed them than, And 'twixt the angry knights his sceptre cast: Then to Armida said, "Fair Queen, I see Thy heart is stout, thy thoughts courageous be; LII "Thou worthy art that their disdain and ire At thy commands these knights should both appease, That gainst thy foe their courage hot as fire Thou may'st employ, both when and where you please, There all their power and force, and what desire They have to serve thee, may they show at ease." The monarch held his peace when this was said, And they new proffer of their service made. LIII Nor they alone, but all that famous were In feats of arms boast that he shall be dead, All offer her their aid, all say and swear, To take revenge on his condemned head: So many arms moved she against her dear, And swore her darling under foot to tread, But he, since first the enchanted isle he left, Safe in his barge the roaring waves still cleft. LIV By the same way returned the well-taught boat By which it came, and made like haste, like speed; The friendly wind, upon her sail that smote, So turned as to return her ship had need: The youth sometimes the Pole or Bear did note, Or wandering stars which dearest nights forthspread: Sometimes the floods, the hills, or mountains steep, Whose woody fronts o'ershade the silent deep. LV Now of the camp the man the state inquires, Now asks the customs strange of sundry lands; And sailed, till clad in beams and bright attires The fourth day's sun on the eastern threshold stands: But when the western seas had quenched those fires, Their frigate struck against the shore and sands; Then spoke their guide, "The land of Palestine This is, here must your journey end and mine." LVI The knights she set upon the shore all three, And vanished thence in twinkling of an eye, Uprose the night in whose deep blackness be All colors hid of things in earth or sky, Nor could they house, or hold, or harbor see, Or in that desert sign of dwelling spy, Nor track of man or horse, or aught that might Inform them of some path or passage right. LVII When they had mused what way they travel should, From the west shore their steps at last they twined, And lo, far off at last their eyes behold Something, they wist not what, that clearly shined With rays of silver and with beams of gold Which the dark folds of night's black mantle lined. Forward they went and marched against the light, To see and find the thing that shone so bright. LVIII High on a tree they saw an armor new, That glistered bright gainst Cynthia's silver ray, Therein, like stars in skies, the diamonds show Fret in the gilden helm and hauberk gay, The mighty shield all scored full they view Of pictures fair, ranged in meet array; To keep them sate an aged man beside, Who to salute them rose, when them he spied. LIX The twain who first were sent in this pursuit Of their wise friend well knew the aged face: But when the wizard sage their first salute Received and quitted had with kind embrace, To the young prince, that silent stood and mute, He turned his speech, "In this unused place For you alone I wait, my lord," quoth he, "My chiefest care your state and welfare be. LX "For, though you wot it not, I am your friend, And for your profit work, as these can tell, I taught them how Armida's charms to end, And bring you thither from love's hateful cell, Now to my words, though sharp perchance, attend, Nor be aggrieved although they seem too fell, But keep them well in mind, till in the truth A wise and holier man instruct thy youth. LXI "Not underneath sweet shades and fountains shrill, Among the nymphs, the fairies, leaves and flowers; But on the steep, the rough and craggy hill Of virtue stands this bliss, this good of ours: By toil and travel, not by sitting still In pleasure's lap, we come to honor's bowers; Why will you thus in sloth's deep valley lie? The royal eagles on high mountains fly. LXII "Nature lifts up thy forehead to the skies, And fills thy heart with high and noble thought, That thou to heavenward aye shouldst lift thine eyes, And purchase fame by deeds well done and wrought; She gives thee ire, by which not courage flies To conquests, not through brawls and battles fought For civil jars, nor that thereby you might Your wicked malice wreak and cursed spite. LXIII "But that your strength spurred forth with noble wrath, With greater fury might Christ's foes assault, And that your bridle should with lesser scath Each secret vice, and kill each inward fault; For so his godly anger ruled hath Each righteous man beneath heaven's starry vault, And at his will makes it now hot, now cold, Now lets it run, now doth it fettered hold." LXIV Thus parleyed he; Rinaldo, hushed and still, Great wisdom heard in those few words compiled, He marked his speech, a purple blush did fill His guilty checks, down went his eyesight mild. The hermit by his bashful looks his will Well understood, and said, "Look up, my child, And painted in this precious shield behold The glorious deeds of thy forefathers old. LXV "Thine elders' glory herein see and know, In virtue's path how they trod all their days, Whom thou art far behind, a runner slow In this true course of honor, fame and praise: Up, up, thyself incite by the fair show Of knightly worth which this bright shield bewrays, That be thy spur to praise!" At last the knight Looked up, and on those portraits bent his sight. LXVI The cunning workman had in little space Infinite shapes of men there well expressed, For there described was the worthy race And pedigree of all of the house of Est: Come from a Roman spring o'er all the place Flowed pure streams of crystals east and west, With laurel crowned stood the princes old, Their wars the hermit and their battles told. LXVII He showed them Caius first, when first in prey To people strange the falling empire went, First Prince of Est, that did the sceptre sway O'er such as chose him lord by tree consent; His weaker neighbors to his rule obey, Need made them stoop, constraint doth force content; After, when Lord Honorius called the train Of savage Goths into his land again, LXVIII And when all Italy did burn and flame With bloody war, by this fierce people mad, When Rome a captive and a slave became, And to be quite destroyed was most afraid, Aurelius, to his everlasting fame, Preserved in peace the folk that him obeyed: Next whom was Forest, who the rage withstood Of the bold Huns, and of their tyrant proud. LXIX Known by his look was Attila the fell, Whose dragon eyes shone bright with anger's spark, Worse faced than a dog, who viewed him well Supposed they saw him grin and heard him bark; But when in single fight he lost the bell, How through his troops he fled there might you mark, And how Lord Forest after fortified Aquilea's town, and how for it he died. LXX For there was wrought the fatal end and fine, Both of himself and of the town he kept: But his great son renowned Acarine, Into his father's place and honor stepped: To cruel fate, not to the Huns, Altine Gave place, and when time served again forth leapt, And in the vale of Po built for his seat Of many a village a small city great; LXXI Against the swelling flood he banked it strong, And thence uprose the fair and noble town Where they of Est should by succession long Command, and rule in bliss and high renown: Gainst Odoacer then he fought, but wrong Oft spoileth right, fortune treads courage down, For there he died for his dear country's sake, And of his father's praise did so partake. LXXII With him died Alforisio, Azzo was With his dear brother into exile sent, But homeward they in arms again repass-- The Herule king oppressed--from banishment. His front through pierced with a dart, alas, Next them, of Est the Epaminondas went, That smiling seemed to cruel death to yield, When Totila was fled, and safe his shield. LXXIII Of Boniface I speak; Valerian, His son, in praise and power succeeded him, Who durst sustain, in years though scant a man, Of the proud Goths an hundred squadrons trim: Then he that gainst the Sclaves much honor wan, Ernesto, threatening stood with visage grim; Before him Aldoard, the Lombard stout Who from Monselce boldly erst shut out. LXXIV There Henry was and Berengare the bold That served great Charles in his conquest high, Who in each battle give the onset would, A hardy soldier and a captain sly; After, Prince Lewis did he well uphold Against his nephew, King of Italy, He won the field and took that king on live: Next him stood Otho with his children five. LXXV Of Almeric the image next they view, Lord Marquis of Ferrara first create, Founder of many churches, that upthrew His eyes, like one that used to contemplate; Gainst him the second Azzo stood in rew, With Berengarius that did long debate, Till after often change of fortune stroke, He won, and on all Italy laid the yoke. LXXVI Albert his son the Germans warred among, And there his praise and fame was spread so wide, That having foiled the Danes in battle strong, His daughter young became great Otho's bride. Behind him Hugo stood with warfare long, That broke the horn of all the Romans' pride, Who of all Italy the marquis hight, And Tuscan whole possessed as his right. LXXVII After Tebaldo, puissant Boniface And Beatrice his dear possessed the stage; Nor was there left heir male of that great race, To enjoy the sceptre, state and heritage; The Princess Maud alone supplied the place, Supplied the want in number, sex and age; For far above each sceptre, throne and crown, The noble dame advanced her veil and gown. LXXVIII With manlike vigor shone her noble look, And more than manlike wrath her face o'erspread, There the fell Normans, Guichard there forsook The field, till then who never feared nor fled; Henry the Fourth she beat, and from him took His standard, and in Church it offered; Which done, the Pope back to the Vatican She brought, and placed in Peter's chair again. LXXIX As he that honored her and held her dear, Azzo the Fifth stood by her lovely side; But the fourth Azzo's offspring far and near Spread forth, and through Germania fructified; Sprung from the branch did Guelpho bold appear, Guelpho his son by Cunigond his bride, And in Bavaria's field transplanted new The Roman graft flourished, increased and grew. LXXX A branch of Est there in the Guelfian tree Engrafted was, which of itself was old, Whereon you might the Guelfoes fairer see, Renew their sceptres and their crowns of gold, Of which Heaven's good aspects so bended be That high and broad it spread and flourished bold, Till underneath his glorious branches laid Half Germany, and all under his shade. LXXXI This regal plant from his Italian rout Sprung up as high, and blossomed fair above, Fornenst Lord Guelpho, Bertold issued out, With the sixth Azzo whom all virtues love; This was the pedigree of worthies stout, Who seemed in that bright shield to live and move. Rinaldo waked up and cheered his face, To see these worthies of his house and race. LXXXII To do like acts his courage wished and sought, And with that wish transported him so far That all those deeds which filled aye his thought, Towns won, forts taken, armies killed in war, As if they were things done indeed and wrought, Before his eyes he thinks they present are, He hastily arms him, and with hope and haste, Sure conquest met, prevented and embraced. LXXXIII But Charles, who had told the death and fall Of the young prince of Danes, his late dear lord, Gave him the fatal weapon, and withal, "Young knight," quoth he, "take with good luck this sword, Your just, strong, valiant hand in battle shall Employ it long, for Christ's true faith and word, And of his former lord revenge the wrongs, Who loved you so, that deed to you belongs." LXXXIV He answered, "God for his mercy's sake, Grant that this hand which holds this weapon good For thy dear master may sharp vengeance take, May cleave the Pagan's heart, and shed his blood." To this but short reply did Charles make, And thanked him much, nor more on terms they stood: For lo, the wizard sage that was their guide On their dark journey hastes them forth to ride. LXXXV "High time it is," quoth he, "for you to wend Where Godfrey you awaits, and many a knight, There may we well arrive ere night doth end, And through this darkness can I guide you right." This said, up to his coach they all ascend, On his swift wheels forth rolled the chariot light, He gave his coursers fleet the rod and rein, And galloped forth and eastward drove amain; LXXXVI While silent so through night's dark shade they fly, The hermit thus bespake the young man stout: "Of thy great house, thy race, thine offspring high, Here hast thou seen the branch, the bole, the root, And as these worthies born to chivalry And deeds of arms it hath tofore brought out, So is it, so it shall be fertile still, Nor time shall end, nor age that seed shall kill. LXXXVII "Would God, as drawn from the forgetful lap Of antique time, I have thine elders shown; That so I could the catalogue unwrap Of thy great nephews yet unborn, unknown, That ere this light they view, their fate and hap I might foretell, and how their chance is thrown, That like thine elders so thou mightst behold Thy children, many, famous, stout and bold. LXXXVIII "But not by art or skill, of things future Can the plain truth revealed be and told, Although some knowledge doubtful, dark, obscure We have of coming haps in clouds uprolled; Nor all which in this cause I know for sure Dare I foretell: for of that father old, The hermit Peter, learned I much, and he Withouten veil heaven's secrets great doth see. LXXXIX "But this, to him revealed by grace divine, By him to me declared, to thee I say, Was never race Greek, barbarous, or Latine, Great in times past, or famous at this day, Richer in hardy knights than this of thine; Such blessings Heaven shall on thy children lay That they in fame shall pass, in praise o'ercome, The worthies old of Sparta, Carthage, Rome. XC "But mongst the rest I chose Alphonsus bold, In virtue first, second in place and name, He shall be born when this frail world grows old, Corrupted, poor, and bare of men of fame, Better than he none shall, none can, or could, The sword or sceptre use or guide the same, To rule in peace or to command in fight, Thine offspring's glory and thy house's light. XCI "His younger age foretokens true shall yield Of future valor, puissance, force and might, From him no rock the savage beast shall shield; At tilt or tourney match him shall no knight: After, he conquer shall in pitched field Great armies and win spoils in single fight, And on his locks, rewards for knightly praise, Shall garlands wear of grass, of oak, of bays. XCII "His graver age, as well that eild it fits, Shall happy peace preserve and quiet blest, And from his neighbors strong mongst whom he sits Shall keep his cities safe in wealth and rest, Shall nourish arts and cherish pregnant wits, Make triumphs great, and feast his subjects best, Reward the good, the evil with pains torment, Shall dangers all foresee, and seen, prevent. XCIII "But if it hap against those wicked bands That sea and earth invest with blood and war, And in these wretched times to noble lands Give laws of peace false and unjust that are, That he be sent, to drive their guilty hands From Christ's pure altars and high temples far, Oh, what revenge, what vengeance shall he bring On that false sect, and their accursed king! XCIV "Too late the Moors, too late the Turkish king, Gainst him should arm their troops and legions bold For he beyond great Euphrates should bring, Beyond the frozen tops of Taurus cold, Beyond the land where is perpetual spring, The cross, the eagle white, the lily of gold, And by baptizing of the Ethiops brown Of aged Nile reveal the springs unknown." XCV Thus said the hermit, and his prophecy The prince accepted with content and pleasure, The secret thought of his posterity Of his concealed joys heaped up the measure. Meanwhile the morning bright was mounted high, And changed Heaven's silver wealth to golden treasure, And high above the Christian tents they view How the broad ensigns trembled, waved and blew, XCVI When thus again their leader sage begun, "See how bright Phoebus clears the darksome skies, See how with gentle beams the friendly sun The tents, the towns, the hills and dales descries, Through my well guiding is your voyage done, From danger safe in travel off which lies, Hence without fear of harm or doubt of foe March to the camp, I may no nearer go." XCVII Thus took he leave, and made a quick return, And forward went the champions three on foot, And marching right against the rising morn A ready passage to the camp found out, Meanwhile had speedy fame the tidings borne That to the tents approached these barons stout, And starting from his throne and kingly seat To entertain them, rose Godfredo great. EIGHTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The charms and spirits false therein which lie Rinaldo chaseth from the forest old; The host of Egypt comes; Vafrin the spy Entereth their camp, stout, crafty, wise and bold; Sharp is the fight about the bulwarks high And ports of Zion, to assault the hold: Godfrey hath aid from Heaven, by force the town Is won, the Pagans slain, walls beaten down. I Arrived where Godfrey to embrace him stood, "My sovereign lord," Rinaldo meekly said, "To venge my wrongs against Gernando proud My honor's care provoked my wrath unstayed; But that I you displeased, my chieftain good, My thoughts yet grieve, my heart is still dismayed, And here I come, prest all exploits to try To make me gracious in your gracious eye." II To him that kneeled, folding his friendly arms About his neck, the duke this answer gave: "Let pass such speeches sad, of passed harms. Remembrance is the life of grief; his grave, Forgetfulness; and for amends, in arms Your wonted valor use and courage brave; For you alone to happy end must bring The strong enchantments of the charmed spring. III "That aged wood whence heretofore we got, To build our scaling engines, timber fit, Is now the fearful seat, but how none wot, Where ugly fiends and damned spirits sit; To cut one twist thereof adventureth not The boldest knight we have, nor without it This wall can battered be: where others doubt There venture thou, and show thy courage stout." IV Thus said he, and the knight in speeches few Proffered his service to attempt the thing, To hard assays his courage willing flew, To him praise was no spur, words were no sting; Of his dear friends then he embraced the crew To welcome him which came; for in a ring About him Guelpho, Tancred and the rest Stood, of the camp the greatest, chief and best. V When with the prince these lords had iterate Their welcomes oft, and oft their dear embrace, Toward the rest of lesser worth and state, He turned, and them received with gentle grace; The merry soldiers bout him shout and prate, With cries as joyful and as cheerful face As if in triumph's chariot bright as sun, He had returned Afric or Asia won. VI Thus marched to his tent the champion good, And there sat down with all his friends around; Now of the war he asked, now of the wood, And answered each demand they list propound; But when they left him to his ease, up stood The hermit, and, fit time to speak once found, "My lord," he said, "your travels wondrous are, Far have you strayed, erred, wandered far. VII "Much are you bound to God above, who brought You safe from false Armida's charmed hold, And thee a straying sheep whom once he bought Hath now again reduced to his fold, And gainst his heathen foes these men of naught Hath chosen thee in place next Godfrey bold; Yet mayest thou not, polluted thus with sin, In his high service war or fight begin. VIII "The world, the flesh, with their infection vile Pollute the thoughts impure, thy spirit stain; Not Po, not Ganges, not seven-mouthed Nile, Not the wide seas, can wash thee clean again, Only to purge all faults which thee defile His blood hath power who for thy sins was slain: His help therefore invoke, to him bewray Thy secret faults, mourn, weep, complain and pray." IX This said, the knight first with the witch unchaste His idle loves and follies vain lamented; Then kneeling low with heavy looks downcast, His other sins confessed and all repented, And meekly pardon craved for first and last. The hermit with his zeal was well contented, And said, "On yonder hill next morn go pray That turns his forehead gainst the morning ray. X "That done, march to the wood, whence each one brings Such news of furies, goblins, fiends, and sprites, The giants, monsters, and all dreadful things Thou shalt subdue, which that dark grove unites: Let no strange voice that mourns or sweetly sings, Nor beauty, whose glad smile frail hearts delights, Within thy breast make ruth or pity rise, But their false looks and prayers false despise." XI Thus he advised him, and the hardy knight Prepared him gladly to this enterprise, Thoughtful he passed the day, and sad the night; And ere the silver morn began to rise, His arms he took, and in a coat him dight Of color strange, cut in the warlike guise; And on his way sole, silent, forth he went Alone, and left his friends, and left his tent. XII It was the time when gainst the breaking day Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined, For in the east appeared the morning gray And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine, This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine. XIII Thus to himself he thought, how many bright And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high, Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fixed and wandering stars the azure sky, So framed all by their Creator's might That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. XIV Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneeled down with reverence and fear, His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent, His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were: "The sins and errors, which I now repent, Of mine unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, And purge my faults and mine offences all." XV Thus prayed he, with purple wings upflew In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, Begilding with the radiant beams she threw His helm, his harness, and the mountain green; Upon his breast and forehead gently blew The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen, And o'er his head let down from clearest skies A cloud of pure and precious clew there flies. XVI The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled And thence, of purest white, bright rays outstream; So cheered are the flowers late withered With the sweet comfort of the morning beam, And so, returned to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold. XVII The lovely whiteness of his changed weed, The Prince perceived well, and long admired; Toward the forest marched he on with speed, Resolved, as such adventures great required; Thither he came whence shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight the first retired, But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade: XVIII Forward he passed, mid in the grove before He heard a sound that strange, sweet, pleasing was; There rolled a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sighed the winds as through the leaves they pass, There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, There sung the swan, and singing died, alas! There lute, harp, cittern, human voice he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared. XIX A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent; Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent: Whereat amazed he stayed, and well prepared For his defence, heedful and slow forth went: Nor in his way his passage aught withstood, Except a quiet, still, transparent flood. XX On the green banks which that fair stream inbound, Flowers and odors sweetly smiled and smelled, Which reaching out his stretched arms around, All the large desert in his bosom held, And through the grove one channel passage found; That in the wood; in that, the forest dwelled: Trees clad the streams; streams green those trees aye made And so exchanged their moisture and their shade. XXI The knight some way sought out the flood to pass, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appeared, A bridge of gold, a huge and weighty mass, On arches great of that rich metal reared; When through that golden way he entered was, Down fell the bridge, swelled the stream, and weared The work away, nor sign left where it stood, And of a river calm became a flood. XXII He turned, amazed to see it troubled so, Like sudden brooks increased with molten snow, The billows fierce that tossed to and fro, The whirlpools sucked down to their bosoms low; But on he went to search for wonders mo, Through the thick trees there high and broad which grow, And in that forest huge and desert wide, The more he sought, more wonders still he spied. XXIII Whereso he stepped, it seemed the joyful ground Renewed the verdure of her flowery weed, A fountain here, a wellspring there he found; Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread The aged wood o'er and about him round Flourished with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed, And on the boughs and branches of those treen, The bark was softened, and renewed the green. XXIV The manna on each leaf did pearled lie, The honey stilled from the tender rind; Again he heard that wondrous harmony, Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind, The human voices sung a triple high, To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind, But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear. XXV He looked, he listened, yet his thoughts denied To think that true which he both heard and see, A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, And thither by a beaten path went he: The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, Higher than pine or palm or cypress tree: And far above all other plants was seen That forest's lady and that desert's queen. XXVI Upon the trees his eyes Rinaldo bent, And there a marvel great and strange began; An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, And from his fertile hollow womb forth ran, Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, A nymph, for age able to go to man, An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight. XXVII Such as on stages play, such as we see The Dryads painted whom wild Satyrs love, Whose arms half-naked, locks untrussed be, With buskins laced on their legs above, And silken robes tucked short above their knee; Such seemed the sylvan daughters of this grove, Save that instead of shafts and boughs of tree, She bore a lute, a harp, or cittern she. XXVIII And wantonly they cast them in a ring, And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, Rinaldo round about environing, As centres are with their circumference; The tree they compassed eke, and gan to sing, That woods and streams admired their excellence; "Welcome, dear lord, welcome to this sweet grove, Welcome our lady's hope, welcome her love. XXIX "Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distressed; Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, Fit dwelling for sad folk with grief oppressed, See with thy coming how the branches quick Revived are, and in new blosoms dressed:" This was their song, and after, from it went First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent. XXX If antique times admired Silenus old That oft appeared set on his lazy ass, How would they wonder if they had behold Such sights as from the myrtle high did pass? Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, That like in shape, in face and beauty was To sweet Armide; Rinaldo thinks he spies Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes. XXXI On him a sad and smiling look she cast, Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays: "And art thou come," quoth she, "returned at last To her from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways? Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past? To ease my widow nights and careful days? Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? Why nilt thou speak?--why not thy face disarm? XXXII "Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frame That golden bridge to entertain my foe, Nor opened flowers and fountains as you came, To welcome him with joy that brings me woe: Put off thy helm, rejoice me with the flame Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow. Kiss me, embrace me, if you further venture, Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath to enter." XXXIII Thus as she woos she rolls her rueful eyes With piteous look, and changeth oft her cheer, An hundred sighs from her false heart upflies, She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear; The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies, What stony heart resists a woman's tear? But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, Drew forth his sword and from her careless twined. XXXIV Toward the tree he marched, she thither start, Before him stepped, embraced the plant and cried, "Ah, never do me such a spiteful part, To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride, Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; For through this breast, and through this heart unkind To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find." XXXV He lift his brand, nor cared though oft she prayed, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge when men in dreams are laid Oft in their idle fancies roam and range: Her body swelled, her face obscure was made, Vanished her garments, her face and vestures strange, A giantess before him high she stands, Like Briareus armed with an hundred hands. XXXVI With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threatened death, she roared, cried and fought, Each other nymph in armor likewise dight, A Cyclops great became: he feared them naught, But on the myrtle smote with all his might, That groaned like living souls to death nigh brought, The sky seemed Pluto's court, the air seemed hell, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell. XXXVII Lightened the heavens above, the earth below Roared loud, that thundered, and this shook; Blustered the tempests strong, the whirlwinds blow, The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took, Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended; Then fled the spirits all, the charms all ended. XXXVIII The heavens grew clear, the air waxed calm and still, The wood returned to his wonted state, Of withcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill; Of horror full, but horror there innate; He further proved if aught withstood his will To cut those trees as did the charms of late, And finding naught to stop him, smiled, and said, "O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!" XXXIX From thence home to the campward turned the knight, The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, "Now of the wood the charms have lost their might, The sprites are conquered, ended is the feat, See where he comes!" In glistering white all dight Appeared the man, bold, stately, high and great, His eagle's silver wings to shine begun With wondrous splendor gainst the golden sun. XL The camp received him with a joyful cry, A cry the dales and hills about that flied; Then Godfrey welcomed him with honors high, His glory quenched all spite, all envy killed: "To yonder dreadful grove," quoth he, "went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you willed, Have driven the sprites away, thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free." XLI Sent were the workmen thither, thence they brought Timber enough, by good advice select, And though by skilless builders framed and wrought Their engines rude and rams were late elect, Yet now the forts and towers from whence they fought Were framed by a cunning architect, William, of all the Genoese lord and guide, Which late ruled all the seas from side to side; XLII But forced to retire from him at last, The Pagan fleet the seas moist empire won, His men with all their stuff and store in haste Home to the camp with their commander run, In skill, in wit, in cunning him surpassed Yet never engineer beneath the sun, Of carpenters an hundred large he brought, That what their lord devised made and wrought. XLIII This man began with wondrous art to make, Not rams, not mighty brakes, not slings alone, Wherewith the firm and solid walls to shake, To cast a dart, or throw a shaft or stone; But framed of pines and firs, did undertake To build a fortress huge, to which was none Yet ever like, whereof he clothed the sides Against the balls of fire with raw bull's hides. XLIV In mortices and sockets framed just, The beams, the studs and puncheons joined he fast; To beat the city's wall, beneath forth brust A ram with horned front, about her waist A bridge the engine from her side out thrust, Which on the wall when need she cast; And from her top a turret small up stood, Strong, surely armed, and builded of like wood. XLV Set on an hundred wheels the rolling mass, On the smooth lands went nimbly up and down, Though full of arms and armed men it was, Yet with small pains it ran, as it had flown: Wondered the camp so quick to see it pass, They praised the workmen and their skill unknown, And on that day two towers they builded more, Like that which sweet Clorinda burned before. XLVI Yet wholly were not from the Saracines Their works concealed and their labors hid, Upon that wall which next the camp confines They placed spies, who marked all they did: They saw the ashes wild and squared pines, How to the tents, trailed from the grove, they slid: And engines huge they saw, yet could not tell How they were built, their forms they saw not well. XLVII Their engines eke they reared, and with great art Repaired each bulwark, turret, port and tower, And fortified the plain and easy part, To bide the storm of every warlike stoure, Till as they thought no sleight or force of Mart To undermine or scale the same had power; And false Ismeno gan new balls prepare Of wicked fire, wild, wondrous, strange and rare. XLVIII He mingled brimstone with bitumen fell Fetched from that lake where Sodom erst did sink, And from that flood which nine times compassed hell Some of the liquor hot he brought, I think, Wherewith the quenchless fire he tempered well, To make it smoke and flame and deadly stink: And for his wood cut down, the aged sire Would thus revengement take with flame and fire. XLIX While thus the camp, and thus the town were bent, These to assault, these to defend the wall, A speedy dove through the clear welkin went, Straight o'er the tents, seen by the soldiers all; With nimble fans the yielding air she rent, Nor seemed it that she would alight or fall, Till she arrived near that besieged town, Then from the clouds at last she stooped down: L But lo, from whence I nolt, a falcon came, Armed with crooked bill and talons long, And twixt the camp and city crossed her game, That durst nor bide her foe's encounter strong; But right upon the royal tent down came, And there, the lords and princes great among, When the sharp hawk nigh touched her tender head In Godfrey's lap she fell, with fear half dead: LI The duke received her, saved her, and spied, As he beheld the bird, a wondrous thing, About her neck a letter close was tied, By a small thread, and thrust under her wing, He loosed forth the writ and spread it wide, And read the intent thereof, "To Judah's king," Thus said the schedule, "honors high increase, The Egyptian chieftain wisheth health and peace: LII "Fear not, renowned prince, resist, endure Till the third day, or till the fourth at most, I come, and your deliverance will procure, And kill your coward foes and all their host." This secret in that brief was closed up sure, Writ in strange language, to the winged post Given to transport; for in their warlike need The east such message used, oft with good speed. LIII The duke let go the captive dove at large, And she that had his counsel close betrayed, Traitress to her great Lord, touched not the marge Of Salem's town, but fled far thence afraid. The duke before all those which had or charge Or office high, the letter read, and said: "See how the goodness of the Lord foreshows The secret purpose of our crafty foes. LIV "No longer then let us protract the time, But scale the bulwark of this fortress high, Through sweat and labor gainst those rocks sublime Let us ascend, which to the southward lie; Hard will it be that way in arms to climb, But yet the place and passage both know I, And that high wall by site strong on that part, Is least defenced by arms, by work and art. LV "Thou, Raymond, on this side with all thy might Assault the wall, and by those crags ascend, My squadrons with mine engines huge shall fight And gainst the northern gate my puissance bend, That so our foes, beguiled with the sight, Our greatest force and power shall there attend, While my great tower from thence shall nimbly slide, And batter down some worse defended side; LVI "Camillo, thou not far from me shalt rear Another tower, close to the walls ybrought." This spoken, Raymond old, that sate him near, And while he talked great things tossed in his thought, Said, "To Godfredo's counsel, given us here, Naught can be added, from it taken naught: Yet this I further wish, that some were sent To spy their camp, their secret and intent, LVII "That may their number and their squadrons brave Describe, and through their tents disguised mask." Quoth Tancred, "Lo, a subtle squire I have, A person fit to undertake this task, A man quick, ready, bold, sly to deceive, To answer, wise, and well advised to ask; Well languaged, and that with time and place, Can change his look, his voice, his gait, his grace." LVIII Sent for, he came, and when his lord him told What Godfrey's pleasure was and what his own, He smiled and said forthwith he gladly would. "I go," quoth he, "careless what chance be thrown, And where encamped be these Pagans bold, Will walk in every tent a spy unknown, Their camp even at noon-day I enter shall, And number all their horse and footmen all; LIX "How great, how strong, how armed this army is, And what their guide intends, I will declare, To me the secrets of that heart of his And hidden thoughts shall open lie and bare." Thus Vafrine spoke, nor longer stayed on this, But for a mantle changed the coat he ware, Naked was his neck, and bout his forehead bold, Of linen white full twenty yards he rolled. LX His weapons were a Syrian bow and quiver, His gestures barbarous, like the Turkish train, Wondered all they that heard his tongue deliver Of every land the language true and plain: In Tyre a born Phoenician, by the river Of Nile a knight bred in the Egyptian main, Both people would have thought him; forth he rides On a swift steed, o'er hills and dales that glides. LXI But ere the third day came the French forth sent Their pioneers to even the rougher ways, And ready made each warlike instrument, Nor aught their labor interrupts or stays; The nights in busy toll they likewise spent And with long evenings lengthened forth short days, Till naught was left the hosts that hinder might To use their utmost power and strength in fight. LXII That day, which of the assault the day forerun, The godly duke in prayer spent well-nigh, And all the rest, because they had misdone, The sacrament receive and mercy cry; Then oft the duke his engines great begun To show where least he would their strength apply; His foes rejoiced, deluded in that sort, To see them bent against their surest port: LXIII But after, aided by the friendly night, His greatest engine to that side he brought Where plainest seemed the wall, where with their might The flankers least could hurt them as they fought; And to the southern mountain's greatest height To raise his turret old Raymondo sought; And thou Camillo on that part hadst thine, Where from the north the walls did westward twine. LXIV But when amid the eastern heaven appeared The rising morning bright as shining glass, The troubled Pagans saw, and seeing feared, How the great tower stood not where late it was, And here and there tofore unseen was reared Of timber strong a huge and fearful mass, And numberless with beams, with ropes and strings, They view the iron rams, the barks and slings. LXV The Syrian people now were no whit slow, Their best defences to that side to bear, Where Godfrey did his greatest engine show, From thence where late in vain they placed were: But he who at his back right well did know The host of Egypt to be proaching near, To him called Guelpho, and the Roberts twain, And said, "On horseback look you still remain, LXVI "And have regard, while all our people strive To scale this wall, where weak it seems and thin, Lest unawares some sudden host arrive, And at our backs unlooked-for war begin." This said, three fierce assaults at once they give, The hardy soldiers all would die or win, And on three parts resistance makes the king, And rage gainst strength, despair gainst hope doth bring. LXVII Himself upon his limbs with feeble eild That shook, unwieldy with their proper weight, His armor laid and long unused shield, And marched gainst Raymond to the mountain's height; Great Solyman gainst Godfrey took the field; Fornenst Camillo stood Argantes straight Where Tancred strong he found, so fortune will That this good prince his wonted foe shall kill. LXVIII The archers shot their arrows sharp and keen, Dipped in the bitter juice of poison strong, The shady face of heaven was scantly seen, Hid with the clouds of shafts and quarries long; Yet weapons sharp with greater fury been Cast from the towers the Pagan troops among, For thence flew stones and clifts of marble rocks, Trees shod with iron, timber, logs and blocks. LXIX A thunderbolt seemed every stone, it brake His limbs and armors on whom so it light, That life and soul it did not only take But all his shape and face disfigured quite; The lances stayed not in the wounds they make, But through the gored body took their flight, From side to side, through flesh, through skin and rind They flew, and flying, left sad death behind. LXX But yet not all this force and fury drove The Pagan people to forsake the wall, But to revenge these deadly blows they strove, With darts that fly, with stones and trees that fall; For need so cowards oft courageous prove, For liberty they fight, for life and all, And oft with arrows, shafts, and stones that fly, Give bitter answer to a sharp reply. LXXI This while the fierce assailants never cease, But sternly still maintain a threefold charge, And gainst the clouds of shafts draw nigh at ease, Under a pentise made of many a targe, The armed towers close to the bulwarks press, And strive to grapple with the battled marge, And launch their bridges out, meanwhile below With iron fronts the rams the walls down throw. LXXII Yet still Rinaldo unresolved went, And far unworthy him this service thought, If mongst the common sort his pains he spent; Renown so got the prince esteemed naught: His angry looks on every side he bent, And where most harm, most danger was, he fought, And where the wall high, strong and surest was, That part would he assault, and that way pass. LXXIII And turning to the worthies him behind, All hardy knights, whom Dudon late did guide, "Oh shame," quoth he, "this wall no war doth find, When battered is elsewhere each part, each side; All pain is safety to a valiant mind, Each way is eath to him that dares abide, Come let us scale this wall, though strong and high, And with your shields keep off the darts that fly." LXXIV With him united all while thus he spake, Their targets hard above their heads they threw, Which joined in one an iron pentise make That from the dreadful storm preserved the crew. Defended thus their speedy course they take, And to the wall without resistance drew, For that strong penticle protected well The knights, from all that flew and all that fell. LXXV Against the fort Rinaldo gan uprear A ladder huge, an hundred steps of height, And in his arm the same did easily bear And move as winds do reeds or rushes light, Sometimes a tree, a rock, a dart or spear, Fell from above, yet forward clomb the knight, And upward fearless pierced, careless still, Though Mount Olympus fell, or Ossa hill: LXXVI A mount of ruins, and of shafts a wood Upon his shoulders and his shield he bore, One hand the ladder held whereon he stood, The other bare his targe his face before; His hardy troop, by his example good Provoked, with him the place assaulted sore, And ladders long against the wall they clap, Unlike in courage yet, unlike in hap: LXXVII One died, another fell; he forward went, And these he comforts, and he threateneth those, Now with his hand outstretched the battlement Well-nigh he reached, when all his armed foes Ran thither, and their force and fury bent To throw him headlong down, yet up he goes, A wondrous thing, one knight whole armed bands Alone, and hanging in the air, withstands: LXXVIII Withstands, and forceth his great strength so far, That like a palm whereon huge weight doth rest, His forces so resisted stronger are, His virtues higher rise the more oppressed, Till all that would his entrance bold debar, He backward drove, upleaped and possessed The wall, and safe and easy with his blade, To all that after came, the passage made. LXXIX There killing such as durst and did withstand, To noble Eustace that was like to fall He reached forth his friendly conquering hand, And next himself helped him to mount the wall. This while Godfredo and his people land Their lives to greater harms and dangers thrall, For there not man with man, nor knight with knight Contend, but engines there with engines fight. LXXX For in that place the Paynims reared a post, Which late had served some gallant ship for mast, And over it another beam they crossed, Pointed with iron sharp, to it made fast With ropes which as men would the dormant tossed, Now out, now in, now back, now forward cast. In his swift pulleys oft the men withdrew The tree, and oft the riding-balk forth threw: LXXXI The mighty beam redoubted oft his blows, And with such force the engine smote and hit, That her broad side the tower wide open throws, Her joints were broke, her rafters cleft and split; But yet gainst every hap whence mischief grows, Prepared the piece, gainst such extremes made fit, Launch forth two scythes, sharp, cutting, long and broad And cut the ropes whereon the engine rode: LXXXII As an old rock, which age or stormy wind Tears from some craggy hill or mountain steep, Doth break, doth bruise, and into dust doth grind Woods, houses, hamlets, herds, and folds of sheep, So fell the beam, and down with it all kind Of arms, of weapons, and of men did sweep, Wherewith the towers once or twice did shake, Trembled the walls, the hills and mountains quake. LXXXIII Victorious Godfrey boldly forward came, And had great hope even then the place to win; But lo, a fire, with stench, with smoke and flame Withstood his passage, stopped his entrance in: Such burning Aetna yet could never frame, When from her entrails hot her fires begin, Nor yet in summer on the Indian plain, Such vapors warm from scorching air down rain. LXXXIV There balls of wildfire, there fly burning spears, This flame was black, that blue, this red as blood; Stench well-nigh choked them, noise deafs their ears, Smoke blinds their eyes, fire kindleth on the wood; Nor those raw hides which for defence it wears Could save the tower, in such distress it stood; For now they wrinkle, now it sweats and fries, Now burns, unless some help come down from skies. LXXXV The hardy duke before his folk abides, Nor changed he color, countenance or place, But comforts those that from the scaldered hides With water strove the approaching flames to chase: In these extremes the prince and those he guides Half roasted stood before fierce Vulcan's face, When lo, a sudden and unlooked-for blast The flames against the kindlers backward cast: LXXXVI The winds drove back the fire, where heaped lie The Pagans' weapons, where their engines were, Which kindling quickly in that substance dry, Burnt all their store and all their warlike gear: O glorious captain! whom the Lord from high Defends, whom God preserves, and holds so dear; For thee heaven fights, to thee the winds, from far, Called with thy trumpet's blast, obedient are! LXXXVII But wicked Ismen to his harm that saw How the fierce blast drove back the fire and flame, By art would nature change, and thence withdraw Those noisome winds, else calm and still the same; 'Twixt two false wizards without fear or awe Upon the walls in open sight he came, Black, grisly, loathsome, grim and ugly faced, Like Pluto old, betwixt two furies placed; LXXXVIII And now the wretch those dreadful words begun, Which trouble make deep hell and all her flock, Now trembled is the air, the golden sun His fearful beams in clouds did close and lock, When from the tower, which Ismen could not shun, Out fled a mighty stone, late half a rock, Which light so just upon the wizards three, That driven to dust their bones and bodies be. LXXXIX To less than naught their members old were torn, And shivered were their heads to pieces small, As small as are the bruised grains of corn When from the mill dissolved to meal they fall; Their damned souls, to deepest hell down borne Far from the joy and light celestial, The furies plunged in the infernal lake: O mankind, at their ends ensample take! XC This while the engine which the tempest cold Had saved from burning with his friendly blast, Approached had so near the battered hold That on the walls her bridge at ease she cast: But Solyman ran thither fierce and bold, To cut the plank whereon the Christians passed. And had performed his will, save that upreared High in the skies a turret new appeared; XCI Far in the air up clomb the fortress tall, Higher than house, than steeple, church or tower; The Pagans trembled to behold the wall And city subject to her shot and power; Yet kept the Turk his stand, though on him fall Of stones and darts a sharp and deadly shower, And still to cut the bridge he hopes and strives, And those that fear with cheerful speech revives. XCII The angel Michael, to all the rest Unseen, appeared before Godfredo's eyes, In pure and heavenly armor richly dressed, Brighter than Titan's rays in clearest skies; "Godfrey," quoth he, "this is the moment blest To free this town that long in bondage lies, See, see what legions in thine aid I bring, For Heaven assists thee, and Heaven's glorious King: XCIII "Lift up thine eyes, and in the air behold The sacred armies, how they mustered be, That cloud of flesh in which for times of old All mankind wrapped is, I take from thee, And from thy senses their thick mist unfold, That face to face thou mayest these spirits see, And for a little space right well sustain Their glorious light and view those angels plain. XCIV "Behold the souls of every lord and knight That late bore arms and died for Christ's dear sake, How on thy side against this town they fight, And of thy joy and conquest will partake: There where the dust and smoke blind all men's sight, Where stones and ruins such an heap do make, There Hugo fights, in thickest cloud imbarred, And undermines that bulwark's groundwork hard. XCV "See Dudon yonder, who with sword and fire Assails and helps to scale the northern port, That with bold courage doth thy folk inspire And rears their ladders gainst the assaulted fort: He that high on the mount in grave attire Is clad, and crowned stands in kingly sort, Is Bishop Ademare, a blessed spirit, Blest for his faith, crowned for his death and merit. XCVI "But higher lift thy happy eyes, and view Where all the sacred hosts of Heaven appear." He looked, and saw where winged armies flew, Innumerable, pure, divine and clear; A battle round of squadrons three they show And all by threes those squadrons ranged were, Which spreading wide in rings still wider go, Moved with a stone calm water circleth so. XCVII With that he winked, and vanished was and gone; That wondrous vision when he looked again, His worthies fighting viewed he one by one, And on each side saw signs of conquest plain, For with Rinaldo gainst his yielding lone, His knights were entered and the Pagans slain, This seen, the duke no longer stay could brook, But from the bearer bold his ensign took: XCVIII And on the bridge he stepped, but there was stayed By Solyman, who entrance all denied, That narrow tree to virtue great was made, The field as in few blows right soon was tried, "Here will I give my life for Sion's aid, Here will I end my days," the Soldan cried, "Behind me cut or break this bridge, that I May kill a thousand Christians first, then die." XCIX But thither fierce Rinaldo threatening went, And at his sight fled all the Soldan's train, "What shall I do? If here my life be spent, I spend and spill," quoth he, "my blood in vain!" With that his steps from Godfrey back he bent, And to him let the passage free remain, Who threatening followed as the Soldan fled, And on the walls the purple Cross dispread: C About his head he tossed, he turned, he cast, That glorious ensign, with a thousand twines, Thereon the wind breathes with his sweetest blast, Thereon with golden rays glad Phoebus shines, Earth laughs for joy, the streams forbear their haste, Floods clap their hands, on mountains dance the pines, And Sion's towers and sacred temples smile For their deliverance from that bondage vile. CI And now the armies reared the happy cry Of victory, glad, joyful, loud, and shrill. The hills resound, the echo showereth high, And Tancred bold, that fights and combats still With proud Argantes, brought his tower so nigh, That on the wall, against the boaster's will, In his despite, his bridge he also laid, And won the place, and there the cross displayed. CII But on the southern hill, where Raymond fought Against the townsmen and their aged king, His hardy Gascoigns gained small or naught; Their engine to the walls they could not bring, For thither all his strength the prince had brought, For life and safety sternly combating, And for the wall was feeblest on that coast, There were his soldiers best, and engines most. CIII Besides, the tower upon that quarter found Unsure, uneasy, and uneven the way, Nor art could help, but that the rougher ground The rolling mass did often stop and stay; But now of victory the joyful sound The king and Raymond heard amid their fray; And by the shout they and their soldiers know, The town was entered on the plain below. CIV Which heard, Raymondo thus bespake this crew, "The town is won, my friends, and doth it yet Resist? are we kept out still by these few? Shall we no share in this high conquest get?" But from that part the king at last withdrew, He strove in vain their entrance there to let, And to a stronger place his folk he brought, Where to sustain the assault awhile he thought. CV The conquerors at once now entered all, The walls were won, the gates were opened wide, Now bruised, broken down, destroyed fall The ports and towers that battery durst abide; Rageth the sword, death murdereth great and small, And proud 'twixt woe and horror sad doth ride. Here runs the blood, in ponds there stands the gore, And drowns the knights in whom it lived before. NINETEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Tancred in single combat kills his foe, Argantes strong: the king and Soldan fly To David's tower, and save their persons so; Erminia well instructs Vafrine the spy, With him she rides away, and as they go Finds where her lord for dead on earth doth lie; First she laments, then cures him: Godfrey hears Ormondo's treason, and what marks he bears. I Now death or fear or care to save their lives From their forsaken walls the Pagans chase: Yet neither force nor fear nor wisdom drives The constant knight Argantes from his place; Alone against ten thousand foes he strives, Yet dreadless, doubtless, careless seemed his face, Nor death, nor danger, but disgrace he fears, And still unconquered, though o'erset, appears. II But mongst the rest upon his helmet gay With his broad sword Tancredi came and smote: The Pagan knew the prince by his array, By his strong blows, his armor and his coat; For once they fought, and when night stayed that fray, New time they chose to end their combat hot, But Tancred failed, wherefore the Pagan knight Cried, "Tancred, com'st thou thus, thus late to fight? III "Too late thou com'st, and not alone to war, But yet the fight I neither shun nor fear, Although from knighthood true thou errest far, Since like an engineer thou dost appear, That tower, that troop, thy shield and safety are, Strange kind of arms in single fight to bear; Yet shalt thou not escape, O conqueror strong Of ladies fair, sharp death, to avenge that wrong." IV Lord Tancred smiled, with disdain and scorn, And answerd thus, "To end our strife," quoth he, "Behold at last I come, and my return, Though late, perchance will be too soon for thee; For thou shalt wish, of hope and help forlorn, Some sea or mountain placed twixt thee and me, And well shalt know before we end this fray No fear of cowardice hath caused my stay. V "But come aside, thou by whose prowess dies The monsters, knights and giants in all lands, The killer of weak women thee defies." This said, he turned to his fighting bands, And bids them all retire. "Forbear," he cries, "To strike this knight, on him let none lay hands; For mine he is, more than a common foe, By challenge new and promise old also." VI "Descend," the fierce Circassian gan reply, "Alone, or all this troop for succor take To deserts waste, or place frequented high, For vantage none I will the fight forsake:" Thus given and taken was the bold defy, And through the press, agreed so, they brake, Their hatred made them one, and as they went, Each knight his foe did for despite defend: VII Great was his thirst of praise, great the desire That Tancred had the Pagan's blood to spill, Nor could that quench his wrath or calm his ire If other hand his foe should foil or kill. He saved him with his shield, and cried "Retire!" To all he met, "and do this knight none ill:" And thus defending gainst his friends his foe, Through thousand angry weapons safe they go. VII They left the city, and they left behind Godfredo's camp, and far beyond it passed, And came where into creeks and bosoms blind A winding hill his corners turned and cast, A valley small and shady dale they find Amid the mountains steep so laid and placed As if some theatre or closed place Had been for men to fight or beasts to chase. IX There stayed the champions both with rueful eyes, Argantes gan the fortress won to view; Tancred his foe withouten shield espies, And said, "Whereon doth thy sad heart devise? Think'st thou this hour must end thy life untrue? If this thou fear, and dost foresee thy fate, Thy fear is vain, thy foresight comes too late." X "I think," quoth he, "on this distressed town, The aged Queen of Judah's ancient land, Now lost, now sacked, spoiled and trodden down, Whose fall in vain I strived to withstand, A small revenge for Sion's fort o'erthrown, That head can be, cut off by my strong hand." This said, together with great heed they flew, For each his foe for bold and hardy knew. XI Tancred of body active was and light, Quick, nimble, ready both of hand and foot; But higher by the head, the Pagan knight Of limbs far greater was, of heart as stout: Tancred laid low and traversed in his fight, Now to his ward retired, now struck out, Oft with his sword his foe's fierce blows he broke, And rather chose to ward-than bear his stroke. XII But bold and bolt upright Argantes fought, Unlike in gesture, like in skill and art, His sword outstretched before him far he brought, Nor would his weapon touch, but pierce his heart, To catch his point Prince Tancred strove and sought, But at his breast or helm's unclosed part He threatened death, and would with stretched-out brand His entrance close, and fierce assaults withstand. XIII With a tall ship so doth a galley fight, When the still winds stir not the unstable main; Where this in nimbleness as that in might Excels; that stands, this goes and comes again, And shifts from prow to poop with turnings light; Meanwhile the other doth unmoved remain, And on her nimble foe approaching nigh, Her weighty engines tumbleth down from high. XIV The Christian sought to enter on his foe, Voiding his point, which at his breast was bent; Argantes at his face a thrust did throw, Which while the Prince awards and doth prevent, His ready hand the Pagan turned so, That all defence his quickness far o'erwent, And pierced his side, which done, he said and smiled, "The craftsman is in his own craft beguiled." XV Tancredi bit his lip for scorn and shame, Nor longer stood on points of fence and skill, But to revenge so fierce and fast he came As if his hand could not o'ertake his will, And at his visor aiming just, gan frame To his proud boast an answer sharp, but still Argantes broke the thrust; and at half-sword, Swift, hardy, bold, in stepped the Christian lord. XVI With his left foot fast forward gan he stride, And with his left the Pagan's right arm bent, With his right hand meanwhile the man's right side He cut, he wounded, mangled, tore and rent. "To his victorious teacher," Tancred cried, "His conquered scholar hath this answer sent;" Argantes chafed, struggled, turned and twined, Yet could not so his captive arm unbind: XVII His sword at last he let hang by the chain, And griped his hardy foe in both his hands, In his strong arms Tancred caught him again, And thus each other held and wrapped in bands. With greater might Alcides did not strain The giant Antheus on the Lybian sands, On holdfast knots their brawny arms they cast, And whom he hateth most, each held embraced: XVIII Such was their wrestling, such their shocks and throws That down at once they tumbled both to ground, Argantes,--were it hap or skill, who knows, His better hand loose and in freedom found; But the good Prince, his hand more fit for blows, With his huge weight the Pagan underbound; But he, his disadvantage great that knew, Let go his hold, and on his feet up flew: XIX Far slower rose the unwieldy Saracine, And caught a rap ere he was reared upright. But as against the blustering winds a pine Now bends his top, now lifts his head on height, His courage so, when it 'gan most decline, The man reinforced, and advanced his might, And with fierce change of blows renewed the fray, Where rage for skill, horror for art, bore sway. XX The purple drops from Tancred's sides down railed, But from the Pagan ran whole streams of blood, Wherewith his force grew weak, his courage quailed As fires die which fuel want or food. Tancred that saw his feeble arm now failed To strike his blows, that scant he stirred or stood, Assuaged his anger, and his wrath allayed, And stepping back, thus gently spoke and said: XXI "Yield, hardy knight, and chance of war or me Confess to have subdued thee in this fight, I will no trophy, triumph, spoil of thee, Nor glory wish, nor seek a victor's right More terrible than erst;" herewith grew he And all awaked his fury, rage and might, And said, "Dar'st thou of vantage speak or think, Or move Argantes once to yield or shrink? XXII "Use, use thy vantage, thee and fortune both I scorn, and punish will thy foolish pride:" As a hot brand flames most ere it forth go'th, And dying blazeth bright on every side; So he, when blood was lost, with anger wroth, Revived his courage when his puissance died, And would his latest hour which now drew nigh, Illustrate with his end, and nobly die. XXIII He joined his left hand to her sister strong, And with them both let fall his weighty blade. Tancred to ward his blow his sword up slung, But that it smote aside, nor there it stayed, But from his shoulder to his side along It glanced, and many wounds at once it made: Yet Tancred feared naught, for in his heart Found coward dread no place, fear had no part. XXIV His fearful blow he doubled, but he spent His force in waste, and all his strength in vain; For Tancred from the blow against him bent, Leaped aside, the stroke fell on the plain. With thine own weight o'erthrown to earth thou went, Argantes stout, nor could'st thyself sustain, Thyself thou threwest down, O happy man, Upon whose fall none boast or triumph can! XXV His gaping wounds the fall set open wide, The streams of blood about him made a lake, Helped with his left hand, on one knee he tried To rear himself, and new defence to make: The courteous prince stepped back, and "Yield thee!" cried, No hurt he proffered him, no blow he strake. Meanwhile by stealth the Pagan false him gave A sudden wound, threatening with speeches brave: XXVI Herewith Tancredi furious grew, and said, "Villain, dost thou my mercy so despise?" Therewith he thrust and thrust again his blade, And through his ventil pierced his dazzled eyes, Argantes died, yet no complaint he made, But as he furious lived he careless dies; Bold, proud, disdainful, fierce and void of fear His motions last, last looks, last speeches were. XXVII Tancred put up his sword, and praises glad Gave to his God that saved him in this fight; But yet this bloody conquest feebled had So much the conqueror's force, strength and might, That through the way he feared which homeward led He had not strength enough to walk upright; Yet as he could his steps from thence he bent, And foot by foot a heavy pace forth-went; XXVIII His legs could bear him but a little stound, And more he hastes, more tired, less was his speed, On his right hand, at last, laid on the ground He leaned, his hand weak like a shaking reed, Dazzled his eyes, the world on wheels ran round, Day wrapped her brightness up in sable weed; At length he swooned, and the victor knight Naught differed from his conquered foe in fight. XXIX But while these lords their private fight pursue, Made fierce and cruel through their secret hate, The victor's ire destroyed the faithless crew From street to street, and chased from gate to gate. But of the sacked town the image true Who can describe, or paint the woful state, Or with fit words this spectacle express Who can? or tell the city's great distress? XXX Blood, murder, death, each street, house, church defiled, There heaps of slain appear, there mountains high; There underneath the unburied hills up-piled Of bodies dead, the living buried lie; There the sad mother with her tender child Doth tear her tresses loose, complain and fly, And there the spoiler by her amber hair Draws to his lust the virgin chaste and fair. XXXI But through the way that to the west-hill yood Whereon the old and stately temple stands, All soiled with gore and wet with lukewarm blood Rinaldo ran, and chased the Pagan bands; Above their heads he heaved his curtlax good, Life in his grace, and death lay in his hands, Nor helm nor target strong his blows off bears, Best armed there seemed he no arms that wears; XXXII For gainst his armed foes he only bends His force, and scorns the naked folk to wound; Them whom no courage arms, no arms defends, He chased with his looks and dreadful sound: Oh, who can tell how far his force extends? How these he scorns, threats those, lays them on ground? How with unequal harm, with equal fear Fled all, all that well armed or naked were: XXXIII Fast fled the people weak, and with the same A squadron strong is to the temple gone Which, burned and builded oft, still keeps the name Of the first founder, wise King Solomon; That prince this stately house did whilom frame Of cedar trees, of gold and marble stone; Now not so rich, yet strong and sure it was, With turrets high, thick walls, and doors of brass. XXXIV The knight arrived where in warklike sort The men that ample church had fortified. And closed found each wicket, gate and port, And on the top defences ready spied, He left his frowning looks, and twice that fort From his high top down to the groundwork eyed, And entrance sought, and twice with his swift foot The mighty place he measured about. XXXV Like as a wolf about the closed fold Rangeth by night his hoped prey to get, Enraged with hunger and with malice old Which kind 'twixt him and harmless sheep hath set: So searched he high and low about that hold, Where he might enter without stop or let, In the great court he stayed, his foes above Attend the assault, and would their fortune prove. XXXVI There lay by chance a posted tree thereby, Kept for some needful use, whate'er it were, The armed galleys not so thick nor high Their tall and lofty masts at Genes uprear; This beam the knight against the gates made fly From his strong hands all weights which lift and bear, Like a light lance that tree he shook and tossed, And bruised the gate, the threshold and the post. XXXVII No marble stone, no metal strong outbore The wondrous might of that redoubled blow, The brazen hinges from the wall it tore, It broke the locks, and laid the doors down low, No iron ram, no engine could do more, Nor cannons great that thunderbolts forth throw, His people like a flowing stream inthrong, And after them entered the victor strong; XXXVIII The woful slaughter black and loathsome made That house, sometime the sacred house of God, O heavenly justice, if thou be delayed, On wretched sinners sharper falls thy rod! In them this place profaned which invade Thou kindled ire, and mercy all forbode, Until with their hearts' blood the Pagans vile This temple washed which they did late defile. XXXIX But Solyman this while himself fast sped Up to the fort which David's tower is named, And with him all the soldiers left he led, And gainst each entrance new defences framed: The tyrant Aladine eke thither fled, To whom the Soldan thus, far off, exclaimed, Thyself, within this fortress safe uplock: XL "For well this fortress shall thee and thy crown Defend, awhile here may we safe remain." "Alas!" quoth he, "alas, for this fair town, Which cruel war beats down even with the plain, My life is done, mine empire trodden down, I reigned, I lived, but now nor live nor reign; For now, alas! behold the fatal hour That ends our life, and ends our kingly power." XLI "Where is your virtue, where your wisdom grave, And courage stout?" the angry Soldan said, "Let chance our kingdoms take which erst she gave, Yet in our hearts our kingly worth is laid; But come, and in this fort your person save, Refresh your weary limbs and strength decayed:" Thus counselled he, and did to safety bring Within that fort the weak and aged king. XLII His iron mace in both his hands he hent, And on his thigh his trusty sword he tied, And to the entrance fierce and fearless went, And kept the strait, and all the French defied: The blows were mortal which he gave or lent, For whom he hit he slew, else by his side Laid low on earth, that all fled from the place Where they beheld that great and dreadful mace. XLIII But old Raymondo with his hardy crew By chance came thither, to his great mishap; To that defended path the old man flew, And scorned his blows and him that kept the gap, He struck his foe, his blow no blood forth drew, But on the front with that he caught a rap, Which in a swoon, low in the dust him laid, Wide open, trembling, with his arms displayed. XLIV The Pagans gathered heart at last, though fear Their courage weak had put to flight but late, So that the conquerors repulsed were, And beaten back, else slain before the Gate: The Soldan, mongst the dead beside him near That saw Lord Raymond lie in such estate, Cried to his men, "Within these bars," quoth he, "Come draw this knight, and let him captive be." XLV Forward they rushed to execute his word, But hard and dangerous that emprise they found, For none of Raymond's men forsook their lord, But to their guide's defence they flocked round, Thence fury fights, hence pity draws the sword, Nor strive they for vile cause or on light ground, The life and freedom of that champion brave, Those spoil, these would preserve, those kill, these save. XLVI But yet at last if they had longer fought The hardy Soldan would have won the field; For gainst his thundering mace availed naught Or helm of temper fine or sevenfold shield: But from each side great succor now was brought To his weak foes, now fit to faint and yield, And both at once to aid and help the same The sovereign Duke and young Rinaldo came. XLVII As when a shepherd, raging round about That sees a storm with wind, hail, thunder, rain, When gloomy clouds have day's bright eye put out, His tender flocks drives from the open plain To some thick grove or mountain's shady foot, Where Heaven's fierce wrath they may unhurt sustain, And with his hook, his whistle and his cries Drives forth his fleecy charge, and with them flies: XLVIII So fled the Soldan, when he gan descry This tempest come from angry war forthcast, The armor clashed and lightened gainst the sky, And from each side swords, weapons, fire outbrast: He sent his folk up to the fortress high, To shun the furious storm, himself stayed last, Yet to the danger he gave place at length, For wit, his courage; wisdom ruled his strength. XLIX But scant the knight was safe the gate within, Scant closed were the doors, when having broke The bars, Rinaldo doth assault begin Against the port, and on the wicket stroke His matchless might, his great desire to win, His oath and promise, doth his wrath provoke, For he had sworn, nor should his word be vain, To kill the man that had Prince Sweno slain. L And now his armed hand that castle great Would have assaulted, and had shortly won, Nor safe pardie the Soldan there a seat Had found his fatal foes' sharp wrath to shun, Had not Godfredo sounded the retreat; For now dark shades to shroud the earth begun, Within the town the duke would lodge that night, And with the morn renew the assault and fight. LI With cheerful look thus to his folk he said, "High God hath holpen well his children dear, This work is done, the rest this night delayed Doth little labor bring, less doubt, no fear, This tower, our foe's weak hope and latest aid, We conquer will, when sun shall next appear: Meanwhile with love and tender ruth go see And comfort those which hurt and wounded be; LII "Go cure their wounds which boldly ventured Their lives, and spilt their bloods to get this hold, That fitteth more this host for Christ forth led, Than thirst of vengeance, or desire of gold; Too much, ah, too much blood this day is shed! In some we too much haste to spoil behold, But I command no more you spoil and kill, And let a trumpet publish forth my will." LIII This said, he went where Raymond panting lay, Waked from the swoon wherein he late had been. Nor Solyman with countenance less gay Bespake his troops, and kept his grief unseen; "My friends, you are unconquered this day, In spite of fortune still our hope is green, For underneath great shows of harm and fear, Our dangers small, our losses little were: LIV "Burnt are your houses, and your people slain, Yet safe your town is, though your walls be gone, For in yourselves and in your sovereign Consists your city, not in lime and stone; Your king is safe, and safe is all his train In this strong fort defended from their fone, And on this empty conquest let them boast, Till with this town again, their lives be lost; LV "And on their heads the loss at last will light, For with good fortune proud and insolent, In spoil and murder spend they day and night, In riot, drinking, lust and ravishment, And may amid their preys with little fight At ease be overthrown, killed, slain and spent, If in this carelessness the Egyptian host Upon them fall, which now draws near this coast. LVI "Meanwhile the highest buildings of this town We may shake down with stones about their ears, And with our darts and spears from engines thrown, Command that hill Christ's sepulchre that bears:" Thus comforts he their hopes and hearts cast down, Awakes their valors, and exiles their fears. But while the things hapt thus, Vafrino goes Unknown, amid ten thousand armed foes. LVII The sun nigh set had brought to end the day, When Vafrine went the Pagan host to spy, He passed unknown a close and secret way; A traveller, false, cunning, crafty, sly, Past Ascalon he saw the morning gray Step o'er the threshold of the eastern sky, And ere bright Titan half his course had run, That camp, that mighty host to show begun. LVIII Tents infinite, and standards broad he spies, This red, that white, that blue, this purple was, And hears strange tongues, and stranger harmonies Of trumpets, clarions, and well-sounding brass: The elephant there brays, the camel cries. The horses neigh as to and fro they pass: Which seen and heard, he said within his thought, Hither all Asia is, all Afric, brought. LIX He viewed the camp awhile, her site and seat, What ditch, what trench it had, what rampire strong, Nor close, nor secret ways to work his feat He longer sought, nor hid him from the throng; But entered through the gates, broad, royal, great, And oft he asked, and answered oft among, In questions wise, in answers short and sly; Bold was his look, eyes quick, front lifted high: LX On every side he pried here and there, And marked each way, each passage and each tent: The knights he notes, their steeds, and arms they bear, Their names, their armor, and their government; And greater secrets hopes to learn, and hear, Their hidden purpose, and their close intent: So long he walked and wandered, till he spied The way to approach the great pavilions' side: LXI There as he looked he saw the canvas rent, Through which the voice found eath and open way From the close lodgings of the regal tent And inmost closet where the captain lay; So that if Emireno spake, forth went The sound to them that listen what they say, There Vafrine watched, and those that saw him thought To mend the breach that there he stood and wrought. LXII The captain great within bare-headed stood, His body armed and clad in purple weed, Two pages bore his shield and helmet good, He leaning on a bending lance gave heed To a big man whose looks were fierce and proud, With whom he parleyed of some haughty deed, Godfredo's name as Vafrine watched he heard, Which made him give more heed, take more regard: LXIII Thus spake the chieftain to that surly sir, "Art thou so sure that Godfrey shall be slain?" "I am," quoth he, "and swear ne'er to retire, Except he first be killed, to court again. I will prevent those that with me conspire: Nor other guerdon ask I for my pain But that I may hang up his harness brave At Gair, and under them these words engrave: LXIV "'These arms Ormondo took in noble fight From Godfrey proud, that spoiled all Asia's lands, And with them took his life, and here on high, In memory thereof, this trophy stands.'" The duke replied, "Ne'er shall that deed, bold knight, Pass unrewarded at our sovereign's hands, What thou demandest shall he gladly grant, Nor gold nor guerdon shalt thou wish or want. LXV "Those counterfeited armors then prepare, Because the day of fight approacheth fast." "They ready are," quoth he; then both forbare From further talk, these speeches were the last. Vafrine, these great things heard, with grief and care Remained astound, and in his thoughts oft cast What treason false this was, how feigned were Those arms, but yet that doubt he could not clear. LXVI From thence he parted, and broad waking lay All that long night, nor slumbered once nor slept: But when the camp by peep of springing day Their banner spread, and knights on horseback leapt, With them he marched forth in meet array, And where they pitched lodged, and with them kept, And then from tent to tent he stalked about, To hear and see, and learn this secret out; LXVII Searching about, on a rich throne he fand Armida set with dames and knights around, Sullen she sat, and sighed, it seemed she scanned Some weighty matters in her thoughts profounds, Her rosy cheek leaned on her lily hand, Her eyes, love's twinkling stars, she bent to ground, Weep she, or no, he knows not, yet appears Her humid eyes even great with child with tears. LXVIII He saw before her set Adrastus grim, That seemed scant to live, move, or respire, So was he fixed on his mistress trim, So gazed he, and fed his fond desire; But Tisiphern beheld now her now him, And quaked sometime for love, sometime for ire, And in his cheeks the color went and came, For there wrath's fire now burnt, now shone love's flame. LXIX Then from the garland fair of virgins bright, Mongst whom he lay enclosed, rose Altamore, His hot desire he hid and kept from sight, His looks were ruled by Cupid's crafty lore, His left eye viewed her hand, her face, his right Both watched her beauties hid and secret store, And entrance found where her thin veil bewrayed The milken-way between her breasts that laid. LXX Her eyes Armida lift from earth at last, And cleared again her front and visage sad, Midst clouds of woe her looks which overcast She lightened forth a smile, sweet, pleasant, glad; "My lord," quoth she, "your oath and promise passed, Hath freed my heart of all the griefs it had, That now in hope of sweet revenge it lives, Such joy, such ease, desired vengeance gives." LXXI "Cheer up thy looks," answered the Indian king, "And for sweet beauty's sake, appease thy woe, Cast at your feet ere you expect the thing, I will present the head of thy strong foe; Else shall this hand his person captive bring And cast in prison deep;" he boasted so. His rival heard him well, yet answered naught, But bit his lips, and grieved in secret thought. LXXII To Tisipherne the damsel turning right, "And what say you, my noble lord?" quoth she. He taunting said, "I that am slow to fight Will follow far behind, the worth to see Of this your terrible and puissant knight," In scornful words this bitter scoff gave he. "Good reason," quoth the king, "thou come behind, Nor e'er compare thee with the Prince of Ind." LXXIII Lord Tisiphernes shook his head, and said, "Oh, had my power free like my courage been, Or had I liberty to use this blade, Who slow, who weakest is, soon should be seen, Nor thou, nor thy great vaunts make me afraid, But cruel love I fear, and this fair queen." This said, to challenge him the king forth leapt, But up their mistress start, and twixt them stepped: LXXIV "Will you thus rob me of that gift," quoth she, "Which each hath vowed to give by word and oath? You are my champions, let that title be The bond of love and peace between you both; He that displeased is, is displeased with me, For which of you is grieved, and I not wroth?" Thus warned she them, their hearts, for ire nigh broke, In forced peace and rest thus bore love's yoke. LXXV All this heard Vafrine as he stood beside, And having learned the truth, he left the tent, That treason was against the Christian's guide Contrived, he wist, yet wist not how it went, By words and questions far off, he tried To find the truth; more difficult, more bent Was he to know it, and resolved to die, Or of that secret close the intent to spy. LXXVI Of sly intelligence he proved all ways, All crafts, all wiles, that in his thoughts abide, Yet all in vain the man by wit assays, To know that false compact and practice hid: But chance, what wisdom could not tell, bewrays, Fortune of all his doubt the knots undid, So that prepared for Godfrey's last mishap At ease he found the net, and spied the trap. LXXVII Thither he turned again where seated was, The angry lover, 'twixt her friends and lords, For in that troop much talk he thought would pass, Each great assembly store of news affords, He sided there a lusty lovely lass, And with some courtly terms the wench he boards, He feigns acquaintance, and as bold appears As he had known that virgin twenty years. LXXVIII He said, "Would some sweet lady grace me so, To chose me for her champion, friend and knight, Proud Godfrey's or Rinaldo's head, I trow, Should feel the sharpness of my curtlax bright; Ask me the head, fair mistress, of some foe, For to your beauty wooed is my might;" So he began, and meant in speeches wise Further to wade, but thus he broke the ice. LXXIX Therewith he smiled, and smiling gan to frame His looks so to their old and native grace, That towards him another virgin came, Heard him, beheld him, and with bashful face Said, "For thy mistress choose no other dame But me, on me thy love and service place, I take thee for my champion, and apart Would reason with thee, if my knight thou art." LXXX Withdrawn, she thus began, "Vafrine, pardie, I know thee well, and me thou knowest of old," To his last trump this drove the subtle spy, But smiling towards her he turned him bold, "Ne'er that I wot I saw thee erst with eye, Yet for thy worth all eyes should thee behold, Thus much I know right well, for from the same Which erst you gave me different is my name. LXXXI "My mother bore me near Bisertus wall, Her name was Lesbine, mine is Almansore!" "I knew long since," quoth she, "what men thee call, And thine estate, dissemble it no more, From me thy friend hide not thyself at all, If I betray thee let me die therefore, I am Erminia, daughter to a prince, But Tancred's slave, thy fellow-servant since; LXXXII "Two happy months within that prison kind, Under thy guard rejoiced I to dwell, And thee a keeper meek and good did find, The same, the same I am; behold me well." The squire her lovely beauty called to mind, And marked her visage fair: "From thee expel All fear," she says, "for me live safe and sure, I will thy safety, not thy harm procure. LXXXIII "But yet I pray thee, when thou dost return, To my dear prison lead me home again; For in this hateful freedom even and morn I sigh for sorrow, mourn and weep for pain: But if to spy perchance thou here sojourn, Great hap thou hast to know these secrets plain, For I their treasons false, false trains can say, Which few beside can tell, none will betray." LXXXIV On her he gazed, and silent stood this while, Armida's sleights he knew, and trains unjust, Women have tongues of craft, and hearts of guile, They will, they will not, fools that on them trust, For in their speech is death, hell in their smile; At last he said, "If hence depart you lust, I will you guide; on this conclude we here, And further speech till fitter time forbear." LXXXV Forthwith, ere thence the camp remove, to ride They were resolved, their flight that season fits, Vafrine departs, she to the dames beside Returns, and there on thorns awhile she sits, Of her new knight she talks, till time and tide To scape unmarked she find, then forth she gets, Thither where Vafrine her unseen abode, There took she horse, and from the camp they rode. LXXXVI And now in deserts waste and wild arrived, Far from the camp, far from resort and sight, Vafrine began, "Gainst Godfrey's life contrived The false compacts and trains unfold aright:" Then she those treasons, from their spring derived, Repeats, and brings their hid deceits to light, "Eight knights," she says, "all courtiers brave, there are, But Ormond strong the rest surpasseth far: LXXXVII "These, whether hate or hope of gain them move, Conspired have, and framed their treason so, That day when Emiren by fight shall prove To win lost Asia from his Christian foe, These, with the cross scored on their arms above, And armed like Frenchmen will disguised go, Like Godfrey's guard that gold and white do wear, Such shall their habit be, and such their gear: LXXXVIII "Yet each will bear a token in his crest, That so their friends for Pagans may them know: But in close fight when all the soldiers best Shall mingled be, to give the fatal blow They will keep near, and pierce Godfredo's breast, While of his faithful guard they bear false show, And all their swords are dipped in poison strong, Because each wound shall bring sad death ere long. LXXXIX "And for their chieftain wist I knew your guise, What garments, ensigns, and what arms you carry, Those feigned arms he forced me to devise, So that from yours but small or naught they vary; But these unjust commands my thoughts despise, Within their camp therefore I list not tarry, My heart abhors I should this hand defile With spot of treason, or with act of guile. XC "This is the cause, but not the cause alone:" And there she ceased, and blushed, and on the main Cast down her eyes, these last words scant outgone, She would have stopped, nor durst pronounce them plain. The squire what she concealed would know, as one That from her breast her secret thoughts could strain, "Of little faith," quoth he, "why would'st thou hide Those causes true, from me thy squire and guide?" XCI With that she fetched a sigh, sad, sore and deep, And from her lips her words slow trembling came, "Fruitless," she said, "untimely, hard to keep, Vain modesty farewell, and farewell shame, Why hope you restless love to bring on sleep? Why strive you fires to quench, sweet Cupid's flame? No, no, such cares, and such respects beseem Great ladies, wandering maids them naught esteem. XCII "That night fatal to me and Antioch town, Then made a prey to her commanding foe, My loss was greater than was seen or known, There ended not, but thence began my woe: Light was the loss of friends, of realm or crown; But with my state I lost myself also, Ne'er to be found again, for then I lost My wit, my sense, my heart, my soul almost. XCIII "Through fire and sword, through blood and death, Vafrine, Which all my friends did burn, did kill, did chase, Thou know'st I ran to thy dear lord and mine, When first he entered had my father's place, And kneeling with salt ears in my swollen eyne; 'Great prince,' quoth I, 'grant mercy, pity, grace, Save not my kingdom, not my life I said, But save mine honor, let me die a maid.' XCIV "He lift me by the trembling hand from ground, Nor stayed he till my humble speech was done; But said, 'A friend and keeper hast thou found, Fair virgin, nor to me in vain you run:' A sweetness strange from that sweet voice's sound Pierced my heart, my breast's weak fortress won, Which creeping through my bosom soft became A wound, a sickness, and a quenchless flame. XCV "He visits me, with speeches kind and grave He sought to ease my grief, and sorrows' smart. He said, 'I give thee liberty, receive All that is thine, and at thy will depart:' Alas, he robbed me when he thought he gave, Free was Erminia, but captived her heart, Mine was the body, his the soul and mind, He gave the cage but kept the bird behind. XCVI "But who can hide desire, or love suppress? Oft of his worth with thee in talk I strove, Thou, by my trembling fit that well could'st guess What fever held me, saidst, 'Thou art in love;' But I denied, for what can maids do less? And yet my sighs thy sayings true did prove, Instead of speech, my looks, my tears, mine eyes, Told in what flame, what fire thy mistress fries. XCVII "Unhappy silence, well I might have told My woes, and for my harms have sought relief, Since now my pains and plaints I utter bold, Where none that hears can help or ease my grief. From him I parted, and did close upfold My wounds within my bosom, death was chief Of all my hopes and helps, till love's sweet flame Plucked off the bridle of respect and shame, XCVIII "And caused me ride to seek my lord and knight, For he that made me sick could make me sound: But on an ambush I mischanced to light Of cruel men, in armour clothed round, Hardly I scaped their hand by mature flight. And fled to wilderness and desert ground, And there I lived in groves and forests wild, With gentle grooms and shepherds' daughters mild. XCIX "But when hot love which fear had late suppressed, Revived again, there nould I longer sit, But rode the way I came, nor e'er took rest, Till on like danger, like mishap I hit, A troop to forage and to spoil addressed, Encountered me, nor could I fly from it: Thus was I ta'en, and those that had me caught, Egyptians were, and me to Gaza brought, C "And for a present to their captain gave, Whom I entreated and besought so well, That he mine honor had great care to save, And since with fair Armida let me dwell. Thus taken oft, escaped oft I have, Ah, see what haps I passed, what dangers fell, So often captive, free so oft again, Still my first bands I keep, still my first chain. CI "And he that did this chain so surely bind About my heart, which none can loose but he, Let him not say, 'Go, wandering damsel, find Some other home, thou shalt not bide with me,' But let him welcome me with speeches kind, And in my wonted prison set me free:" Thus spake the princess, thus she and her guide Talked day and night, and on their journey ride. CII Through the highways Vafrino would not pass, A path more secret, safe and short, he knew, And now close by the city's wall he was, When sun was set, night in the east upflew, With drops of blood besmeared he found the grass, And saw where lay a warrior murdered new, That all be-bled the ground, his face to skies He turns, and seems to threat, though dead he lies: CIII His harness and his habit both betrayed He was a Pagan; forward went the squire, And saw whereas another champion laid Dead on the land, all soiled with blood and mire, "This was some Christian knight," Vafrino said: And marking well his arms and rich attire, He loosed his helm, and saw his visage plain, And cried, "Alas, here lies Tancredi slain!" CIV The woful virgin tarried, and gave heed To the fierce looks of that proud Saracine, Till that high cry, full of sad fear and dread, Pierced through her heart with sorrow, grief and pine, At Tancred's name thither she ran with speed, Like one half mad, or drunk with too much wine, And when she saw his face, pale, bloodless, dead, She lighted, nay, she stumbled from her steed: CV Her springs of tears she looseth forth, and cries, "Hither why bring'st thou me, ah, Fortune blind? Where dead, for whom I lived, my comfort lies, Where war for peace, travail for rest I find; Tancred, I have thee, see thee, yet thine eyes Looked not upon thy love and handmaid kind, Undo their doors, their lids fast closed sever, Alas, I find thee for to lose thee ever. CVI "I never thought that to mine eyes, my dear, Thou couldst have grievous or unpleasant been; But now would blind or rather dead I were, That thy sad plight might be unknown, unseen! Alas! where is thy mirth and smiling cheer? Where are thine eyes' clear beams and sparkles sheen? Of thy fair cheek where is the purple red, And forehead's whiteness? are all gone, all dead? CVII "Though gone, though dead, I love thee still, behold; Death wounds, but kills not love; yet if thou live, Sweet soul, still in his breast, my follies bold Ah, pardon love's desires, and stealths forgive; Grant me from his pale mouth some kisses cold, Since death doth love of just reward deprive; And of thy spoils sad death afford me this, Let me his mouth, pale, cold and bloodless, kiss; CVIII "O gentle mouth! with speeches kind and sweet Thou didst relieve my grief, my woe and pain, Ere my weak soul from this frail body fleet, Ah, comfort me with one dear kiss or twain! Perchance if we alive had happed to meet, They had been given which now are stolen, O vain, O feeble life, betwixt his lips out fly, Oh, let me kiss thee first, then let me die! CIX "Receive my yielding spirit, and with thine Guide it to heaven, where all true love hath place:" This said, she sighed, and tore her tresses fine, And from her eyes two streams poured on his face, The man revived, with those showers divine Awaked, and opened his lips a space; His lips were open; but fast shut his eyes, And with her sighs, one sigh from him upflies. CX The dame perceived that Tancred breathed and sighed, Which calmed her grief somedeal and eased her fears: "Unclose thine eyes," she says, "my lord and knight, See my last services, my plaints and tears, See her that dies to see thy woful plight, That of thy pain her part and portion bears; Once look on me, small is the gift I crave, The last which thou canst give, or I can have." CXI Tancred looked up, and closed his eyes again, Heavy and dim, and she renewed her woe. Quoth Vafrine, "Cure him first, and then complain, Medicine is life's chief friend; plaint her most foe:" They plucked his armor off, and she each vein, Each joint, and sinew felt, and handled so, And searched so well each thrust, each cut and wound, That hope of life her love and skill soon found. CXII From weariness and loss of blood she spied His greatest pains and anguish most proceed, Naught but her veil amid those deserts wide She had to bind his wounds, in so great need, But love could other bands, though strange, provide, And pity wept for joy to see that deed, For with her amber locks cut off, each wound She tied: O happy man, so cured so bound! CXIII For why her veil was short and thin, those deep And cruel hurts to fasten, roll and blind, Nor salve nor simple had she, yet to keep Her knight on live, strong charms of wondrous kind She said, and from him drove that deadly sleep, That now his eyes he lifted, turned and twined, And saw his squire, and saw that courteous dame In habit strange, and wondered whence she came. CXIV He said, "O Vafrine, tell me, whence com'st thou? And who this gentle surgeon is, disclose;" She smiled, she sighed, she looked she wist not how, She wept, rejoiced, she blushed as red as rose. "You shall know all," she says, "your surgeon now Commands you silence, rest and soft repose, You shall be sound, prepare my guerdon meet," His head then laid she in her bosom sweet. CXV Vafrine devised this while how he might bear His master home, ere night obscured the land, When lo, a troop of soldiers did appear, Whom he descried to be Tancredi's band, With him when he and Argant met they were; But when they went to combat hand for hand, He bade them stay behind, and they obeyed, But came to seek him now, so long he stayed. CXVI Besides them, many followed that enquest, But these alone found out the rightest way, Upon their friendly arms the men addressed A seat whereon he sat, he leaned, he lay: Quoth Tancred, "Shall the strong Circassian rest In this broad field, for wolves and crows a prey? Ah no, defraud not you that champion brave Of his just praise, of his due tomb and grave: CXVII "With his dead bones no longer war have I, Boldly he died and nobly was he slain, Then let us not that honor him deny Which after death alonely doth remain:" The Pagan dead they lifted up on high, And after Tancred bore him through the plain. Close by the virgin chaste did Vafrine ride, As he that was her squire, her guard, her guide. CXVIII "Not home," quoth Tancred, "to my wonted tent, But bear me to this royal town, I pray, That if cut short by human accident I die, there I may see my latest day, The place where Christ upon his cross was rent To heaven perchance may easier make the way, And ere I yield to Death's and Fortune's rage, Performed shall be my vow and pilgrimage." CXIX Thus to the city was Tancredi borne, And fell on sleep, laid on a bed of down. Vafrino where the damsel might sojourn A chamber got, close, secret, near his own; That done he came the mighty duke beforn, And entrance found, for till his news were known, Naught was concluded mongst those knights and lords, Their counsel hung on his report and words. CXX Where weak and weary wounded Raymond laid, Godfrey was set upon his couch's side, And round about the man a ring was made Of lords and knights that filled the chamber wide; There while the squire his late discovery said, To break his talk, none answered, none replied, "My lord," he said, "at your command I went And viewed their camp, each cabin, booth and tent; CXXI "But of that mighty host the number true Expect not that I can or should descry, All covered with their armies might you view The fields, the plains, the dales and mountains high, I saw what way soe'er they went and drew, They spoiled the land, drunk floods and fountains dry, For not whole Jordan could have given them drink, Nor all the grain in Syria, bread, I think. CXXII "But yet amongst them many bands are found Both horse and foot, of little force and might, That keep no order, know no trumpet's sound, That draw no sword, but far off shoot and fight, But yet the Persian army doth abound With many a footman strong and hardy knight, So doth the King's own troop which all is framed Of soldiers old, the Immortal Squadron named. CXXIII "Immortal called is that band of right, For of that number never wanteth one, But in his empty place some other knight Steps in, when any man is dead or gone: This army's leader Emireno hight, Like whom in wit and strength are few or none, Who hath in charge in plain and pitched field, To fight with you, to make you fly or yield. CXXIV "And well I know their army and their host Within a day or two will here arrive: But thee Rinaldo it behoveth most To keep thy noble head, for which they strive, For all the chief in arms or courage boast They will the same to Queen Armida give, And for the same she gives herself in price, Such hire will many hands to work entice. CXXV "The chief of these that have thy murder sworn, Is Altamore, the king of Samarcand! Adrastus then, whose realm lies near the morn, A hardy giant, bold, and strong of hand, This king upon an elephant is borne, For under him no horse can stir or stand; The third is Tisipherne, as brave a lord As ever put on helm or girt on sword." CXXVI This said, from young Rinaldo's angry eyes, Flew sparks of wrath, flames in his visage shined, He longed to be amid those enemies, Nor rest nor reason in his heart could find. But to the Duke Vafrine his talk applies, "The greatest news, my lord, are yet behind, For all their thoughts, their crafts and counsels tend By treason false to bring thy life to end." CXXVII Then all from point to point he gan expose The false compact, how it was made and wrought, The arms and ensigns feigned, poison close, Ormondo's vaunt, what praise, what thank he sought, And what reward, and satisfied all those That would demand, inquire, or ask of aught. Silence was made awhile, when Godfrey thus,-- "Raymondo, say, what counsel givest thou us?" CXXVIII "Not as we purposed late, next morn," quoth he, "Let us not scale, but round besiege this tower, That those within may have no issue free To sally out, and hurt us with their power, Our camp well rested and refreshed see, Provided well gainst this last storm and shower, And then in pitched field, fight, if you will; If not, delay and keep this fortress still. CXXIX "But lest you be endangered, hurt, or slain, Of all your cares take care yourself to save, By you this camp doth live, doth win, doth reign, Who else can rule or guide these squadrons brave? And for the traitors shall be noted plain, Command your guard to change the arms they have, So shall their guile be known, in their own net So shall they fall, caught in the snare they set." CXXX "As it hath ever," thus the Duke begun, "Thy counsel shows thy wisdom and thy love, And what you left in doubt shall thus be done, We will their force in pitched battle prove; Closed in this wall and trench, the fight to shun, Doth ill this camp beseem, and worse behove, But we their strength and manhood will assay, And try, in open field and open day. CXXXI "The fame of our great conquests to sustain, Or bide our looks and threats, they are not able, And when this army is subdued and slain Then is our empire settled, firm and stable, The tower shall yield, or but resist in vain, For fear her anchor is, despair her cable." Thus he concludes, and rolling down the west Fast set the stars, and called them all to rest. TWENTIETH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The Pagan host arrives, and cruel fight Makes with the Christians and their faithful power; The Soldan longs in field to prove his might, With the old king quits the besieged tower; Yet both are slain, and in eternal night A famous hand gives each his fatal hour; Rinald appeased Armida; first the field The Christians win, then praise to God they yield. I The sun called up the world from idle sleep, And of the day ten hours were gone and past When the bold troop that had the tower to keep Espied a sudden mist, that overcast The earth with mirksome clouds and darkness deep, And saw it was the Egyptian camp at last Which raised the dust, for hills and valleys broad That host did overspread and overload. II Therewith a merry shout and joyful cry The Pagans reared from their besieged hold; The cranes from Thrace with such a rumor fly, His hoary frost and snow when Hyems old Pours down, and fast to warmer regions hie, From the sharp winds, fierce storms and tempests cold; And quick, and ready this new hope and aid, Their hands to shoot, their tongues to threaten made. III From whence their ire, their wrath and hardy threat Proceeds, the French well knew, and plain espied, For from the walls and ports the army great They saw; her strength, her number, pomp, and pride, Swelled their breasts with valor's noble heat; Battle and fight they wished, "Arm, arm!" they cried; The youth to give the sign of fight all prayed Their Duke, and were displeased because delayed IV Till morning next, for he refused to fight; Their haste and heat he bridled, but not brake, Nor yet with sudden fray or skirmish light Of these new foes would he vain trial make. "After so many wars," he says, "good right It is, that one day's rest at least you take," For thus in his vain foes he cherish would The hope which in their strength they have and hold. V To see Aurora's gentle beam appear, The soldiers armed, prest and ready lay, The skies were never half so fair and clear As in the breaking of that blessed day, The merry morning smiled, and seemed to wear Upon her silver crown sun's golden ray, And without cloud heaven his redoubled light Bent down to see this field, this fray, this fight. VI When first he saw the daybreak show and shine, Godfrey his host in good array brought out, And to besiege the tyrant Aladine Raymond he left, and all the faithful rout That from the towns was come of Palestine To serve and succor their deliverer stout, And with them left a hardy troop beside Of Gascoigns strong, in arms well proved, oft tried. VII Such was Godfredo's countenance, such his cheer, That from his eye sure conquest flames and streams, Heaven's gracious favors in his looks appear, And great and goodly more than erst he seems; His face and forehead full of noblesse were, And on his cheek smiled youth's purple beams, And in his gait, his grace, his acts, his eyes, Somewhat, far more than mortal, lives and lies. VIII He had not marched far ere he espied Of his proud foes the mighty host draw nigh; A hill at first he took and fortified At his left hand which stood his army by, Broad in the front behind more strait uptied His army ready stood the fight to try, And to the middle ward well armed he brings His footmen strong, his horsemen served for wings. IX To the left wing, spread underneath the bent Of the steep hill that saved their flank and side, The Roberts twain, two leaders good, he sent; His brother had the middle ward to guide; To the right wing himself in person went Down, where the plain was dangerous, broad and wide, And where his foes with their great numbers would Perchance environ round his squadrons bold. X There all his Lorrainers and men of might, All his best armed he placed, and chosen bands, And with those horse some footmen armed light, That archers were, used to that service, stands; The adventurers then, in battle and in fight Well tried, a squadron famous through all lands, On the right hand he set, somedeal aside, Rinaldo was their leader, lord and guide. XI To whom the Duke, "In thee our hope is laid Of victory, thou must the conquest gain, Behind this mighty wing, so far displayed, Thou with thy noble squadron close remain; And when the Pagans would our backs invade, Assail them then, and make their onset vain; For if I guess aright, they have in mind To compass us, and charge our troops behind." XII Then through his host, that took so large a scope, He rode, and viewed them all, both horse and foot; His face was bare, his helm unclosed and ope, Lightened his eyes, his looks bright fire shot out; He cheers the fearful, comforts them that hope, And to the bold recounts his boasting stout, And to the valiant his adventures hard, These bids he look for praise, those for reward. XIII At last he stayed where of his squadrons bold And noblest troops assembled was best part; There from a rising bank his will he told, And all that heard his speech thereat took heart: And as the mountain snow from mountains cold Runs down in streams with eloquence and art, So from his lips his words and speeches fell, Shrill, speedy, pleasant, sweet, and placed well. XIV "My hardy host, you conquerors of the East, You scourge wherewith Christ whips his heathen fone, Of victory behold the latest feast, See the last day for which you wished alone; Not without cause the Saracens most and least Our gracious Lord hath gathered here in one, For all your foes and his assembled are, That one day's fight may end seven years of war. XV "This fight shall bring us many victories, The danger none, the labor will be small, Let not the number of your enemies Dismay your hearts, grant fear no place at all; For strife and discord through their army flies, Their bands ill ranked themselves entangle shall, And few of them to strike or fight shall come, For some want strength, some heart, some elbow-room. XVI "This host, with whom you must encounter now, Are men half naked, without strength or skill, From idleness, or following the plough, Late pressed forth to war against their will, Their swords are blunt, shields thin, soon pierced through, Their banners shake, their bearers shrink, for ill Their leaders heard, obeyed, or followed be, Their loss, their flight, their death I will foresee. XVII "Their captain clad in purple, armed in gold, That seems so fierce, so hardy, stout and strong, The Moors or weak Arabians vanquish could, Yet can he not resist your valors long. What can he do, though wise, though sage, though bold, In that confusion, trouble, thrust and throng? Ill known he is, and worse he knows his host, Strange lords ill feared are, ill obeyed of most. XVIII "But I am captain of this chosen crew, With whom I oft have conquered, triumphed oft, Your lands and lineages long since I knew, Each knight obeys my rule, mild, easy, soft, I know each sword, each dart, each shaft I view, Although the quarrel fly in skies aloft, Whether the same of Ireland be, or France, And from what bow it comes, what hand perchance. XIX "I ask an easy and a usual thing, As you have oft, this day, so win the field, Let zeal and honor be your virtue's sting, Your lives, my fame, Christ's faith defend and shield, To earth these Pagans slain and wounded bring, Tread on their necks, make them all die or yield,-- What need I more exhort you? from your eyes I see how victory, how conquest flies." XX Upon the captain, when his speech was done, It seemed a lamp and golden light down came, As from night's azure mantle oft doth run Or fall, a sliding star, or shining flame; But from the bosom of the burning sun Proceeded this, and garland-wise the same Godfredo's noble head encompassed round, And, as some thought, foreshowed he should be crowned. XXI Perchance, if man's proud thought or saucy tongue Have leave to judge or guess at heavenly things, This was the angel which had kept him long, That now came down, and hid him with his wings. While thus the Duke bespeaks his armies strong, And every troop and band in order brings. Lord Emiren his host disposed well, And with bold words whet on their courage fell; XXII The man brought forth his army great with speed, In order good, his foes at hand he spied, Like the new moon his host two horns did spreed, In midst the foot, the horse were on each side, The right wing kept he for himself to lead, Great Altamore received the left to guide, The middle ward led Muleasses proud, And in that battle fair Armida stood. XXIII On the right quarter stood the Indian grim, With Tisipherne and all the king's own band; But when the left wing spread her squadrons trim O'er the large plain, did Altamoro stand, With African and Persian kings with him, And two that came from Meroe's hot sand, And all his crossbows and his slings he placed, Where room best served to shoot, to throw, to cast. XXIV Thus Emiren his host put in array, And rode from band to band, from rank to rank, His truchmen now, and now himself, doth say, What spoil his folk shall gain, what praise, what thank. To him that feared, "Look up, ours is the day," He says, "Vile fear to bold hearts never sank, How dareth one against an hundred fight? Our cry, our shade, will put them all to flight." XXV But to the bold, "Go, hardy knight," he says, "His prey out of this lion's paws go tear:" To some before his thoughts the shape he lays, And makes therein the image true appear, How his sad country him entreats and prays, His house, his loving wife, and children dear: "Suppose," quoth he, "thy country doth beseech And pray thee thus, suppose this is her speech. XXVI "Defend my laws, uphold my temples brave, My blood from washing of my streets withhold, From ravishing my virgins keep, and save Thine ancestors' dead bones and ashes cold! To thee thy fathers dear and parents grave Show their uncovered heads, white, hoary, old, To thee thy wife--her breasts with tears o'erspread-- Thy sons, their cradles, shows, thy marriage bed." XXVII To all the rest, "You for her honor's sake Whom Asia makes her champions, by your might Upon these thieves, weak, feeble, few, must take A sharp revenge, yet just, deserved and right." Thus many words in several tongues he spake, And all his sundry nations to sharp fight Encouraged, but now the dukes had done Their speeches all, the hosts together run. XXVIII It was a great, a strange and wondrous sight, When front to front those noble armies met, How every troop, how in each troop each knight Stood prest to move, to fight, and praise to get, Loose in the wind waved their ensigns light, Trembled the plumes that on their crests were set; Their arms, impresses, colors, gold and stone, Against the sunbeams smiled, flamed, sparkled, shone. XXIX Of dry topped oaks they seemed two forests thick, So did each host with spears and pikes abound, Bent were their bows, in rests their lances stick, Their hands shook swords, their slings held cobbles round: Each steed to run was ready, prest and quick, At his commander's spur, his hand, his sound, He chafes, he stamps, careers, and turns about, He foams, snorts, neighs, and fire and smoke breathes out. XXX Horror itself in that fair fight seemed fair, And pleasure flew amid sad dread and fear; The trumpets shrill, that thundered in the air, Were music mild and sweet to every ear: The faithful camp, though less, yet seemed more rare In that strange noise, more warlike, shrill and clear, In notes more sweet, the Pagan trumpets jar, These sung, their armors shined, these glistered far. XXXI The Christian trumpets give the deadly call, The Pagans answer, and the fight accept; The godly Frenchmen on their knees down fall To pray, and kissed the earth, and then up leapt To fight, the land between was vanished all, In combat close each host to other stepped; For now the wings had skirmish hot begun, And with their battles forth the footmen run. XXXII But who was first of all the Christian train, That gave the onset first, first won renown? Gildippes thou wert she, for by thee slain The King of Orms, Hircano, tumbled down, The man's breastbone thou clov'st and rent in twain, So Heaven with honor would thee bless and crown, Pierced through he fell, and falling hard withal His foe praised for her strength and for his fall. XXXIII Her lance thus broke, the hardy dame forth drew With her strong hand a fine and trenchant blade, And gainst the Persians fierce and bold she flew, And in their troop wide streets and lanes she made, Even in the girdling-stead divided new In pieces twain, Zopire on earth she laid; And then Alarco's head she swept off clean, Which like a football tumbled on the green. XXXIV A blow felled Artaxerxes, with a thrust Was Argeus slain, the first lay in a trance, Ismael's left hand cut off fell in the dust, For on his wrist her sword fell down by chance: The hand let go the bridle where it lust, The blow upon the courser's ears did glance, Who felt the reins at large, and with the stroke Half mad, the ranks disordered, troubled, broke. XXXV All these, and many mo, by time forgot, She slew and wounded, when against her came The angry Persians all, cast on a knot, For on her person would they purchase fame: But her dear spouse and husband wanted not In so great need, to aid the noble dame; Thus joined, the haps of war unhurt they prove, Their strength was double, double was their love. XXXVI The noble lovers use well might you see, A wondrous guise, till then unseen, unheard, To save themselves forgot both he and she, Each other's life did keep, defend, and guard; The strokes that gainst her lord discharged be, The dame had care to bear, to break, to ward, His shield kept off the blows bent on his dear, Which, if need be, his naked head should bear. XXXVII So each saved other, each for other's wrong Would vengeance take, but not revenge their own: The valiant Soldan Artabano strong Of Boecan Isle, by her was overthrown, And by his hand, the bodies dead among, Alvante, that durst his mistress wound, fell down, And she between the eyes hit Arimont, Who hurt her lord, and cleft in twain his front. XXXVIII But Altamore who had that wing to lead Far greater slaughter on the Christians made; For where he turned his sword, or twined his steed, He slew, or man and beast on earth down laid, Happy was he that was at first struck dead, That fell not down on live, for whom his blade Had speared, the same cast in the dusty street His horse tore with his teeth, bruised with his feet. XXXIX By this brave Persian's valor, killed and slain Were strong Brunello and Ardonia great; The first his head and helm had cleft in twain, The last in stranger-wise he did intreat, For through his heart he pierced, and his seat, Where laughter hath his fountain and his seat, So that, a dreadful thing, believed uneath, He laughed for pain, and laughed himself to death. XL Nor these alone with that accursed knife, Of this sweet light and breath deprived lie; But with that cruel weapon lost their life Gentonio, Guascar, Rosimond, and Guy; Who knows how many in that fatal strife He slew? what knights his courser fierce made die? The names and countries of the people slain Who tells? their wounds and deaths who can explain? XLI With this fierce king encounter durst not one. Not one durst combat him in equal field, Gildippes undertook that task alone; No doubt could make her shrink, no danger yield, By Thermodont was never Amazone, Who managed steeled axe, or carried shield, That seemed so bold as she, so strong, so light, When forth she run to meet that dreadful knight. XLII She hit him, where with gold and rich anmail, His diadem did on his helmet flame, She broke and cleft the crown, and caused him veil His proud and lofty top, his crest down came, Strong seemed her arm that could so well assail: The Pagan shook for spite and blushed for shame, Forward he rushed, and would at once requite Shame with disgrace, and with revenge despite. XLIII Right on the front he gave that lady kind A blow so huge, so strong, so great, so sore, That out of sense and feeling, down she twined: But her dear knight his love from ground upbore, Were it their fortune, or his noble mind, He stayed his hand and strook the dame no more: A lion so stalks by, and with proud eyes Beholds, but scorns to hurt a man that lies. XLIV This while Ormondo false, whose cruel hand Was armed and prest to give the trait'rous blow, With all his fellows mongst Godfredo's band Entered unseen, disguised that few them know: The thievish wolves, when night o'ershades the land, That seem like faithful dogs in shape and show, So to the closed folds in secret creep, And entrance seek; to kill some harmless sheep. XLV He proached nigh, and to Godfredo's side The bloody Pagan now was placed near: But when his colors gold and white he spied, And saw the other signs that forged were, "See, see, this traitor false!" the captain cried, "That like a Frenchman would in show appear, Behold how near his mates and he are crept!" This said, upon the villain forth he leapt; LXVI Deadly he wounded him, and that false knight Nor strikes nor wards nor striveth to be gone; But, as Medusa's head were in his sight, Stood like a man new turned to marble stone, All lances broke, unsheathed all weapons bright, All quivers emptied were on them alone, In parts so many were the traitors cleft, That those dead men had no dead bodies left. LXVII When Godfrey was with Pagan blood bespread, He entered then the fight and that was past Where the bold Persian fought and combated, Where the close ranks he opened, cleft and brast; Before the knight the troops and squadrons fled, As Afric dust before the southern blast; The Duke recalled them, in array them placed, Stayed those that fled, and him assailed that chased. LXVIII The champions strong there fought a battle stout, Troy never saw the like by Xanthus old: A conflict sharp there was meanwhile on foot Twixt Baldwin good and Muleasses bold: The horsemen also near the mountains rout, And in both wings, a furious skirmish hold, And where the barbarous duke in person stood, Twixt Tisiphernes and Adrastus proud; XLIX With Emiren Robert the Norman strove, Long time they fought, yet neither lost nor won; The other Robert's helm the Indian clove, And broke his arms, their fight would soon be done: From place to place did Tisiphernes rove, And found no match, against him none dust run, But where the press was thickest thither flew The knight, and at each stroke felled, hurt, or slew. L Thus fought they long, yet neither shrink nor yield, In equal balance hung their hope and fear: All full of broken lances lay the field, All full of arms that cloven and shattered were; Of swords, some to the body nail the shield, Some cut men's throats, and some their bellies tear; Of bodies, some upright, some grovelling lay, And for themselves eat graves out of the clay. LI Beside his lord slain lay the noble steed, There friend with friend lay killed like lovers true, There foe with foe, the live under the dead, The victor under him whom late he slew: A hoarse unperfect sound did eachwhere spread, Whence neither silence, nor plain outcries flew: There fury roars, ire threats, and woe complains, One weeps, another cries, he sighs for pains. LII The arms that late so fair and glorious seem, Now soiled and slubbered, sad and sullen grow, The steel his brightness lost, the gold his beam; The colors had no pride nor beauty's show; The plumes and feathers on their crests that stream, Are strowed wide upon the earth below: The hosts both clad in blood, in dust and mire, Had changed their cheer, their pride, their rich attire. LIII But now the Moors, Arabians, Ethiops black, Of the left wing that held the utmost marge, Spread forth their troops, and purposed at the back And side their heedless foes to assail and charge: Slingers and archers were not slow nor slack To shoot and cast, when with his battle large Rinaldo came, whose fury, haste and ire, Seemed earthquake, thunder, tempest, storm and fire. LIV The first he met was Asimire, his throne That set in Meroe's hot sunburnt land, He cut his neck in twain, flesh, skin and bone, The sable head down tumbled on the sand; But when by death of this black prince alone The taste of blood and conquest once he fand, Whole squadrons then, whole troops to earth he brought, Things wondrous, strange, incredible he wrought. LV He gave more deaths than strokes, and yet his blows Upon his feeble foes fell oft and thick, To move three tongues as a fierce serpent shows, Which rolls the one she hath swift, speedy, quick, So thinks each Pagan; each Arabian trows He wields three swords, all in one hilt that stick; His readiness their eyes so blinded hath, Their dread that wonder bred, fear gave it faith. LVI The Afric tyrants and the negro kings Fell down on heaps, drowned each in other's blood, Upon their people ran the knights he brings, Pricked forward by their guide's example good, Killed were the Pagans, broke their bows and slings: Some died, some fell; some yielded, none withstood: A massacre was this, no fight; these put Their foes to death, those hold their throats to cut. LVII Small while they stood, with heart and hardy face, On their bold breasts deep wounds and hurts to bear, But fled away, and troubled in the chase Their ranks disordered be with too much fear: Rinaldo followed them from place to place, Till quite discomfit and dispersed they were. That done, he stays, and all his knights recalls, And scorns to strike his foe that flies or falls. LVIII Like as the wind stopped by some wood or hill, Grows strong and fierce, tears boughs and trees in twain, But with mild blasts, more temperate, gentle, still, Blows through the ample field or spacious plain; Against the rocks as sea-waves murmur shrill, But silent pass amid the open main: Rinaldo so, when none his force withstood, Assuaged his fury, calmed his angry mood; LIX He scorned upon their fearful backs that fled To wreak his ire and spend his force in vain, But gainst the footmen strong his troops he led, Whose side the Moors had open left and plain, The Africans that should have succored That battle, all were run away or slain, Upon their flank with force and courage stout His men at arms assailed the bands on foot: LX He brake their pikes, and brake their close array, Entered their battle, felled them down around, So wind or tempest with impetuous sway The ears of ripened corn strikes flat to ground: With blood, arms, bodies dead, the hardened clay Plastered the earth, no grass nor green was found; The horsemen running through and through their bands, Kill, murder, slay, few scape, not one withstands. LXI Rinaldo came where his forlorn Armide Sate on her golden chariot mounted high, A noble guard she had on every side Of lords, of lovers, and much chivalry: She knew the man when first his arms she spied, Love, hate, wrath, sweet desire strove in her eye, He changed somedeal his look and countenance bold, She changed from frost to fire, from heat to cold. LXII The prince passed by the chariot of his dear Like one that did his thoughts elsewhere bestow, Yet suffered not her knights and lovers near Their rival so to scape withouten blow, One drew his sword, another couched his spear, Herself an arrow sharp set in her bow, Disdain her ire new sharped and kindled hath, But love appeased her, love assuaged her wrath. LXIII Love bridled fury, and revived of new His fire, not dead, though buried in displeasure, Three times her angry hand the bow updrew, And thrice again let slack the string at leisure; But wrath prevailed at last, the reed outflew, For love finds mean, but hatred knows no measure, Outflew the shaft, but with the shaft, this charm, This wish she sent: Heaven grant it do no harm: LXIV She bids the reed return the way it went, And pierce her heart which so unkind could prove, Such force had love, though lost and vainly spent, What strength hath happy, kind and mutual love? But she that gentle thought did straight repent, Wrath, fury, kindness, in her bosom strove, She would, she would not, that it missed or hit, Her eyes, her heart, her wishes followed it. LXV But yet in vain the quarrel lighted not, For on his hauberk hard the knight it hit, Too hard for woman's shaft or woman's shot, Instead of piercing, there it broke and split; He turned away, she burnt with fury hot, And thought he scorned her power, and in that fit Shot oft and oft, her shafts no entrance found, And while she shot, love gave her wound on wound. LXVI "And is he then unpierceable," quoth she, "That neither force nor foe he needs regard? His limbs, perchance, armed with that hardness be, Which makes his heart so cruel and so hard, No shot that flies from eye or hand I see Hurts him, such rigor doth his person guard, Armed, or disarmed; his foe or mistress kind Despised alike, like hate, like scorn I find. LXVII "But what new form is left, device or art, By which, to which exchanged, I might find grace? For in my knights, and all that take my part, I see no help; no hope, no trust I place; To his great prowess, might, and valiant heart, All strength is weak, all courage vile and base." This said she, for she saw how through the field Her champions fly, faint, tremble, fall and yield. LXVIII Nor left alone can she her person save, But to be slain or taken stands in fear, Though with a bow a javelin long she have, Yet weak was Phebe's bow, blunt Pallas' spear. But, as the swan, that sees the eagle brave Threatening her flesh and silver plumes to tear, Falls down, to hide her mongst the shady brooks: Such were her fearful motions, such her looks. LXIX But Altamore, this while that strove and sought From shameful flight his Persian host to stay, That was discomfit and destroyed to nought, Whilst he alone maintained the fight and fray, Seeing distressed the goddess of his thought, To aid her ran, nay flew, and laid away All care both of his honor and his host: If she were safe, let all the world be lost. LXX To the ill-guarded chariot swift he flew, His weapon made him way with bloody war: Meanwhile Lord Godfrey and Rinaldo slew His feeble bands, his people murdered are, He saw their loss, but aided not his crew, A better lover than a leader far, He set Armida safe, then turned again With tardy succor, for his folk were slain. LXXI And on that side the woful prince beheld The battle lost, no help nor hope remained; But on the other wing the Christians yield, And fly, such vantage there the Egyptians gained, One of the Roberts was nigh slain in field; The other by the Indian strong constrained To yield himself his captive and his slave; Thus equal loss and equal foil they have. LXXII Godfredo took the time and season fit To bring again his squadrons in array, And either camp well ordered, ranged and knit, Renewed the furious battle, fight and fray, New streams of blood were shed, new swords them hit; New combats fought, new spoils were borne away, And unresolved and doubtful, on each side, Did praise and conquest, Mars and Fortune ride. LXXIII Between the armies twain while thus the fight Waxed sharp, hot, cruel, though renewed but late, The Soldan clomb up to the tower's height, And saw far off their strife and fell debate, As from some stage or theatre the knight Saw played the tragedy of human state, Saw death, blood, murder, woe and horror strange, And the great acts of fortune, chance, and change. LXXIV At first astonished and amazed he stood Then burnt with wrath, and self-consuming ire, Swelled his bosom like a raging flood, To be amid that battle; such desire, Such haste he had; he donned his helmet good, His other arms he had before entire, "Up, up!" he cried, "no more, no more, within This fortress stay, come follow, die or win." LXXV Whether the same were Providence divine That made him leave the fortress he possessed, For that the empire proud of Palestine This day should fall, to rise again more blessed; Or that he breaking felt the fatal line Of life, and would meet death with constant breast, Furious and fierce he did the gates unbar, And sudden rage brought forth, and sudden war. LXXVI Nor stayed he till the folk on whom he cried Assemble might, but out alone he flies, A thousand foes the man alone defied, And ran among a thousand enemies: But with his fury called from every side, The rest run out, and Aladine forth hies, The cowards had no fear, the wise no care, This was not hope, nor courage, but despair. LXXVII The dreadful Turk with sudden blows down cast The first he met, nor gave them time to plain Or pray, in murdering them he made such haste That dead they fell ere one could see them slain; From mouth to mouth, from eye to eye forth passed The fear and terror, that the faithful train Of Syrian folk, not used to dangerous fight, Were broken, scattered, and nigh put to flight. LXXVIII But with less terror, and disorder less, The Gascoigns kept array, and kept their ground, Though most the loss and peril them oppress, Unwares assailed they were, unready found. No ravening tooth or talon hard I guess Of beast or eager hawk, doth slay and wound So many sheep or fowls, weak, feeble, small, As his sharp sword killed knights and soldiers tall. LXXIX It seemed his thirst and hunger 'suage he would With their slain bodies, and their blood poured out, With him his troops and Aladino old Slew their besiegers, killed the Gascoign rout: But Raymond ran to meet the Soldan bold, Nor to encounter him had fear or doubt, Though his right hand by proof too well he know, Which laid him late for dead at one huge blow. LXXX They met, and Raymond fell amid the field, This blow again upon his forehead light, It was the fault and weakness of his eild, Age is not fit to bear strokes of such might, Each one lift up his sword, advanced his shield, Those would destroy, and these defend the knight. On went the Soldan, for the man he thought Was slain, or easily might be captive brought. LXXXI Among the rest he ran, he raged, he smote, And in small space, small time, great wonders wrought And as his rage him led and fury hot, To kill and murder, matter new he sought: As from his supper poor with hungry throat A peasant hastes, to a rich feast ybrought; So from this skirmish to the battle great He ran, and quenched with blood his fury's heat. LXXXII Where battered was the wall he sallied out, And to the field in haste and heat he goes, With him went rage and fury, fear and doubt Remained behind, among his scattered foes: To win the conquest strove his squadron stout, Which he unperfect left; yet loth to lose The day, the Christians fight, resist and die, And ready were to yield, retire and fly. LXXXIII The Gascoign bands retired, but kept array, The Syrian people ran away outright, The fight was near the place where Tancred lay, His house was full of noise and great affright, He rose and looked forth to see the fray, Though every limb were weak, faint, void of might; He saw the country lie, his men o'erthrown, Some beaten back, some killed, some felled down. LXXXIV Courage in noble hearts that ne'er is spent, Yet fainted not, though faint were every limb, But reinforced each member cleft and rent, And want of blood and strength supplied in him; In his left hand his heavy shield he hent, Nor seemed the weight too great, his curtlax trim His right hand drew, nor for more arms he stood Or stayed, he needs no more whose heart is good: LXXXV But coming forth, cried, "Whither will you run, And leave your leader to his foes in prey? What! shall these heathen of his armor won, In their vile temples hang up trophies gay? Go home to Gascoign then, and tell his son That where his father died, you ran away:" This said, against a thousand armed foes, He did his breast weak, naked, sick, oppose. LXXXVI And with his heavy, strong and mighty targe, That with seven hard bulls' hides was surely lined, And strengthened with a cover thick and large Of stiff and well-attempered steel behind, He shielded Raymond from the furious charge, From swords, from darts, from weapons of each kind, And all his foes drove back with his sharp blade, That sure and safe he lay, as in a shade. LXXXVII Thus saved, thus shielded, Raymond 'gan respire, He rose and reared himself in little space, And in his bosom burned the double fire Of vengeance; wrath his heart; shame filled his face; He looked around to spy, such was his ire, The man whose stroke had laid him in that place, Whom when he sees not, for disdain he quakes, And on his people sharp revengement takes. LXXXVIII The Gascoigns turn again, their lord in haste To venge their loss his hand recorded brings, The troop that durst so much now stood aghast, For where sad fear grew late, now boldness springs, Now followed they that fled, fled they that chased; So in one hour altereth the state of things, Raymond requites his loss, shame, hurt and all, And with an hundred deaths revenged one fall. LXXXIX Whilst Raymond wreaked thus his just disdain On the proud-heads of captains, lords and peers, He spies great Sion's king amid the train, And to him leaps, and high his sword he rears, And on his forehead strikes, and strikes again, Till helm and head he breaks, he cleaves, he tears; Down fell the king, the guiltless land he bit, That now keeps him, because he kept not it. XC Their guides, one murdered thus, the other gone, The troops divided were, in diverse thought, Despair made some run headlong gainst their fone, To seek sharp death that comes uncalled, unsought; And some, that laid their hope on flight alone, Fled to their fort again; yet chance so wrought, That with the flyers in the victors pass, And so the fortress won and conquered was. XCI The hold was won, slain were the men that fled, In courts, halls, chambers high; above, below, Old Raymond fast up to the leads him sped, And there, of victory true sign and show, His glorious standard to the wind he spread, That so both armies his success might know. But Solyman saw not the town was lost, For far from thence he was, and near the host; XCII Into the field he came, the lukewarm blood Did smoke and flow through all the purple field, There of sad death the court and palace stood, There did he triumphs lead, and trophies build; An armed steed fast by the Soldan yood, That had no guide, nor lord the reins to wield, The tyrant took the bridle, and bestrode The courser's empty back, and forth he rode. XCIII Great, yet but short and sudden was the aid That to the Pagans, faint and weak, he brought, A thunderbolt he was, you would have said, Great, yet that comes and goes as swift as thought And of his coming swift and flight unstayed Eternal signs in hardest rocks hath wrought, For by his hand a hundred knights were slain, But time forgot hath all their names but twain; XCIV Gildippes fair, and Edward thy dear lord, Your noble death, sad end, and woful fate, If so much power our vulgar tongue afford, To all strange wits, strange ears let me dilate, That ages all your love and sweet accord, Your virtue, prowess, worth may imitate, And some kind servant of true love that hears, May grace your death, my verses, with some tears. XCV The noble lady thither boldly flew, Where first the Soldan fought, and him defied, Two mighty blows she gave the Turk untrue, One cleft his shield, the other pierced his side; The prince the damsel by her habit knew, "See, see this mankind strumpet, see," he cried, "This shameless whore, for thee fit weapons were Thy neeld and spindle, not a sword and spear." XCVI This said, full of disdain, rage and despite, A strong, a fierce, a deadly stroke he gave, And pierced her armor, pierced her bosom white, Worthy no blows, but blows of love to have: Her dying hand let go the bridle quite, She faints, she falls, 'twixt life and death she strave, Her lord to help her came, but came too late, Yet was not that his fault, it was his fate. XCVII What should he do? to diverse parts him call Just ire and pity kind, one bids him go And succor his dear lady, like to fall, The other calls for vengeance on his foe; Love biddeth both, love says he must do all, And with his ire joins grief, with pity woe. What did he then? with his left hand the knight Would hold her up, revenge her with his right. XCVIII But to resist against a knight so bold Too weak his will and power divided were; So that he could not his fair love uphold, Nor kill the cruel man that slew his dear. His arm that did his mistress kind enfold, The Turk cut off, pale grew his looks and cheer, He let her fall, himself fell by her side, And, for he could not save her, with her died. XCIX As the high elm, whom his dear vine hath twined Fast in her hundred arms and holds embraced, Bears down to earth his spouse and darling kind If storm or cruel steel the tree down cast, And her full grapes to naught doth bruise and grind, Spoils his own leaves, faints, withers, dies at last, And seems to mourn and die, not for his own, But for her death, with him that lies o'erthrown: C So fell he mourning, mourning for the dame Whom life and death had made forever his; They would have spoke, but not one word could frame, Deep sobs their speech, sweet sighs their language is, Each gazed on other's eyes, and while the same Is lawful, join their hands, embrace and kiss: And thus sharp death their knot of life untied, Together fainted they, together died. CI But now swift fame her nimble wings dispread, And told eachwhere their chance, their fate, their fall, Rinaldo heard the case, by one that fled From the fierce Turk and brought him news of all. Disdain, good-will, woe, wrath the champion led To take revenge; shame, grief, for vengeance call; But as he went, Adrastus with his blade Forestalled the way, and show of combat made. CII The giant cried, "By sundry signs I note That whom I wish, I search, thou, thou art he, I marked each worthy's shield, his helm, his coat, And all this day have called and cried for thee, To my sweet saint I have thy head devote, Thou must my sacrifice, my offering be, Come let us here our strength and courage try, Thou art Armida's foe, her champion I." CIII Thus he defied him, on his front before, And on his throat he struck him, yet the blow His helmet neither bruised, cleft nor tore, But in his saddle made him bend and bow; Rinaldo hit him on the flank so sore, That neither art nor herb could help him now; Down fell the giant strong, one blow such power, Such puissance had; so falls a thundered tower. CIV With horror, fear, amazedness and dread, Cold were the hearts of all that saw the fray, And Solyman, that viewed that noble deed, Trembled, his paleness did his fear bewray; For in that stroke he did his end areed, He wist not what to think, to do, to say, A thing in him unused, rare and strange, But so doth heaven men's hearts turn, alter, change. CV As when the sick or frantic men oft dream In their unquiet sleep and slumber short, And think they run some speedy course, and seem To move their legs and feet in hasty sort, Yet feel their limbs far slower than the stream Of their vain thoughts that bears them in this sport, And oft would speak, would cry, would call or shout, Yet neither sound, nor voice, nor word send out: CVI So run to fight the angry Soldan would, And did enforce his strength, his might, his ire, Yet felt not in himself his courage old, His wonted force, his rage and hot desire, His eyes, that sparkled wrath and fury bold, Grew dim and feeble, fear had quenched that fire, And in his heart an hundred passions fought, Yet none on fear or base retire he thought. CVII While unresolved he stood, the victor knight Arrived, and seemed in quickness, haste and speed, In boldness, greatness, goodliness and might, Above all princes born of human seed: The Turk small while resists, not death nor fight Made him forget his state or race, through dreed, He fled no strokes, he fetched no groan nor sigh, Bold were his motions last, proud, stately, high. CVIII Now when the Soldan, in these battles past That Antheus-like oft fell oft rose again, Evermore fierce, more fell, fell down at last To lie forever, when this prince was slain, Fortune, that seld is stable, firm or fast, No longer durst resist the Christian train, But ranged herself in row with Godfrey's knights, With them she serves, she runs, she rides, she fights. CIX The Pagan troops, the king's own squadron fled, Of all the east, the strength, the pride, the flower, Late called Immortal, now discomfited, It lost that title proud, and lost all power; To him that with the royal standard fled, Thus Emireno said, with speeches sour, "Art not thou he to whom to bear I gave My king's great banner, and his standard brave? CX "This ensign, Rimedon, I gave not thee To be the witness of thy fear and flight, Coward, dost thou thy lord and captain see In battle strong, and runn'st thyself from fight? What seek'st thou? safety? come, return with me, The way to death is path to virtue right, Here let him fight that would escape; for this The way to honor, way to safety is." CXI The man returned and swelled with scorn and shame, The duke with speeches grave exhorts the rest; He threats, he strikes sometime, till back they came, And rage gainst force, despair gainst death addressed. Thus of his broken armies gan he frame A battle now, some hope dwelt in his breast, But Tisiphernes bold revived him most, Who fought and seemed to win, when all was lost; CXII Wonders that day wrought noble Tisipherne, The hardy Normans all he overthrew; The Flemings fled before the champion stern, Gernier, Rogero, Gerard bold he slew; His glorious deeds to praise and fame etern His life's short date prolonged, enlarged and drew, And then, as he that set sweet life at nought, The greatest peril, danger, most he sought. CXIII He spied Rinaldo, and although his field Of azure purple now and sanguine shows, And though the silver bird amid his shield Were armed gules; yet he the champion knows. And says, "Here greatest peril is, heavens yield Strength to my courage, fortune to my blows, That fair Armida her revenge may see, Help, Macon, for his arms I vow to thee." CXIV Thus prayed he, but all his vows were vain, Mahound was deaf, or slept in heavens above, And as a lion strikes him with his train, His native wrath to quicken and to move, So he awaked his fury and disdain, And sharped his courage on the whetstone love; Himself he saved behind his mighty targe, And forward spurred his steed and gave the charge. CXV The Christian saw the hardy warrior come, And leaped forth to undertake the fight, The people round about gave place and room, And wondered on that fierce and cruel sight, Some praised their strength, their skill and courage some, Such and so desperate blows struck either knight, That all that saw forgot both ire and strife, Their wounds, their hurts, forgot both death and life. CXVI One struck, the other did both strike and wound, His arms were surer, and his strength was more; From Tisipheme the blood streamed down around; His shield was deft, his helm was rent and tore. The dame, that saw his blood besmear the ground, His armor broke, limbs weak, wounds deep and sore, And all her guard dead, fled, and overthrown, Thought, now her field lay waste, her hedge lay down: CXVII Environed with so brave a troop but late, Now stood she in her chariot all alone, She feared bondage, and her life did hate, All hope of conquest and revenge was gone, Half mad and half amazed from where she sate, She leaped down, and fled from friends' and fone, On a swift horse she mounts, and forth she rides Alone, save for disdain and love, her guides. CXVIII In days of old, Queen Cleopatra so Alone fled from the fight and cruel fray, Against Augustus great his happy foe, Leaving her lord to loss and sure decay. And as that lord for love let honor go, Followed her flying sails and lost the day: So Tisipherne the fair and fearful dame Would follow, but his foe forbids the same. CXIX But when the Pagan's joy and comfort fled, It seemed the sun was set, the day was night, Gainst the brave prince with whom he combated He turned, and on the forehead struck the knight: When thunders forged are in Typhoius' bed, Not Brontes' hammer falls so swift, so right; The furious stroke fell on Rinaldo's crest, And made him bend his head down to his breast. CXX The champion in his stirrups high upstart, And cleft his hauberk hard and tender side, And sheathed his weapon in the Pagan's heart, The castle where man's life and soul do bide; The cruel sword his breast and hinder part With double wound unclosed, and opened wide; And two large doors made for his life and breath, Which passed, and cured hot love with frozen death. CXXI This done, Rinaldo stayed and looked around, Where he should harm his foes, or help his friends; Nor of the Pagans saw he squadron sound: Each standard falls, ensign to earth descends; His fury quiet then and calm he found, There all his wrath, his rage, and rancor ends, He called to mind how, far from help or aid, Armida fled, alone, amazed, afraid: CXXII Well saw he when she fled, and with that sight The prince had pity, courtesy and care; He promised her to be her friend and knight When erst he left her in the island bare: The way she fled he ran and rode aright, Her palfrey's feet signs in the grass outware: But she this while found out an ugly shade, Fit place for death, where naught could life persuade. CXXIII Well pleased was she with those shadows brown, And yet displeased with luck, with life, with love; There from her steed she lighted, there laid down Her bow and shafts, her arms that helpless prove. "There lie with shame," she says, "disgraced, o'erthrown, Blunt are the weapons, blunt the arms I move, Weak to revenge my harms, or harm my foe, My shafts are blunt, ah, love, would thine were so! CXXIV Alas, among so many, could not one, Not one draw blood, one wound or rend his skin? All other breasts to you are marble stone, Dare you then pierce a woman's bosom thin? See, see, my naked heart, on this alone Employ your force this fort is eath to win, And love will shoot you from his mighty bow, Weak is the shot that dripile falls in snow. CXXV "I pardon will your fear and weakness past, Be strong, mine arrows, cruel, sharp, gainst me, Ah, wretch, how is thy chance and fortune cast, If placed in these thy good and comfort be? But since all hope is vain all help is waste, Since hurts ease hurts, wounds must cure wounds in thee; Then with thine arrow's stroke cure stroke of love, Death for thy heart must salve and surgeon prove. CXXVI "And happy me if, being dead and slain, I bear not with me this strange plague to hell: Love, stay behind, come thou with me disdain, And with my wronged soul forever dwell; Or else with it turn to the world again And vex that knight with dreams and visions fell, And tell him, when twixt life and death I strove My last wish, was revenge--last word, was love." CXXVII And with that word half mad, half dead, she seems, An arrow, poignant, strong and sharp she took, When her dear knight found her in these extremes, Now fit to die, and pass the Stygian brook, Now prest to quench her own and beauty's beams; Now death sat on her eyes, death in her look, When to her back he stepped, and stayed her arm Stretched forth to do that service last, last harm. CXXVIII She turns and, ere she knows, her lord she spies, Whose coming was unwished, unthought, unknown, She shrieks, and twines away her sdainful eyes From his sweet face, she falls dead in a swoon, Falls as a flower half cut, that bending lies: He held her up, and lest she tumble down, Under her tender side his arm he placed, His hand her girdle loosed, her gown unlaced; CXXIX And her fair face, fair bosom he bedews With tears, tears of remorse, of ruth, of sorrow. As the pale rose her color lost renews With the fresh drops fallen from the silver morrow, So she revives, and cheeks empurpled shows Moist with their own tears and with tears they borrow; Thrice looked she up, her eyes thrice closed she; As who say, "Let me die, ere look on thee." CXXX And his strong arm, with weak and feeble hand She would have thrust away, loosed and untwined: Oft strove she, but in vain, to break that band, For he the hold he got not yet resigned, Herself fast bound in those dear knots she fand, Dear, though she feigned scorn, strove and repined: At last she speaks, she weeps, complains and cries; Yet durst not, did not, would not see his eyes. CXXXI "Cruel at thy departure, at return As cruel, say, what chance thee hither guideth, Would'st thou prevent her death whose heart forlorn For thee, for thee death's strokes each hour divideth? Com'st thou to save my life? alas, what scorn, What torment for Armida poor abideth? No, no, thy crafts and sleights I well descry, But she can little do that cannot die. CXXXII "Thy triumph is not great nor well arrayed Unless in chains thou lead a captive dame: A dame now ta'en by force, before betrayed, This is thy greatest glory, greatest fame: Time was that thee of love and life I prayed, Let death now end my love, my life, my shame. Yet let not thy false hand bereave this breath, For if it were thy gift, hateful were death. CXXXIII "Cruel, myself an hundred ways can find, To rid me from thy malice, from thy hate, If weapons sharp, if poisons of all kind, If fire, if strangling fail, in that estate, Yet ways enough I know to stop this wind: A thousand entries hath the house of fate. Ah, leave these flatteries, leave weak hope to move, Cease, cease, my hope is dead, dead is my love." CXXXIV Thus mourned she, and from her watery eyes Disdain and love dropped down, rolled up in tears; From his pure fountains ran two streams likewise, Wherein chaste pity and mild ruth appears: Thus with sweet words the queen he pacifies, "Madam, appease your grief, your wrath, your fears, For to be crowned, not scorned, your life I save; Your foe nay, but your friend, your knight, your slave. CXXXV "But if you trust no speech, no oath, no word; Yet in mine eyes, my zeal, my truth behold: For to that throne, whereof thy sire was lord, I will restore thee, crown thee with that gold, And if high Heaven would so much grace afford As from thy heart this cloud this veil unfold Of Paganism, in all the east no dame Should equalize thy fortune, state and fame." CXXXVI Thus plaineth he, thus prays, and his desire Endears with sighs that fly and tears that fall; That as against the warmth of Titan's fire, Snowdrifts consume on tops of mountains tall, So melts her wrath; but love remains entire. "Behold," she says, "your handmaid and your thrall: My life, my crown, my wealth use at your pleasure;" Thus death her life became, loss proved her tensure. CXXXVII This while the captain of the Egyptian host,-- That saw his royal standard laid on ground, Saw Rimedon, that ensign's prop and post, By Godfrey's noble hand killed with one wound, And all his folk discomfit, slain and lost, No coward was in this last battle found, But rode about and sought, nor sought in vain, Some famous hand of which he might be slain; CXXXVIII Against Lord Godfrey boldly out he flew, For nobler foe he wished not, could not spy, Of desperate courage showed he tokens true, Where'er he joined, or stayed, or passed by, And cried to the Duke as near he drew, "Behold of thy strong hand I come to die, Yet trust to overthrow thee with my fall, My castle's ruins shall break down thy wall." CXXXIX This said, forth spurred they both, both high advance Their swords aloft, both struck at once, both hit, His left arm wounded had the knight of France, His shield was pierced, his vantbrace cleft and split, The Pagan backward fell, half in a trance, On his left ear his foe so hugely smit, And as he sought to rise, Godfredo's sword Pierced him through, so died that army's lord. CXL Of his great host, when Emiren was dead, Fled the small remnant that alive remained; Godfrey espied as he turned his steed, Great Altamore on foot, with blood all stained, With half a sword, half helm upon his head, Gainst whom a hundred fought, yet not one gained. "Cease, cease this strife," he cried: "and thou, brave knight, Yield, I am Godfrey, yield thee to my might!" CXLI He that till then his proud and haughty heart To act of humbleness did never bend, When that great name he heard, from the north part Of our wide world renowned to Aethiop's end, Answered, "I yield to thee, thou worthy art, I am thy prisoner, fortune is thy friend: On Altamoro great thy conquest bold Of glory shall be rich, and rich of gold: CXLII "My loving queen, my wife and lady kind Shall ransom me with jewels, gold and treasure." "God shield," quoth Godfrey, "that my noble mind Should praise and virtue so by profit measure, All that thou hast from Persia and from Inde Enjoy it still, therein I take no pleasure; I set no rent on life, no price on blood, I fight, and sell not war for gold or good." CXLIII This said, he gave him to his knights to keep And after those that fled his course he bent; They to their rampiers fled and trenches deep, Yet could not so death's cruel stroke prevent: The camp was won, and all in blood doth steep The blood in rivers streamed from tent to tent, It soiled, defiled, defaced all the prey, Shields, helmets, armors, plumes and feathers gay. CXLIV Thus conquered Godfrey, and as yet the sun Dived not in silver waves his golden wain, But daylight served him to the fortress won With his victorious host to turn again, His bloody coat he put not off, but run To the high temple with his noble train, And there hung up his arms, and there he bows His knees, there prayed, and there performed his vows. 
8791	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Part 2 Cantos 5 - 10 CANTO V Now had I left those spirits, and pursued The steps of my Conductor, when beheld Pointing the finger at me one exclaim'd: "See how it seems as if the light not shone From the left hand of him beneath, and he, As living, seems to be led on." Mine eyes I at that sound reverting, saw them gaze Through wonder first at me, and then at me And the light broken underneath, by turns. "Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?" my guide Exclaim'd, "that thou hast slack'd thy pace? or how Imports it thee, what thing is whisper'd here? Come after me, and to their babblings leave The crowd. Be as a tower, that, firmly set, Shakes not its top for any blast that blows! He, in whose bosom thought on thought shoots out, Still of his aim is wide, in that the one Sicklies and wastes to nought the other's strength." What other could I answer save "I come?" I said it, somewhat with that colour ting'd Which ofttimes pardon meriteth for man. Meanwhile traverse along the hill there came, A little way before us, some who sang The "Miserere" in responsive Strains. When they perceiv'd that through my body I Gave way not for the rays to pass, their song Straight to a long and hoarse exclaim they chang'd; And two of them, in guise of messengers, Ran on to meet us, and inquiring ask'd: "Of your condition we would gladly learn." To them my guide. "Ye may return, and bear Tidings to them who sent you, that his frame Is real flesh. If, as I deem, to view His shade they paus'd, enough is answer'd them. Him let them honour, they may prize him well." Ne'er saw I fiery vapours with such speed Cut through the serene air at fall of night, Nor August's clouds athwart the setting sun, That upward these did not in shorter space Return; and, there arriving, with the rest Wheel back on us, as with loose rein a troop. "Many," exclaim'd the bard, "are these, who throng Around us: to petition thee they come. Go therefore on, and listen as thou go'st." "O spirit! who go'st on to blessedness With the same limbs, that clad thee at thy birth." Shouting they came, "a little rest thy step. Look if thou any one amongst our tribe Hast e'er beheld, that tidings of him there Thou mayst report. Ah, wherefore go'st thou on? Ah wherefore tarriest thou not? We all By violence died, and to our latest hour Were sinners, but then warn'd by light from heav'n, So that, repenting and forgiving, we Did issue out of life at peace with God, Who with desire to see him fills our heart." Then I: "The visages of all I scan Yet none of ye remember. But if aught, That I can do, may please you, gentle spirits! Speak; and I will perform it, by that peace, Which on the steps of guide so excellent Following from world to world intent I seek." In answer he began: "None here distrusts Thy kindness, though not promis'd with an oath; So as the will fail not for want of power. Whence I, who sole before the others speak, Entreat thee, if thou ever see that land, Which lies between Romagna and the realm Of Charles, that of thy courtesy thou pray Those who inhabit Fano, that for me Their adorations duly be put up, By which I may purge off my grievous sins. From thence I came. But the deep passages, Whence issued out the blood wherein I dwelt, Upon my bosom in Antenor's land Were made, where to be more secure I thought. The author of the deed was Este's prince, Who, more than right could warrant, with his wrath Pursued me. Had I towards Mira fled, When overta'en at Oriaco, still Might I have breath'd. But to the marsh I sped, And in the mire and rushes tangled there Fell, and beheld my life-blood float the plain." Then said another: "Ah! so may the wish, That takes thee o'er the mountain, be fulfill'd, As thou shalt graciously give aid to mine. Of Montefeltro I; Buonconte I: Giovanna nor none else have care for me, Sorrowing with these I therefore go." I thus: "From Campaldino's field what force or chance Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?" "Oh!" answer'd he, "at Casentino's foot A stream there courseth, nam'd Archiano, sprung In Apennine above the Hermit's seat. E'en where its name is cancel'd, there came I, Pierc'd in the heart, fleeing away on foot, And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech Fail'd me, and finishing with Mary's name I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain'd. I will report the truth; which thou again Tell to the living. Me God's angel took, Whilst he of hell exclaim'd: "O thou from heav'n! Say wherefore hast thou robb'd me? Thou of him Th' eternal portion bear'st with thee away For one poor tear that he deprives me of. But of the other, other rule I make." "Thou knowest how in the atmosphere collects That vapour dank, returning into water, Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it. That evil will, which in his intellect Still follows evil, came, and rais'd the wind And smoky mist, by virtue of the power Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon As day was spent, he cover'd o'er with cloud From Pratomagno to the mountain range, And stretch'd the sky above, so that the air Impregnate chang'd to water. Fell the rain, And to the fosses came all that the land Contain'd not; and, as mightiest streams are wont, To the great river with such headlong sweep Rush'd, that nought stay'd its course. My stiffen'd frame Laid at his mouth the fell Archiano found, And dash'd it into Arno, from my breast Loos'ning the cross, that of myself I made When overcome with pain. He hurl'd me on, Along the banks and bottom of his course; Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt." "Ah! when thou to the world shalt be return'd, And rested after thy long road," so spake Next the third spirit; "then remember me. I once was Pia. Sienna gave me life, Maremma took it from me. That he knows, Who me with jewell'd ring had first espous'd." CANTO VI When from their game of dice men separate, He, who hath lost, remains in sadness fix'd, Revolving in his mind, what luckless throws He cast: but meanwhile all the company Go with the other; one before him runs, And one behind his mantle twitches, one Fast by his side bids him remember him. He stops not; and each one, to whom his hand Is stretch'd, well knows he bids him stand aside; And thus he from the press defends himself. E'en such was I in that close-crowding throng; And turning so my face around to all, And promising, I 'scap'd from it with pains. Here of Arezzo him I saw, who fell By Ghino's cruel arm; and him beside, Who in his chase was swallow'd by the stream. Here Frederic Novello, with his hand Stretch'd forth, entreated; and of Pisa he, Who put the good Marzuco to such proof Of constancy. Count Orso I beheld; And from its frame a soul dismiss'd for spite And envy, as it said, but for no crime: I speak of Peter de la Brosse; and here, While she yet lives, that Lady of Brabant Let her beware; lest for so false a deed She herd with worse than these. When I was freed From all those spirits, who pray'd for others' prayers To hasten on their state of blessedness; Straight I began: "O thou, my luminary! It seems expressly in thy text denied, That heaven's supreme decree can never bend To supplication; yet with this design Do these entreat. Can then their hope be vain, Or is thy saying not to me reveal'd?" He thus to me: "Both what I write is plain, And these deceiv'd not in their hope, if well Thy mind consider, that the sacred height Of judgment doth not stoop, because love's flame In a short moment all fulfils, which he Who sojourns here, in right should satisfy. Besides, when I this point concluded thus, By praying no defect could be supplied; Because the pray'r had none access to God. Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not Contented unless she assure thee so, Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light. I know not if thou take me right; I mean Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above, Upon this mountain's crown, fair seat of joy." Then I: "Sir! let us mend our speed; for now I tire not as before; and lo! the hill Stretches its shadow far." He answer'd thus: "Our progress with this day shall be as much As we may now dispatch; but otherwise Than thou supposest is the truth. For there Thou canst not be, ere thou once more behold Him back returning, who behind the steep Is now so hidden, that as erst his beam Thou dost not break. But lo! a spirit there Stands solitary, and toward us looks: It will instruct us in the speediest way." We soon approach'd it. O thou Lombard spirit! How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood, Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes! It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass, Eyeing us as a lion on his watch. But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc'd, Requesting it to show the best ascent. It answer to his question none return'd, But of our country and our kind of life Demanded. When my courteous guide began, "Mantua," the solitary shadow quick Rose towards us from the place in which it stood, And cry'd, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman Sordello." Each the other then embrac'd. Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief, Vessel without a pilot in loud storm, Lady no longer of fair provinces, But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit, Ev'n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones In thee abide not without war; and one Malicious gnaws another, ay of those Whom the same wall and the same moat contains, Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide; Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark If any part of the sweet peace enjoy. What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress'd? Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame. Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live, And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit, If well thou marked'st that which God commands. Look how that beast to felness hath relaps'd From having lost correction of the spur, Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand, O German Albert! who abandon'st her, That is grown savage and unmanageable, When thou should'st clasp her flanks with forked heels. Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood! And be it strange and manifest to all! Such as may strike thy successor with dread! For that thy sire and thou have suffer'd thus, Through greediness of yonder realms detain'd, The garden of the empire to run waste. Come see the Capulets and Montagues, The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man Who car'st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these With dire suspicion rack'd. Come, cruel one! Come and behold the' oppression of the nobles, And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see. What safety Santafiore can supply. Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee, Desolate widow! day and night with moans: "My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?" Come and behold what love among thy people: And if no pity touches thee for us, Come and blush for thine own report. For me, If it be lawful, O Almighty Power, Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified! Are thy just eyes turn'd elsewhere? or is this A preparation in the wond'rous depth Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end, Entirely from our reach of thought cut off? So are the' Italian cities all o'erthrong'd With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made Of every petty factious villager. My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov'd At this digression, which affects not thee: Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. Many have justice in their heart, that long Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow, Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine Have it on their lip's edge. Many refuse To bear the common burdens: readier thine Answer uneall'd, and cry, "Behold I stoop!" Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now, Thou wealthy! thou at peace! thou wisdom-fraught! Facts best witness if I speak the truth. Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old Enacted laws, for civil arts renown'd, Made little progress in improving life Tow'rds thee, who usest such nice subtlety, That to the middle of November scarce Reaches the thread thou in October weav'st. How many times, within thy memory, Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices Have been by thee renew'd, and people chang'd! If thou remember'st well and can'st see clear, Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch, Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain. CANTO VII After their courteous greetings joyfully Sev'n times exchang'd, Sordello backward drew Exclaiming, "Who are ye?" "Before this mount By spirits worthy of ascent to God Was sought, my bones had by Octavius' care Been buried. I am Virgil, for no sin Depriv'd of heav'n, except for lack of faith." So answer'd him in few my gentle guide. As one, who aught before him suddenly Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries "It is yet is not," wav'ring in belief; Such he appear'd; then downward bent his eyes, And drawing near with reverential step, Caught him, where of mean estate might clasp His lord. "Glory of Latium!" he exclaim'd, "In whom our tongue its utmost power display'd! Boast of my honor'd birth-place! what desert Of mine, what favour rather undeserv'd, Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice Am worthy, say if from below thou com'st And from what cloister's pale?"--"Through every orb Of that sad region," he reply'd, "thus far Am I arriv'd, by heav'nly influence led And with such aid I come. There is a place There underneath, not made by torments sad, But by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs. "There I with little innocents abide, Who by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt From human taint. There I with those abide, Who the three holy virtues put not on, But understood the rest, and without blame Follow'd them all. But if thou know'st and canst, Direct us, how we soonest may arrive, Where Purgatory its true beginning takes." He answer'd thus: "We have no certain place Assign'd us: upwards I may go or round, Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide. But thou beholdest now how day declines: And upwards to proceed by night, our power Excels: therefore it may be well to choose A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right Some spirits sit apart retir'd. If thou Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps: And thou wilt know them, not without delight." "How chances this?" was answer'd; "who so wish'd To ascend by night, would he be thence debarr'd By other, or through his own weakness fail?" The good Sordello then, along the ground Trailing his finger, spoke: "Only this line Thou shalt not overpass, soon as the sun Hath disappear'd; not that aught else impedes Thy going upwards, save the shades of night. These with the wont of power perplex the will. With them thou haply mightst return beneath, Or to and fro around the mountain's side Wander, while day is in the horizon shut." My master straight, as wond'ring at his speech, Exclaim'd: "Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst, That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight." A little space we were remov'd from thence, When I perceiv'd the mountain hollow'd out. Ev'n as large valleys hollow'd out on earth, "That way," the' escorting spirit cried, "we go, Where in a bosom the high bank recedes: And thou await renewal of the day." Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked path Led us traverse into the ridge's side, Where more than half the sloping edge expires. Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin'd, And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers Plac'd in that fair recess, in color all Had been surpass'd, as great surpasses less. Nor nature only there lavish'd her hues, But of the sweetness of a thousand smells A rare and undistinguish'd fragrance made. "Salve Regina," on the grass and flowers Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit Who not beyond the valley could be seen. "Before the west'ring sun sink to his bed," Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn'd, "'Mid those desires not that I lead ye on. For from this eminence ye shall discern Better the acts and visages of all, Than in the nether vale among them mix'd. He, who sits high above the rest, and seems To have neglected that he should have done, And to the others' song moves not his lip, The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal'd The wounds whereof fair Italy hath died, So that by others she revives but slowly, He, who with kindly visage comforts him, Sway'd in that country, where the water springs, That Moldaw's river to the Elbe, and Elbe Rolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name: Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worth Than Winceslaus his son, a bearded man, Pamper'd with rank luxuriousness and ease. And that one with the nose depress, who close In counsel seems with him of gentle look, Flying expir'd, with'ring the lily's flower. Look there how he doth knock against his breast! The other ye behold, who for his cheek Makes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs. They are the father and the father-in-law Of Gallia's bane: his vicious life they know And foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus. "He, so robust of limb, who measure keeps In song, with him of feature prominent, With ev'ry virtue bore his girdle brac'd. And if that stripling who behinds him sits, King after him had liv'd, his virtue then From vessel to like vessel had been pour'd; Which may not of the other heirs be said. By James and Frederick his realms are held; Neither the better heritage obtains. Rarely into the branches of the tree Doth human worth mount up; and so ordains He who bestows it, that as his free gift It may be call'd. To Charles my words apply No less than to his brother in the song; Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess. So much that plant degenerates from its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza still boasts of her valorous spouse. "Behold the king of simple life and plain, Harry of England, sitting there alone: He through his branches better issue spreads. "That one, who on the ground beneath the rest Sits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft, Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose cause The deed of Alexandria and his war Makes Conferrat and Canavese weep." CANTO VIII Now was the hour that wakens fond desire In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart, Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, And pilgrim newly on his road with love Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far, That seems to mourn for the expiring day: When I, no longer taking heed to hear Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark One risen from its seat, which with its hand Audience implor'd. Both palms it join'd and rais'd, Fixing its steadfast gaze towards the east, As telling God, "I care for naught beside." "Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, That all my sense in ravishment was lost. And the rest after, softly and devout, Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze Directed to the bright supernal wheels. Here, reader! for the truth makes thine eyes keen: For of so subtle texture is this veil, That thou with ease mayst pass it through unmark'd. I saw that gentle band silently next Look up, as if in expectation held, Pale and in lowly guise; and from on high I saw forth issuing descend beneath Two angels with two flame-illumin'd swords, Broken and mutilated at their points. Green as the tender leaves but newly born, Their vesture was, the which by wings as green Beaten, they drew behind them, fann'd in air. A little over us one took his stand, The other lighted on the' Opposing hill, So that the troop were in the midst contain'd. Well I descried the whiteness on their heads; But in their visages the dazzled eye Was lost, as faculty that by too much Is overpower'd. "From Mary's bosom both Are come," exclaim'd Sordello, "as a guard Over the vale, ganst him, who hither tends, The serpent." Whence, not knowing by which path He came, I turn'd me round, and closely press'd, All frozen, to my leader's trusted side. Sordello paus'd not: "To the valley now (For it is time) let us descend; and hold Converse with those great shadows: haply much Their sight may please ye." Only three steps down Methinks I measur'd, ere I was beneath, And noted one who look'd as with desire To know me. Time was now that air arrow dim; Yet not so dim, that 'twixt his eyes and mine It clear'd not up what was conceal'd before. Mutually tow'rds each other we advanc'd. Nino, thou courteous judge! what joy I felt, When I perceiv'd thou wert not with the bad! No salutation kind on either part Was left unsaid. He then inquir'd: "How long Since thou arrived'st at the mountain's foot, Over the distant waves?"--"O!" answer'd I, "Through the sad seats of woe this morn I came, And still in my first life, thus journeying on, The other strive to gain." Soon as they heard My words, he and Sordello backward drew, As suddenly amaz'd. To Virgil one, The other to a spirit turn'd, who near Was seated, crying: "Conrad! up with speed: Come, see what of his grace high God hath will'd." Then turning round to me: "By that rare mark Of honour which thou ow'st to him, who hides So deeply his first cause, it hath no ford, When thou shalt be beyond the vast of waves. Tell my Giovanna, that for me she call There, where reply to innocence is made. Her mother, I believe, loves me no more; Since she has chang'd the white and wimpled folds, Which she is doom'd once more with grief to wish. By her it easily may be perceiv'd, How long in women lasts the flame of love, If sight and touch do not relume it oft. For her so fair a burial will not make The viper which calls Milan to the field, As had been made by shrill Gallura's bird." He spoke, and in his visage took the stamp Of that right seal, which with due temperature Glows in the bosom. My insatiate eyes Meanwhile to heav'n had travel'd, even there Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel Nearest the axle; when my guide inquir'd: "What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?" I answer'd: "The three torches, with which here The pole is all on fire." He then to me: "The four resplendent stars, thou saw'st this morn Are there beneath, and these ris'n in their stead." While yet he spoke. Sordello to himself Drew him, and cry'd: "Lo there our enemy!" And with his hand pointed that way to look. Along the side, where barrier none arose Around the little vale, a serpent lay, Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food. Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake Came on, reverting oft his lifted head; And, as a beast that smoothes its polish'd coat, Licking his hack. I saw not, nor can tell, How those celestial falcons from their seat Mov'd, but in motion each one well descried, Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes. The serpent fled; and to their stations back The angels up return'd with equal flight. The Spirit (who to Nino, when he call'd, Had come), from viewing me with fixed ken, Through all that conflict, loosen'd not his sight. "So may the lamp, which leads thee up on high, Find, in thy destin'd lot, of wax so much, As may suffice thee to the enamel's height." It thus began: "If any certain news Of Valdimagra and the neighbour part Thou know'st, tell me, who once was mighty there They call'd me Conrad Malaspina, not That old one, but from him I sprang. The love I bore my people is now here refin'd." "In your dominions," I answer'd, "ne'er was I. But through all Europe where do those men dwell, To whom their glory is not manifest? The fame, that honours your illustrious house, Proclaims the nobles and proclaims the land; So that he knows it who was never there. I swear to you, so may my upward route Prosper! your honour'd nation not impairs The value of her coffer and her sword. Nature and use give her such privilege, That while the world is twisted from his course By a bad head, she only walks aright, And has the evil way in scorn." He then: "Now pass thee on: sev'n times the tired sun Revisits not the couch, which with four feet The forked Aries covers, ere that kind Opinion shall be nail'd into thy brain With stronger nails than other's speech can drive, If the sure course of judgment be not stay'd." CANTO IX Now the fair consort of Tithonus old, Arisen from her mate's beloved arms, Look'd palely o'er the eastern cliff: her brow, Lucent with jewels, glitter'd, set in sign Of that chill animal, who with his train Smites fearful nations: and where then we were, Two steps of her ascent the night had past, And now the third was closing up its wing, When I, who had so much of Adam with me, Sank down upon the grass, o'ercome with sleep, There where all five were seated. In that hour, When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay, Rememb'ring haply ancient grief, renews, And with our minds more wand'rers from the flesh, And less by thought restrain'd are, as 't were, full Of holy divination in their dreams, Then in a vision did I seem to view A golden-feather'd eagle in the sky, With open wings, and hov'ring for descent, And I was in that place, methought, from whence Young Ganymede, from his associates 'reft, Was snatch'd aloft to the high consistory. "Perhaps," thought I within me, "here alone He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains To pounce upon the prey." Therewith, it seem'd, A little wheeling in his airy tour Terrible as the lightning rush'd he down, And snatch'd me upward even to the fire. There both, I thought, the eagle and myself Did burn; and so intense th' imagin'd flames, That needs my sleep was broken off. As erst Achilles shook himself, and round him roll'd His waken'd eyeballs wond'ring where he was, Whenas his mother had from Chiron fled To Scyros, with him sleeping in her arms; E'en thus I shook me, soon as from my face The slumber parted, turning deadly pale, Like one ice-struck with dread. Solo at my side My comfort stood: and the bright sun was now More than two hours aloft: and to the sea My looks were turn'd. "Fear not," my master cried, "Assur'd we are at happy point. Thy strength Shrink not, but rise dilated. Thou art come To Purgatory now. Lo! there the cliff That circling bounds it! Lo! the entrance there, Where it doth seem disparted! re the dawn Usher'd the daylight, when thy wearied soul Slept in thee, o'er the flowery vale beneath A lady came, and thus bespake me: "I Am Lucia. Suffer me to take this man, Who slumbers. Easier so his way shall speed." Sordello and the other gentle shapes Tarrying, she bare thee up: and, as day shone, This summit reach'd: and I pursued her steps. Here did she place thee. First her lovely eyes That open entrance show'd me; then at once She vanish'd with thy sleep. Like one, whose doubts Are chas'd by certainty, and terror turn'd To comfort on discovery of the truth, Such was the change in me: and as my guide Beheld me fearless, up along the cliff He mov'd, and I behind him, towards the height. Reader! thou markest how my theme doth rise, Nor wonder therefore, if more artfully I prop the structure! nearer now we drew, Arriv'd' whence in that part, where first a breach As of a wall appear'd, I could descry A portal, and three steps beneath, that led For inlet there, of different colour each, And one who watch'd, but spake not yet a word. As more and more mine eye did stretch its view, I mark'd him seated on the highest step, In visage such, as past my power to bear. Grasp'd in his hand a naked sword, glanc'd back The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain My sight directed. "Speak from whence ye stand:" He cried: "What would ye? Where is your escort? Take heed your coming upward harm ye not." "A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things," Replied the' instructor, "told us, even now, "Pass that way: here the gate is." --"And may she Befriending prosper your ascent," resum'd The courteous keeper of the gate: "Come then Before our steps." We straightway thither came. The lowest stair was marble white so smooth And polish'd, that therein my mirror'd form Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block, Crack'd lengthwise and across. The third, that lay Massy above, seem'd porphyry, that flam'd Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein. On this God's angel either foot sustain'd, Upon the threshold seated, which appear'd A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps My leader cheerily drew me. "Ask," said he, "With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt." Piously at his holy feet devolv'd I cast me, praying him for pity's sake That he would open to me: but first fell Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times The letter, that denotes the inward stain, He on my forehead with the blunted point Of his drawn sword inscrib'd. And "Look," he cried, "When enter'd, that thou wash these scars away." Ashes, or earth ta'en dry out of the ground, Were of one colour with the robe he wore. From underneath that vestment forth he drew Two keys of metal twain: the one was gold, Its fellow silver. With the pallid first, And next the burnish'd, he so ply'd the gate, As to content me well. "Whenever one Faileth of these, that in the keyhole straight It turn not, to this alley then expect Access in vain." Such were the words he spake. "One is more precious: but the other needs Skill and sagacity, large share of each, Ere its good task to disengage the knot Be worthily perform'd. From Peter these I hold, of him instructed, that I err Rather in opening than in keeping fast; So but the suppliant at my feet implore." Then of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door, Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear: He forth again departs who looks behind." As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels turn'd, sonorous metal strong, Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily Roar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss To leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd, List'ning the thunder, that first issued forth; And "We praise thee, O God," methought I heard In accents blended with sweet melody. The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear, Come swelling, now float indistinct away. CANTO X When we had passed the threshold of the gate (Which the soul's ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path), I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn'd, For that offence what plea might have avail'd? We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. "Here some little art Behooves us," said my leader, "that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path." Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb The moon once more o'erhangs her wat'ry couch, Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free We came and open, where the mount above One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil, And both, uncertain of the way, we stood, Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink Borders upon vacuity, to foot Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space Had measur'd thrice the stature of a man: And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight, To leftward now and now to right dispatch'd, That cornice equal in extent appear'd. Not yet our feet had on that summit mov'd, When I discover'd that the bank around, Whose proud uprising all ascent denied, Was marble white, and so exactly wrought With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone Had Polycletus, but e'en nature's self Been sham'd. The angel who came down to earth With tidings of the peace so many years Wept for in vain, that op'd the heavenly gates From their long interdict, before us seem'd, In a sweet act, so sculptur'd to the life, He look'd no silent image. One had sworn He had said, "Hail!" for she was imag'd there, By whom the key did open to God's love, And in her act as sensibly impress That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord," As figure seal'd on wax. "Fix not thy mind On one place only," said the guide belov'd, Who had me near him on that part where lies The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn'd And mark'd, behind the virgin mother's form, Upon that side, where he, that mov'd me, stood, Another story graven on the rock. I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near, That it might stand more aptly for my view. There in the self-same marble were engrav'd The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark, That from unbidden office awes mankind. Before it came much people; and the whole Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, "Nay," Another, "Yes, they sing." Like doubt arose Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl'd fume Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil. Preceding the blest vessel, onward came With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, Sweet Israel's harper: in that hap he seem'd Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite, At a great palace, from the lattice forth Look'd Michol, like a lady full of scorn And sorrow. To behold the tablet next, Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone, I mov'd me. There was storied on the rock The' exalted glory of the Roman prince, Whose mighty worth mov'd Gregory to earn His mighty conquest, Trajan th' Emperor. A widow at his bridle stood, attir'd In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd Full throng of knights, and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind. The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: "Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart My son is murder'd." He replying seem'd; "Wait now till I return." And she, as one Made hasty by her grief; "O sire, if thou Dost not return?"--"Where I am, who then is, May right thee."--"What to thee is other's good, If thou neglect thy own?"--"Now comfort thee," At length he answers. "It beseemeth well My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence: So justice wills; and pity bids me stay." He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc'd That visible speaking, new to us and strange The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz'd Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake, When "Lo," the poet whisper'd, "where this way (But slack their pace), a multitude advance. These to the lofty steps shall guide us on." Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights Their lov'd allurement, were not slow to turn. Reader! would not that amaz'd thou miss Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God Decrees our debts be cancel'd. Ponder not The form of suff'ring. Think on what succeeds, Think that at worst beyond the mighty doom It cannot pass. "Instructor," I began, "What I see hither tending, bears no trace Of human semblance, nor of aught beside That my foil'd sight can guess." He answering thus: "So courb'd to earth, beneath their heavy teems Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first Struggled as thine. But look intently thither, An disentangle with thy lab'ring view, What underneath those stones approacheth: now, E'en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each." Christians and proud! poor and wretched ones! That feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust Upon unstaid perverseness! now ye not That we are worms, yet made at last to form The winged insect, imp'd with angel plumes That to heaven's justice unobstructed soars? Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg'd souls? Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, Like the untimely embryon of a worm! As, to support incumbent floor or roof, For corbel is a figure sometimes seen, That crumples up its knees unto its breast, With the feign'd posture stirring ruth unfeign'd In the beholder's fancy; so I saw These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise. Each, as his back was laden, came indeed Or more or less contract; but it appear'd As he, who show'd most patience in his look, Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more." 
8792	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Part 3 Cantos 11 - 18 CANTO XI "O thou Almighty Father, who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd, But that with love intenser there thou view'st Thy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name: Join each created being to extol Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving thither tend in vain. As of their will the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count. 'Gainst the old adversary prove thou not Our virtue easily subdu'd; but free From his incitements and defeat his wiles. This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves, since that were needless now, But for their sakes who after us remain." Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring, Those spirits went beneath a weight like that We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset, But with unequal anguish, wearied all, Round the first circuit, purging as they go, The world's gross darkness off: In our behalf If there vows still be offer'd, what can here For them be vow'd and done by such, whose wills Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems That we should help them wash away the stains They carried hence, that so made pure and light, They may spring upward to the starry spheres. "Ah! so may mercy-temper'd justice rid Your burdens speedily, that ye have power To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand Toward the ladder leads the shortest way. And if there be more passages than one, Instruct us of that easiest to ascend; For this man who comes with me, and bears yet The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him, Despite his better will but slowly mounts." From whom the answer came unto these words, Which my guide spake, appear'd not; but 'twas said: "Along the bank to rightward come with us, And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil Of living man to climb: and were it not That I am hinder'd by the rock, wherewith This arrogant neck is tam'd, whence needs I stoop My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives, Whose name thou speak'st not him I fain would view. To mark if e'er I knew himnd to crave His pity for the fardel that I bear. I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn A mighty one: Aldobranlesco's name My sire's, I know not if ye e'er have heard. My old blood and forefathers' gallant deeds Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot The common mother, and to such excess, Wax'd in my scorn of all men, that I fell, Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna's sons, Each child in Campagnatico, can tell. I am Omberto; not me only pride Hath injur'd, but my kindred all involv'd In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains Under this weight to groan, till I appease God's angry justice, since I did it not Amongst the living, here amongst the dead." List'ning I bent my visage down: and one (Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight That urg'd him, saw me, knew me straight, and call'd, Holding his eyes With difficulty fix'd Intent upon me, stooping as I went Companion of their way. "O!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer's skill?" "Brother!" said he, "with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves. His all the honour now; mine borrow'd light. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv'd, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid. Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn'd me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp'd E'en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! imbue thought To lord it over painting's field; and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclips'd. Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch'd The letter'd prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel'd from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar'd, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven's slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam'd: There was he sov'reign, when destruction caught The madd'ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth." I thus to him: "True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay What tumours rankle there. But who is he Of whom thou spak'st but now?"--"This," he replied, "Is Provenzano. He is here, because He reach'd, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone, Thus goeth never-resting, since he died. Such is th' acquittance render'd back of him, Who, beyond measure, dar'd on earth." I then: "If soul that to the verge of life delays Repentance, linger in that lower space, Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend, How chanc'd admittance was vouchsaf'd to him?" "When at his glory's topmost height," said he, "Respect of dignity all cast aside, Freely He fix'd him on Sienna's plain, A suitor to redeem his suff'ring friend, Who languish'd in the prison-house of Charles, Nor for his sake refus'd through every vein To tremble. More I will not say; and dark, I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon Shall help thee to a comment on the text. This is the work, that from these limits freed him." CANTO XII With equal pace as oxen in the yoke, I with that laden spirit journey'd on Long as the mild instructor suffer'd me; But when he bade me quit him, and proceed (For "here," said he, "behooves with sail and oars Each man, as best he may, push on his bark"), Upright, as one dispos'd for speed, I rais'd My body, still in thought submissive bow'd. I now my leader's track not loth pursued; And each had shown how light we far'd along When thus he warn'd me: "Bend thine eyesight down: For thou to ease the way shall find it good To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet." As in memorial of the buried, drawn Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur'd form Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak'd, Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel), So saw I there, but with more curious skill Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space From forth the mountain stretches. On one part Him I beheld, above all creatures erst Created noblest, light'ning fall from heaven: On th' other side with bolt celestial pierc'd Briareus: cumb'ring earth he lay through dint Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire, Arm'd still, and gazing on the giant's limbs Strewn o'er th' ethereal field. Nimrod I saw: At foot of the stupendous work he stood, As if bewilder'd, looking on the crowd Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain. O Niobe! in what a trance of woe Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, Sev'n sons on either side thee slain! Saul! How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour Ne'er visited with rain from heav'n or dew! O fond Arachne! thee I also saw Half spider now in anguish crawling up Th' unfinish'd web thou weaved'st to thy bane! O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote With none to chase him in his chariot whirl'd. Was shown beside upon the solid floor How dear Alcmaeon forc'd his mother rate That ornament in evil hour receiv'd: How in the temple on Sennacherib fell His sons, and how a corpse they left him there. Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried: "Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!" Was shown how routed in the battle fled Th' Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark'd In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall'n, How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there! What master of the pencil or the style Had trac'd the shades and lines, that might have made The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead, The living seem'd alive; with clearer view His eye beheld not who beheld the truth, Than mine what I did tread on, while I went Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks, Lest they descry the evil of your path! I noted not (so busied was my thought) How much we now had circled of the mount, And of his course yet more the sun had spent, When he, who with still wakeful caution went, Admonish'd: "Raise thou up thy head: for know Time is not now for slow suspense. Behold That way an angel hasting towards us! Lo! Where duly the sixth handmaid doth return From service on the day. Wear thou in look And gesture seemly grace of reverent awe, That gladly he may forward us aloft. Consider that this day ne'er dawns again." Time's loss he had so often warn'd me 'gainst, I could not miss the scope at which he aim'd. The goodly shape approach'd us, snowy white In vesture, and with visage casting streams Of tremulous lustre like the matin star. His arms he open'd, then his wings; and spake: "Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now Th' ascent is without difficulty gain'd." A scanty few are they, who when they hear Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind So slight to baffle ye? He led us on Where the rock parted; here against my front Did beat his wings, then promis'd I should fare In safety on my way. As to ascend That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands (O'er Rubaconte, looking lordly down On the well-guided city,) up the right Th' impetuous rise is broken by the steps Carv'd in that old and simple age, when still The registry and label rested safe; Thus is th' acclivity reliev'd, which here Precipitous from the other circuit falls: But on each hand the tall cliff presses close. As ent'ring there we turn'd, voices, in strain Ineffable, sang: "Blessed are the poor In spirit." Ah how far unlike to these The straits of hell; here songs to usher us, There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs: And lighter to myself by far I seem'd Than on the plain before, whence thus I spake: "Say, master, of what heavy thing have I Been lighten'd, that scarce aught the sense of toil Affects me journeying?" He in few replied: "When sin's broad characters, that yet remain Upon thy temples, though well nigh effac'd, Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out, Then shall thy feet by heartiness of will Be so o'ercome, they not alone shall feel No sense of labour, but delight much more Shall wait them urg'd along their upward way." Then like to one, upon whose head is plac'd Somewhat he deems not of but from the becks Of others as they pass him by; his hand Lends therefore help to' assure him, searches, finds, And well performs such office as the eye Wants power to execute: so stretching forth The fingers of my right hand, did I find Six only of the letters, which his sword Who bare the keys had trac'd upon my brow. The leader, as he mark'd mine action, smil'd. CANTO XIII We reach'd the summit of the scale, and stood Upon the second buttress of that mount Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there, Like to the former, girdles round the hill; Save that its arch with sweep less ample bends. Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth The rampart and the path, reflecting nought But the rock's sullen hue. "If here we wait For some to question," said the bard, "I fear Our choice may haply meet too long delay." Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes He fastn'd, made his right the central point From whence to move, and turn'd the left aside. "O pleasant light, my confidence and hope, Conduct us thou," he cried, "on this new way, Where now I venture, leading to the bourn We seek. The universal world to thee Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide." Far, as is measur'd for a mile on earth, In brief space had we journey'd; such prompt will Impell'd; and towards us flying, now were heard Spirits invisible, who courteously Unto love's table bade the welcome guest. The voice, that firstlew by, call'd forth aloud, "They have no wine;" so on behind us past, Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost In the faint distance, when another came Crying, "I am Orestes," and alike Wing'd its fleet way. "Oh father!" I exclaim'd, "What tongues are these?" and as I question'd, lo! A third exclaiming, "Love ye those have wrong'd you." "This circuit," said my teacher, "knots the scourge For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn By charity's correcting hand. The curb Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear (If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass, Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes Intently through the air, and thou shalt see A multitude before thee seated, each Along the shelving grot." Then more than erst I op'd my eyes, before me view'd, and saw Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; And when we pass'd a little forth, I heard A crying, "Blessed Mary! pray for us, Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!" I do not think there walks on earth this day Man so remorseless, that he hath not yearn'd With pity at the sight that next I saw. Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now I stood so near them, that their semblances Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile Their cov'ring seem'd; and on his shoulder one Did stay another, leaning, and all lean'd Against the cliff. E'en thus the blind and poor, Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, Stand, each his head upon his fellow's sunk, So most to stir compassion, not by sound Of words alone, but that, which moves not less, The sight of mis'ry. And as never beam Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, E'en so was heav'n a niggard unto these Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all, A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, As for the taming of a haggard hawk. It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look On others, yet myself the while unseen. To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, Nor waited for my questioning, but said: "Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words." On that part of the cornice, whence no rim Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; On the' other side me were the spirits, their cheeks Bathing devout with penitential tears, That through the dread impalement forc'd a way. I turn'd me to them, and "O shades!" said I, "Assur'd that to your eyes unveil'd shall shine The lofty light, sole object of your wish, So may heaven's grace clear whatsoe'er of foam Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth The stream of mind roll limpid from its source, As ye declare (for so shall ye impart A boon I dearly prize) if any soul Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance That soul may profit, if I learn so much." "My brother, we are each one citizens Of one true city. Any thou wouldst say, Who lived a stranger in Italia's land." So heard I answering, as appeal'd, a voice That onward came some space from whence I stood. A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark'd Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was rais'd As in one reft of sight. "Spirit," said I, "Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be That which didst answer to me,) or by place Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee." "I was," it answer'd, "of Sienna: here I cleanse away with these the evil life, Soliciting with tears that He, who is, Vouchsafe him to us. Though Sapia nam'd In sapience I excell'd not, gladder far Of others' hurt, than of the good befell me. That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. When now my years slop'd waning down the arch, It so bechanc'd, my fellow citizens Near Colle met their enemies in the field, And I pray'd God to grant what He had will'd. There were they vanquish'd, and betook themselves Unto the bitter passages of flight. I mark'd the hunt, and waxing out of bounds In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, And like the merlin cheated by a gleam, Cried, "It is over. Heav'n! fear thee not." Upon my verge of life I wish'd for peace With God; nor repentance had supplied What I did lack of duty, were it not The hermit Piero, touch'd with charity, In his devout orisons thought on me. "But who art thou that question'st of our state, Who go'st to my belief, with lids unclos'd, And breathest in thy talk?"--"Mine eyes," said I, "May yet be here ta'en from me; but not long; For they have not offended grievously With envious glances. But the woe beneath Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. That nether load already weighs me down." She thus: "Who then amongst us here aloft Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?" "He," answer'd I, "who standeth mute beside me. I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit, If thou desire I yonder yet should move For thee my mortal feet."--"Oh!" she replied, "This is so strange a thing, it is great sign That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer Sometime assist me: and by that I crave, Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet E'er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold With that vain multitude, who set their hope On Telamone's haven, there to fail Confounded, more shall when the fancied stream They sought of Dian call'd: but they who lead Their navies, more than ruin'd hopes shall mourn." CANTO XIV "Say who is he around our mountain winds, Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight, That opes his eyes and covers them at will?" "I know not who he is, but know thus much He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him, For thou art nearer to him, and take heed Accost him gently, so that he may speak." Thus on the right two Spirits bending each Toward the other, talk'd of me, then both Addressing me, their faces backward lean'd, And thus the one began: "O soul, who yet Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky! For charity, we pray thee' comfort us, Recounting whence thou com'st, and who thou art: For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been." "There stretches through the midst of Tuscany," I straight began: "a brooklet, whose well-head Springs up in Falterona, with his race Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles Hath measur'd. From his banks bring, I this frame. To tell you who I am were words misspent: For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip." "If well I do incorp'rate with my thought The meaning of thy speech," said he, who first Addrest me, "thou dost speak of Arno's wave." To whom the other: "Why hath he conceal'd The title of that river, as a man Doth of some horrible thing?" The spirit, who Thereof was question'd, did acquit him thus: "I know not: but 'tis fitting well the name Should perish of that vale; for from the source Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep Maim'd of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass Beyond that limit,) even to the point Whereunto ocean is restor'd, what heaven Drains from th' exhaustless store for all earth's streams, Throughout the space is virtue worried down, As 'twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe, Or through disastrous influence on the place, Or else distortion of misguided wills, That custom goads to evil: whence in those, The dwellers in that miserable vale, Nature is so transform'd, it seems as they Had shar'd of Circe's feeding. 'Midst brute swine, Worthier of acorns than of other food Created for man's use, he shapeth first His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down, By how much more the curst and luckless foss Swells out to largeness, e'en so much it finds Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets A race of foxes, so replete with craft, They do not fear that skill can master it. Nor will I cease because my words are heard By other ears than thine. It shall be well For this man, if he keep in memory What from no erring Spirit I reveal. Lo! behold thy grandson, that becomes A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread: Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale, Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms. Many of life he reaves, himself of worth And goodly estimation. Smear'd with gore Mark how he issues from the rueful wood, Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years It spreads not to prime lustihood again." As one, who tidings hears of woe to come, Changes his looks perturb'd, from whate'er part The peril grasp him, so beheld I change That spirit, who had turn'd to listen, struck With sadness, soon as he had caught the word. His visage and the other's speech did raise Desire in me to know the names of both, whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd. The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum'd: "Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine. But since God's will is that so largely shine His grace in thee, I will be liberal too. Guido of Duca know then that I am. Envy so parch'd my blood, that had I seen A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark'd A livid paleness overspread my cheek. Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow'd. O man, why place thy heart where there doth need Exclusion of participants in good? This is Rinieri's spirit, this the boast And honour of the house of Calboli, Where of his worth no heritage remains. Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript ('twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,) Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss; But in those limits such a growth has sprung Of rank and venom'd roots, as long would mock Slow culture's toil. Where is good Liziohere Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna? O bastard slips of old Romagna's line! When in Bologna the low artisan, And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts, A gentle cyon from ignoble stem. Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep, When I recall to mind those once lov'd names, Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop, With Traversaro's house and Anastagio's, (Each race disherited) and beside these, The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease, That witch'd us into love and courtesy; Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts. O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still, Since forth of thee thy family hath gone, And many, hating evil, join'd their steps? Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease, Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill, And Conio worse, who care to propagate A race of Counties from such blood as theirs. Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then When from amongst you tries your demon child. Not so, howe'er, that henceforth there remain True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin! Thou sprung of Fantolini's line! thy name Is safe, since none is look'd for after thee To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock. But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take Far more delight in weeping than in words. Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart." We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them, Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'd Like vollied light'ning, when it rives the air, Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever finds Will slay me," then fled from us, as the bolt Lanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud. When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing, Behold the other with a crash as loud As the quick-following thunder: "Mark in me Aglauros turn'd to rock." I at the sound Retreating drew more closely to my guide. Now in mute stillness rested all the air: And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit. But your old enemy so baits his hook, He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n calls And round about you wheeling courts your gaze With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye Turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all." CANTO XV As much as 'twixt the third hour's close and dawn, Appeareth of heav'n's sphere, that ever whirls As restless as an infant in his play, So much appear'd remaining to the sun Of his slope journey towards the western goal. Evening was there, and here the noon of night; and full upon our forehead smote the beams. For round the mountain, circling, so our path Had led us, that toward the sun-set now Direct we journey'd: when I felt a weight Of more exceeding splendour, than before, Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze Possess'd me, and both hands against my brow Lifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen, That of its gorgeous superflux of light Clipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray, Striking On water or the surface clear Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part, Ascending at a glance, e'en as it fell, (And so much differs from the stone, that falls Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown); Thus with refracted light before me seemed The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste My sight recoil'd. "What is this, sire belov'd! 'Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?" Cried I, "and which towards us moving seems?" "Marvel not, if the family of heav'n," He answer'd, "yet with dazzling radiance dim Thy sense it is a messenger who comes, Inviting man's ascent. Such sights ere long, Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight, As thy perception is by nature wrought Up to their pitch." The blessed angel, soon As we had reach'd him, hail'd us with glad voice: "Here enter on a ladder far less steep Than ye have yet encounter'd." We forthwith Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet, "Blessed the merciful," and "happy thou! That conquer'st." Lonely each, my guide and I Pursued our upward way; and as we went, Some profit from his words I hop'd to win, And thus of him inquiring, fram'd my speech: "What meant Romagna's spirit, when he spake Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar'd?" He straight replied: "No wonder, since he knows, What sorrow waits on his own worst defect, If he chide others, that they less may mourn. Because ye point your wishes at a mark, Where, by communion of possessors, part Is lessen'd, envy bloweth up the sighs of men. No fear of that might touch ye, if the love Of higher sphere exalted your desire. For there, by how much more they call it ours, So much propriety of each in good Increases more, and heighten'd charity Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame." "Now lack I satisfaction more," said I, "Than if thou hadst been silent at the first, And doubt more gathers on my lab'ring thought. How can it chance, that good distributed, The many, that possess it, makes more rich, Than if 't were shar'd by few?" He answering thus: "Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth, Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed To love, as beam to lucid body darts, Giving as much of ardour as it finds. The sempiternal effluence streams abroad Spreading, wherever charity extends. So that the more aspirants to that bliss Are multiplied, more good is there to love, And more is lov'd; as mirrors, that reflect, Each unto other, propagated light. If these my words avail not to allay Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see, Who of this want, and of all else thou hast, Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou That from thy temples may be soon eras'd, E'en as the two already, those five scars, That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal," "Thou," I had said, "content'st me," when I saw The other round was gain'd, and wond'ring eyes Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem'd By an ecstatic vision wrapt away; And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd Of many persons; and at th' entrance stood A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express A mother's love, who said, "Child! why hast thou Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I Sorrowing have sought thee;" and so held her peace, And straight the vision fled. A female next Appear'd before me, down whose visage cours'd Those waters, that grief forces out from one By deep resentment stung, who seem'd to say: "If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed Over this city, nam'd with such debate Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles, Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace Hath clasp'd our daughter; "and to fuel, meseem'd, Benign and meek, with visage undisturb'd, Her sovran spake: "How shall we those requite, Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn The man that loves us?" After that I saw A multitude, in fury burning, slay With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain "Destroy, destroy:" and him I saw, who bow'd Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav'n, Praying forgiveness of th' Almighty Sire, Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes, With looks, that With compassion to their aim. Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight Returning, sought again the things, whose truth Depends not on her shaping, I observ'd How she had rov'd to no unreal scenes Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov'd, As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep, Exclaim'd: "What ails thee, that thou canst not hold Thy footing firm, but more than half a league Hast travel'd with clos'd eyes and tott'ring gait, Like to a man by wine or sleep o'ercharg'd?" "Beloved father! so thou deign," said I, "To listen, I will tell thee what appear'd Before me, when so fail'd my sinking steps." He thus: "Not if thy Countenance were mask'd With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine How small soe'er, elude me. What thou saw'st Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart To the waters of peace, that flow diffus'd From their eternal fountain. I not ask'd, What ails theeor such cause as he doth, who Looks only with that eye which sees no more, When spiritless the body lies; but ask'd, To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads The slow and loit'ring need; that they be found Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns." So on we journey'd through the evening sky Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes With level view could stretch against the bright Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees Gath'ring, a fog made tow'rds us, dark as night. There was no room for 'scaping; and that mist Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air. CANTO XVI Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, Of every planes 'reft, and pall'd in clouds, Did never spread before the sight a veil In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense So palpable and gross. Ent'ring its shade, Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids; Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, Offering me his shoulder for a stay. As the blind man behind his leader walks, Lest he should err, or stumble unawares On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy, I journey'd through that bitter air and foul, Still list'ning to my escort's warning voice, "Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heard Voices, and each one seem'd to pray for peace, And for compassion, to the Lamb of God That taketh sins away. Their prelude still Was "Agnus Dei," and through all the choir, One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem'd The concord of their song. "Are these I hear Spirits, O master?" I exclaim'd; and he: "Thou aim'st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath." "Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave? And speak'st of us, as thou thyself e'en yet Dividest time by calends?" So one voice Bespake me; whence my master said: "Reply; And ask, if upward hence the passage lead." "O being! who dost make thee pure, to stand Beautiful once more in thy Maker's sight! Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder." Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake: "Long as 't is lawful for me, shall my steps Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead Shall keep us join'd." I then forthwith began "Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend To higher regions, and am hither come Through the fearful agony of hell. And, if so largely God hath doled his grace, That, clean beside all modern precedent, He wills me to behold his kingly state, From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death Had loos'd thee; but instruct me: and instruct If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words The way directing as a safe escort." "I was of Lombardy, and Marco call'd: Not inexperienc'd of the world, that worth I still affected, from which all have turn'd The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right Unto the summit:" and, replying thus, He added, "I beseech thee pray for me, When thou shalt come aloft." And I to him: "Accept my faith for pledge I will perform What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains, That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not, Singly before it urg'd me, doubled now By thine opinion, when I couple that With one elsewhere declar'd, each strength'ning other. The world indeed is even so forlorn Of all good as thou speak'st it and so swarms With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point The cause out to me, that myself may see, And unto others show it: for in heaven One places it, and one on earth below." Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh, "Brother!" he thus began, "the world is blind; And thou in truth com'st from it. Ye, who live, Do so each cause refer to heav'n above, E'en as its motion of necessity Drew with it all that moves. If this were so, Free choice in you were none; nor justice would There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill. Your movements have their primal bent from heaven; Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues? Light have ye still to follow evil or good, And of the will free power, which, if it stand Firm and unwearied in Heav'n's first assay, Conquers at last, so it be cherish'd well, Triumphant over all. To mightier force, To better nature subject, ye abide Free, not constrain'd by that, which forms in you The reasoning mind uninfluenc'd of the stars. If then the present race of mankind err, Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there. Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy. "Forth from his plastic hand, who charm'd beholds Her image ere she yet exist, the soul Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods, As artless and as ignorant of aught, Save that her Maker being one who dwells With gladness ever, willingly she turns To whate'er yields her joy. Of some slight good The flavour soon she tastes; and, snar'd by that, With fondness she pursues it, if no guide Recall, no rein direct her wand'ring course. Hence it behov'd, the law should be a curb; A sovereign hence behov'd, whose piercing view Might mark at least the fortress and main tower Of the true city. Laws indeed there are: But who is he observes them? None; not he, Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock, Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof. Therefore the multitude, who see their guide Strike at the very good they covet most, Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause Is not corrupted nature in yourselves, But ill-conducting, that hath turn'd the world To evil. Rome, that turn'd it unto good, Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams Cast light on either way, the world's and God's. One since hath quench'd the other; and the sword Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin'd Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw'd By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark The blade: each herb is judg'd of by its seed. That land, through which Adice and the Po Their waters roll, was once the residence Of courtesy and velour, ere the day, That frown'd on Frederick; now secure may pass Those limits, whosoe'er hath left, for shame, To talk with good men, or come near their haunts. Three aged ones are still found there, in whom The old time chides the new: these deem it long Ere God restore them to a better world: The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam'd In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard. On this at last conclude. The church of Rome, Mixing two governments that ill assort, Hath miss'd her footing, fall'n into the mire, And there herself and burden much defil'd." "O Marco!" I replied, shine arguments Convince me: and the cause I now discern Why of the heritage no portion came To Levi's offspring. But resolve me this Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst Is left a sample of the perish'd race, And for rebuke to this untoward age?" "Either thy words," said he, "deceive; or else Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan, Appear'st not to have heard of good Gherado; The sole addition that, by which I know him; Unless I borrow'd from his daughter Gaia Another name to grace him. God be with you. I bear you company no more. Behold The dawn with white ray glimm'ring through the mist. I must away--the angel comes--ere he Appear." He said, and would not hear me more. CANTO XVII Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er Hast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud, Through which thou saw'st no better, than the mole Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene'er The wat'ry vapours dense began to melt Into thin air, how faintly the sun's sphere Seem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thought May image, how at first I re-beheld The sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung. Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd The parting beams from off the nether shores. O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark Though round about us thousand trumpets clang! What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light Kindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd, Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse By will divine. Portray'd before me came The traces of her dire impiety, Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that most Delights itself in song: and here my mind Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place To aught that ask'd admittance from without. Next shower'd into my fantasy a shape As of one crucified, whose visage spake Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died; And round him Ahasuerus the great king, Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just, Blameless in word and deed. As of itself That unsubstantial coinage of the brain Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails That fed it; in my vision straight uprose A damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen! O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire Driv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose Lavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself. Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears Mourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end." E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly New radiance strike upon the closed lids, The broken slumber quivering ere it dies; Thus from before me sunk that imagery Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck The light, outshining far our earthly beam. As round I turn'd me to survey what place I had arriv'd at, "Here ye mount," exclaim'd A voice, that other purpose left me none, Save will so eager to behold who spake, I could not choose but gaze. As 'fore the sun, That weighs our vision down, and veils his form In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'd Unequal. "This is Spirit from above, Who marshals us our upward way, unsought; And in his own light shrouds him. As a man Doth for himself, so now is done for us. For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'd For blunt denial, ere the suit be made. Refuse we not to lend a ready foot At such inviting: haste we to ascend, Before it darken: for we may not then, Till morn again return." So spake my guide; And to one ladder both address'd our steps; And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'd Near me as 'twere the waving of a wing, That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed they The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath." Now to such height above our heads were rais'd The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night, That many a star on all sides through the gloom Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?" So with myself I commun'd; for I felt My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space, If aught should meet mine ear in that new round, Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire! Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd. If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause." He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'er Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils. Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill. But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand, Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay. "Creator, nor created being, ne'er, My son," he thus began, "was without love, Or natural, or the free spirit's growth. Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still Is without error; but the other swerves, If on ill object bent, or through excess Of vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeks The primal blessings, or with measure due Th' inferior, no delight, that flows from it, Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil, Or with more ardour than behooves, or less. Pursue the good, the thing created then Works 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer That love is germin of each virtue in ye, And of each act no less, that merits pain. Now since it may not be, but love intend The welfare mainly of the thing it loves, All from self-hatred are secure; and since No being can be thought t' exist apart And independent of the first, a bar Of equal force restrains from hating that. "Grant the distinction just; and it remains The' evil must be another's, which is lov'd. Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay. There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,) Preeminence himself, and coverts hence For his own greatness that another fall. There is who so much fears the loss of power, Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount Above him), and so sickens at the thought, He loves their opposite: and there is he, Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs Must doat on other's evil. Here beneath This threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sort Be now instructed, that which follows good But with disorder'd and irregular course. "All indistinctly apprehend a bliss On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold Or seek it with a love remiss and lax, This cornice after just repenting lays Its penal torment on ye. Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness: It is not true fruition, not that blest Essence, of every good the branch and root. The love too lavishly bestow'd on this, Along three circles over us, is mourn'd. Account of that division tripartite Expect not, fitter for thine own research." CANTO XVIII The teacher ended, and his high discourse Concluding, earnest in my looks inquir'd If I appear'd content; and I, whom still Unsated thirst to hear him urg'd, was mute, Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said: "Perchance my too much questioning offends" But he, true father, mark'd the secret wish By diffidence restrain'd, and speaking, gave Me boldness thus to speak: 'Master, my Sight Gathers so lively virtue from thy beams, That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen. Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heart Holds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t' unfold That love, from which as from their source thou bring'st All good deeds and their opposite.'" He then: "To what I now disclose be thy clear ken Directed, and thou plainly shalt behold How much those blind have err'd, who make themselves The guides of men. The soul, created apt To love, moves versatile which way soe'er Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak'd By pleasure into act. Of substance true Your apprehension forms its counterfeit, And in you the ideal shape presenting Attracts the soul's regard. If she, thus drawn, incline toward it, love is that inclining, And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye. Then as the fire points up, and mounting seeks His birth-place and his lasting seat, e'en thus Enters the captive soul into desire, Which is a spiritual motion, that ne'er rests Before enjoyment of the thing it loves. Enough to show thee, how the truth from those Is hidden, who aver all love a thing Praise-worthy in itself: although perhaps Its substance seem still good. Yet if the wax Be good, it follows not th' impression must." "What love is," I return'd, "thy words, O guide! And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thence New doubts have sprung. For from without if love Be offer'd to us, and the spirit knows No other footing, tend she right or wrong, Is no desert of hers." He answering thus: "What reason here discovers I have power To show thee: that which lies beyond, expect From Beatrice, faith not reason's task. Spirit, substantial form, with matter join'd Not in confusion mix'd, hath in itself Specific virtue of that union born, Which is not felt except it work, nor prov'd But through effect, as vegetable life By the green leaf. From whence his intellect Deduced its primal notices of things, Man therefore knows not, or his appetites Their first affections; such in you, as zeal In bees to gather honey; at the first, Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise. But o'er each lower faculty supreme, That as she list are summon'd to her bar, Ye have that virtue in you, whose just voice Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep The threshold of assent. Here is the source, Whence cause of merit in you is deriv'd, E'en as the affections good or ill she takes, Or severs, winnow'd as the chaff. Those men Who reas'ning went to depth profoundest, mark'd That innate freedom, and were thence induc'd To leave their moral teaching to the world. Grant then, that from necessity arise All love that glows within you; to dismiss Or harbour it, the pow'r is in yourselves. Remember, Beatrice, in her style, Denominates free choice by eminence The noble virtue, if in talk with thee She touch upon that theme." The moon, well nigh To midnight hour belated, made the stars Appear to wink and fade; and her broad disk Seem'd like a crag on fire, as up the vault That course she journey'd, which the sun then warms, When they of Rome behold him at his set. Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle. And now the weight, that hung upon my thought, Was lighten'd by the aid of that clear spirit, Who raiseth Andes above Mantua's name. I therefore, when my questions had obtain'd Solution plain and ample, stood as one Musing in dreary slumber; but not long Slumber'd; for suddenly a multitude, The steep already turning, from behind, Rush'd on. With fury and like random rout, As echoing on their shores at midnight heard Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes If Bacchus' help were needed; so came these Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, By eagerness impell'd of holy love. Soon they o'ertook us; with such swiftness mov'd The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head Cried weeping; "Blessed Mary sought with haste The hilly region. Caesar to subdue Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting, And flew to Spain."--"Oh tarry not: away;" The others shouted; "let not time be lost Through slackness of affection. Hearty zeal To serve reanimates celestial grace." "O ye, in whom intenser fervency Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail'd, Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part Of good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives, (Credit my tale, though strange) desires t' ascend, So morning rise to light us. Therefore say Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?" So spake my guide, to whom a shade return'd: "Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft. We may not linger: such resistless will Speeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us then Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I Was abbot of San Zeno, when the hand Of Barbarossa grasp'd Imperial sway, That name, ne'er utter'd without tears in Milan. And there is he, hath one foot in his grave, Who for that monastery ere long shall weep, Ruing his power misus'd: for that his son, Of body ill compact, and worse in mind, And born in evil, he hath set in place Of its true pastor." Whether more he spake, Or here was mute, I know not: he had sped E'en now so far beyond us. Yet thus much I heard, and in rememb'rance treasur'd it. He then, who never fail'd me at my need, Cried, "Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse Chiding their sin!" In rear of all the troop These shouted: "First they died, to whom the sea Open'd, or ever Jordan saw his heirs: And they, who with Aeneas to the end Endur'd not suffering, for their portion chose Life without glory." Soon as they had fled Past reach of sight, new thought within me rose By others follow'd fast, and each unlike Its fellow: till led on from thought to thought, And pleasur'd with the fleeting train, mine eye Was clos'd, and meditation chang'd to dream. 
8793	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Part 4 Cantos 19 - 25 CANTO XIX It was the hour, when of diurnal heat No reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon, O'erpower'd by earth, or planetary sway Of Saturn; and the geomancer sees His Greater Fortune up the east ascend, Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone; When 'fore me in my dream a woman's shape There came, with lips that stammer'd, eyes aslant, Distorted feet, hands maim'd, and colour pale. I look'd upon her; and as sunshine cheers Limbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my look Unloos'd her tongue, next in brief space her form Decrepit rais'd erect, and faded face With love's own hue illum'd. Recov'ring speech She forthwith warbling such a strain began, That I, how loth soe'er, could scarce have held Attention from the song. "I," thus she sang, "I am the Siren, she, whom mariners On the wide sea are wilder'd when they hear: Such fulness of delight the list'ner feels. I from his course Ulysses by my lay Enchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me once Parts seldom; so I charm him, and his heart Contented knows no void." Or ere her mouth Was clos'd, to shame her at her side appear'd A dame of semblance holy. With stern voice She utter'd; "Say, O Virgil, who is this?" Which hearing, he approach'd, with eyes still bent Toward that goodly presence: th' other seiz'd her, And, her robes tearing, open'd her before, And show'd the belly to me, whence a smell, Exhaling loathsome, wak'd me. Round I turn'd Mine eyes, and thus the teacher: "At the least Three times my voice hath call'd thee. Rise, begone. Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass." I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high, Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount; And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smote The early ray. I follow'd, stooping low My forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought, Who bends him to the likeness of an arch, That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard, "Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild, As never met the ear on mortal strand. With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up, Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along, Where each side of the solid masonry The sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes, And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn, Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. "What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?" Began my leader; while th' angelic shape A little over us his station took. "New vision," I replied, "hath rais'd in me Surmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereon My soul intent allows no other thought Or room or entrance."--"Hast thou seen," said he, "That old enchantress, her, whose wiles alone The spirits o'er us weep for? Hast thou seen How man may free him of her bonds? Enough. Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais'd ken Fix on the lure, which heav'n's eternal King Whirls in the rolling spheres." As on his feet The falcon first looks down, then to the sky Turns, and forth stretches eager for the food, That woos him thither; so the call I heard, So onward, far as the dividing rock Gave way, I journey'd, till the plain was reach'd. On the fifth circle when I stood at large, A race appear'd before me, on the ground All downward lying prone and weeping sore. "My soul hath cleaved to the dust," I heard With sighs so deep, they well nigh choak'd the words. "O ye elect of God, whose penal woes Both hope and justice mitigate, direct Tow'rds the steep rising our uncertain way." "If ye approach secure from this our doom, Prostration--and would urge your course with speed, See that ye still to rightward keep the brink." So them the bard besought; and such the words, Beyond us some short space, in answer came. I noted what remain'd yet hidden from them: Thence to my liege's eyes mine eyes I bent, And he, forthwith interpreting their suit, Beckon'd his glad assent. Free then to act, As pleas'd me, I drew near, and took my stand O`er that shade, whose words I late had mark'd. And, "Spirit!" I said, "in whom repentant tears Mature that blessed hour, when thou with God Shalt find acceptance, for a while suspend For me that mightier care. Say who thou wast, Why thus ye grovel on your bellies prone, And if in aught ye wish my service there, Whence living I am come." He answering spake "The cause why Heav'n our back toward his cope Reverses, shalt thou know: but me know first The successor of Peter, and the name And title of my lineage from that stream, That' twixt Chiaveri and Siestri draws His limpid waters through the lowly glen. A month and little more by proof I learnt, With what a weight that robe of sov'reignty Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire Would guard it: that each other fardel seems But feathers in the balance. Late, alas! Was my conversion: but when I became Rome's pastor, I discern'd at once the dream And cozenage of life, saw that the heart Rested not there, and yet no prouder height Lur'd on the climber: wherefore, of that life No more enamour'd, in my bosom love Of purer being kindled. For till then I was a soul in misery, alienate From God, and covetous of all earthly things; Now, as thou seest, here punish'd for my doting. Such cleansing from the taint of avarice Do spirits converted need. This mount inflicts No direr penalty. E'en as our eyes Fasten'd below, nor e'er to loftier clime Were lifted, thus hath justice level'd us Here on the earth. As avarice quench'd our love Of good, without which is no working, thus Here justice holds us prison'd, hand and foot Chain'd down and bound, while heaven's just Lord shall please. So long to tarry motionless outstretch'd." My knees I stoop'd, and would have spoke; but he, Ere my beginning, by his ear perceiv'd I did him reverence; and "What cause," said he, "Hath bow'd thee thus!"--"Compunction," I rejoin'd. "And inward awe of your high dignity." "Up," he exclaim'd, "brother! upon thy feet Arise: err not: thy fellow servant I, (Thine and all others') of one Sovran Power. If thou hast ever mark'd those holy sounds Of gospel truth, 'nor shall be given ill marriage,' Thou mayst discern the reasons of my speech. Go thy ways now; and linger here no more. Thy tarrying is a let unto the tears, With which I hasten that whereof thou spak'st. I have on earth a kinswoman; her name Alagia, worthy in herself, so ill Example of our house corrupt her not: And she is all remaineth of me there." CANTO XX Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd, I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave. Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd, Who led me, coasting still, wherever place Along the rock was vacant, as a man Walks near the battlements on narrow wall. For those on th' other part, who drop by drop Wring out their all-infecting malady, Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou! Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey, Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd! So bottomless thy maw!--Ye spheres of heaven! To whom there are, as seems, who attribute All change in mortal state, when is the day Of his appearing, for whom fate reserves To chase her hence?--With wary steps and slow We pass'd; and I attentive to the shades, Whom piteously I heard lament and wail; And, 'midst the wailing, one before us heard Cry out "O blessed Virgin!" as a dame In the sharp pangs of childbed; and "How poor Thou wast," it added, "witness that low roof Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down. O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue choose With poverty, before great wealth with vice." The words so pleas'd me, that desire to know The spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come, Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he Bounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful prime Unblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deeds So worthy, tell me who thou was," I said, "And why thou dost with single voice renew Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'd Haply shall meet reward; if I return To finish the Short pilgrimage of life, Still speeding to its close on restless wing." "I," answer'd he, "will tell thee, not for hell, Which thence I look for; but that in thyself Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time Of mortal dissolution. I was root Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds O'er all the Christian land, that seldom thence Good fruit is gather'd. Vengeance soon should come, Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power; And vengeance I of heav'n's great Judge implore. Hugh Capet was I high: from me descend The Philips and the Louis, of whom France Newly is govern'd; born of one, who ply'd The slaughterer's trade at Paris. When the race Of ancient kings had vanish'd (all save one Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe I found the reins of empire, and such powers Of new acquirement, with full store of friends, That soon the widow'd circlet of the crown Was girt upon the temples of my son, He, from whose bones th' anointed race begins. Till the great dower of Provence had remov'd The stains, that yet obscur'd our lowly blood, Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe'er It wrought no evil: there, with force and lies, Began its rapine; after, for amends, Poitou it seiz'd, Navarre and Gascony. To Italy came Charles, and for amends Young Conradine an innocent victim slew, And sent th' angelic teacher back to heav'n, Still for amends. I see the time at hand, That forth from France invites another Charles To make himself and kindred better known. Unarm'd he issues, saving with that lance, Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that He carries with so home a thrust, as rives The bowels of poor Florence. No increase Of territory hence, but sin and shame Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong. I see the other, who a prisoner late Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do The Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice! What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood So wholly to thyself, they feel no care Of their own flesh? To hide with direr guilt Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ Himself a captive, and his mockery Acted again! Lo! to his holy lip The vinegar and gall once more applied! And he 'twixt living robbers doom'd to bleed! Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty Such violence cannot fill the measure up, With no degree to sanction, pushes on Into the temple his yet eager sails! "O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas'd In secret silence broods?--While daylight lasts, So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn'dst To me for comment, is the general theme Of all our prayers: but when it darkens, then A different strain we utter, then record Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold Made traitor, robber, parricide: the woes Of Midas, which his greedy wish ensued, Mark'd for derision to all future times: And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey, That yet he seems by Joshua's ire pursued. Sapphira with her husband next, we blame; And praise the forefeet, that with furious ramp Spurn'd Heliodorus. All the mountain round Rings with the infamy of Thracia's king, Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shout Ascends: "Declare, O Crassus! for thou know'st, The flavour of thy gold." The voice of each Now high now low, as each his impulse prompts, Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave. Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears'd That blessedness we tell of in the day: But near me none beside his accent rais'd." From him we now had parted, and essay'd With utmost efforts to surmount the way, When I did feel, as nodding to its fall, The mountain tremble; whence an icy chill Seiz'd on me, as on one to death convey'd. So shook not Delos, when Latona there Couch'd to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven. Forthwith from every side a shout arose So vehement, that suddenly my guide Drew near, and cried: "Doubt not, while I conduct thee." "Glory!" all shouted (such the sounds mine ear Gather'd from those, who near me swell'd the sounds) "Glory in the highest be to God." We stood Immovably suspended, like to those, The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem's field That song: till ceas'd the trembling, and the song Was ended: then our hallow'd path resum'd, Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew'd Their custom'd mourning. Never in my breast Did ignorance so struggle with desire Of knowledge, if my memory do not err, As in that moment; nor through haste dar'd I To question, nor myself could aught discern, So on I far'd in thoughtfulness and dread. CANTO XXI The natural thirst, ne'er quench'd but from the well, Whereof the woman of Samaria crav'd, Excited: haste along the cumber'd path, After my guide, impell'd; and pity mov'd My bosom for the 'vengeful deed, though just. When lo! even as Luke relates, that Christ Appear'd unto the two upon their way, New-risen from his vaulted grave; to us A shade appear'd, and after us approach'd, Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet. We were not ware of it; so first it spake, Saying, "God give you peace, my brethren!" then Sudden we turn'd: and Virgil such salute, As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried: "Peace in the blessed council be thy lot Awarded by that righteous court, which me To everlasting banishment exiles!" "How!" he exclaim'd, nor from his speed meanwhile Desisting, "If that ye be spirits, whom God Vouchsafes not room above, who up the height Has been thus far your guide?" To whom the bard: "If thou observe the tokens, which this man Trac'd by the finger of the angel bears, 'Tis plain that in the kingdom of the just He needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheel Spins day and night, for him not yet had drawn That yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil'd, Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes, His soul, that sister is to mine and thine, Not of herself could mount, for not like ours Her ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulf Of hell was ta'en, to lead him, and will lead Far as my lore avails. But, if thou know, Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhile Thus shook and trembled: wherefore all at once Seem'd shouting, even from his wave-wash'd foot." That questioning so tallied with my wish, The thirst did feel abatement of its edge E'en from expectance. He forthwith replied, "In its devotion nought irregular This mount can witness, or by punctual rule Unsanction'd; here from every change exempt. Other than that, which heaven in itself Doth of itself receive, no influence Can reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow, Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher falls Than that brief scale of threefold steps: thick clouds Nor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glance Ne'er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams, That yonder often shift on each side heav'n. Vapour adust doth never mount above The highest of the trinal stairs, whereon Peter's vicegerent stands. Lower perchance, With various motion rock'd, trembles the soil: But here, through wind in earth's deep hollow pent, I know not how, yet never trembled: then Trembles, when any spirit feels itself So purified, that it may rise, or move For rising, and such loud acclaim ensues. Purification by the will alone Is prov'd, that free to change society Seizes the soul rejoicing in her will. Desire of bliss is present from the first; But strong propension hinders, to that wish By the just ordinance of heav'n oppos'd; Propension now as eager to fulfil Th' allotted torment, as erewhile to sin. And I who in this punishment had lain Five hundred years and more, but now have felt Free wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt'st The mountain tremble, and the spirits devout Heard'st, over all his limits, utter praise To that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joy To hasten." Thus he spake: and since the draught Is grateful ever as the thirst is keen, No words may speak my fullness of content. "Now," said the instructor sage, "I see the net That takes ye here, and how the toils are loos'd, Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice. Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn, Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore here So many an age wert prostrate."--"In that time, When the good Titus, with Heav'n's King to help, Aveng'd those piteous gashes, whence the blood By Judas sold did issue, with the name Most lasting and most honour'd there was I Abundantly renown'd," the shade reply'd, "Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweet My vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, Rome To herself drew me, where I merited A myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow. Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang, And next of great Achilles: but i' th' way Fell with the second burthen. Of my flame Those sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv'd From the bright fountain of celestial fire That feeds unnumber'd lamps, the song I mean Which sounds Aeneas' wand'rings: that the breast I hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veins Drank inspiration: whose authority Was ever sacred with me. To have liv'd Coeval with the Mantuan, I would bide The revolution of another sun Beyond my stated years in banishment." The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn'd to me, And holding silence: by his countenance Enjoin'd me silence but the power which wills, Bears not supreme control: laughter and tears Follow so closely on the passion prompts them, They wait not for the motions of the will In natures most sincere. I did but smile, As one who winks; and thereupon the shade Broke off, and peer'd into mine eyes, where best Our looks interpret. "So to good event Mayst thou conduct such great emprize," he cried, "Say, why across thy visage beam'd, but now, The lightning of a smile!" On either part Now am I straiten'd; one conjures me speak, Th' other to silence binds me: whence a sigh I utter, and the sigh is heard. "Speak on;" The teacher cried; "and do not fear to speak, But tell him what so earnestly he asks." Whereon I thus: "Perchance, O ancient spirit! Thou marvel'st at my smiling. There is room For yet more wonder. He who guides my ken On high, he is that Mantuan, led by whom Thou didst presume of men and gods to sing. If other cause thou deem'dst for which I smil'd, Leave it as not the true one; and believe Those words, thou spak'st of him, indeed the cause." Now down he bent t' embrace my teacher's feet; But he forbade him: "Brother! do it not: Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade." He rising answer'd thus: "Now hast thou prov'd The force and ardour of the love I bear thee, When I forget we are but things of air, And as a substance treat an empty shade." CANTO XXII Now we had left the angel, who had turn'd To the sixth circle our ascending step, One gash from off my forehead raz'd: while they, Whose wishes tend to justice, shouted forth: "Blessed!" and ended with, "I thirst:" and I, More nimble than along the other straits, So journey'd, that, without the sense of toil, I follow'd upward the swift-footed shades; When Virgil thus began: "Let its pure flame From virtue flow, and love can never fail To warm another's bosom' so the light Shine manifestly forth. Hence from that hour, When 'mongst us in the purlieus of the deep, Came down the spirit of Aquinum's hard, Who told of thine affection, my good will Hath been for thee of quality as strong As ever link'd itself to one not seen. Therefore these stairs will now seem short to me. But tell me: and if too secure I loose The rein with a friend's license, as a friend Forgive me, and speak now as with a friend: How chanc'd it covetous desire could find Place in that bosom, 'midst such ample store Of wisdom, as thy zeal had treasur'd there?" First somewhat mov'd to laughter by his words, Statius replied: "Each syllable of thine Is a dear pledge of love. Things oft appear That minister false matters to our doubts, When their true causes are remov'd from sight. Thy question doth assure me, thou believ'st I was on earth a covetous man, perhaps Because thou found'st me in that circle plac'd. Know then I was too wide of avarice: And e'en for that excess, thousands of moons Have wax'd and wan'd upon my sufferings. And were it not that I with heedful care Noted where thou exclaim'st as if in ire With human nature, 'Why, thou cursed thirst Of gold! dost not with juster measure guide The appetite of mortals?' I had met The fierce encounter of the voluble rock. Then was I ware that with too ample wing The hands may haste to lavishment, and turn'd, As from my other evil, so from this In penitence. How many from their grave Shall with shorn locks arise, who living, aye And at life's last extreme, of this offence, Through ignorance, did not repent. And know, The fault which lies direct from any sin In level opposition, here With that Wastes its green rankness on one common heap. Therefore if I have been with those, who wail Their avarice, to cleanse me, through reverse Of their transgression, such hath been my lot." To whom the sovran of the pastoral song: "While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag'd By the twin sorrow of Jocasta's womb, From thy discourse with Clio there, it seems As faith had not been shine: without the which Good deeds suffice not. And if so, what sun Rose on thee, or what candle pierc'd the dark That thou didst after see to hoist the sail, And follow, where the fisherman had led?" He answering thus: "By thee conducted first, I enter'd the Parnassian grots, and quaff'd Of the clear spring; illumin'd first by thee Open'd mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one, Who, journeying through the darkness, hears a light Behind, that profits not himself, but makes His followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, 'Lo! A renovated world! Justice return'd! Times of primeval innocence restor'd! And a new race descended from above!' Poet and Christian both to thee I owed. That thou mayst mark more clearly what I trace, My hand shall stretch forth to inform the lines With livelier colouring. Soon o'er all the world, By messengers from heav'n, the true belief Teem'd now prolific, and that word of thine Accordant, to the new instructors chim'd. Induc'd by which agreement, I was wont Resort to them; and soon their sanctity So won upon me, that, Domitian's rage Pursuing them, I mix'd my tears with theirs, And, while on earth I stay'd, still succour'd them; And their most righteous customs made me scorn All sects besides. Before I led the Greeks In tuneful fiction, to the streams of Thebes, I was baptiz'd; but secretly, through fear, Remain'd a Christian, and conform'd long time To Pagan rites. Five centuries and more, T for that lukewarmness was fain to pace Round the fourth circle. Thou then, who hast rais'd The covering, which did hide such blessing from me, Whilst much of this ascent is yet to climb, Say, if thou know, where our old Terence bides, Caecilius, Plautus, Varro: if condemn'd They dwell, and in what province of the deep." "These," said my guide, "with Persius and myself, And others many more, are with that Greek, Of mortals, the most cherish'd by the Nine, In the first ward of darkness. There ofttimes We of that mount hold converse, on whose top For aye our nurses live. We have the bard Of Pella, and the Teian, Agatho, Simonides, and many a Grecian else Ingarlanded with laurel. Of thy train Antigone is there, Deiphile, Argia, and as sorrowful as erst Ismene, and who show'd Langia's wave: Deidamia with her sisters there, And blind Tiresias' daughter, and the bride Sea-born of Peleus." Either poet now Was silent, and no longer by th' ascent Or the steep walls obstructed, round them cast Inquiring eyes. Four handmaids of the day Had finish'd now their office, and the fifth Was at the chariot-beam, directing still Its balmy point aloof, when thus my guide: "Methinks, it well behooves us to the brink Bend the right shoulder' circuiting the mount, As we have ever us'd." So custom there Was usher to the road, the which we chose Less doubtful, as that worthy shade complied. They on before me went; I sole pursued, List'ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey'd Mysterious lessons of sweet poesy. But soon they ceas'd; for midway of the road A tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung, And pleasant to the smell: and as a fir Upward from bough to bough less ample spreads, So downward this less ample spread, that none. Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side, That clos'd our path, a liquid crystal fell From the steep rock, and through the sprays above Stream'd showering. With associate step the bards Drew near the plant; and from amidst the leaves A voice was heard: "Ye shall be chary of me;" And after added: "Mary took more thought For joy and honour of the nuptial feast, Than for herself who answers now for you. The women of old Rome were satisfied With water for their beverage. Daniel fed On pulse, and wisdom gain'd. The primal age Was beautiful as gold; and hunger then Made acorns tasteful, thirst each rivulet Run nectar. Honey and locusts were the food, Whereon the Baptist in the wilderness Fed, and that eminence of glory reach'd And greatness, which the' Evangelist records." CANTO XXIII On the green leaf mine eyes were fix'd, like his Who throws away his days in idle chase Of the diminutive, when thus I heard The more than father warn me: "Son! our time Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away." Thereat my face and steps at once I turn'd Toward the sages, by whose converse cheer'd I journey'd on, and felt no toil: and lo! A sound of weeping and a song: "My lips, O Lord!" and these so mingled, it gave birth To pleasure and to pain. "O Sire, belov'd! Say what is this I hear?" Thus I inquir'd. "Spirits," said he, "who as they go, perchance, Their debt of duty pay." As on their road The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, But stay not; thus, approaching from behind With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass'd, A crowd of spirits, silent and devout. The eyes of each were dark and hollow: pale Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones Stood staring thro' the skin. I do not think Thus dry and meagre Erisicthon show'd, When pinc'ed by sharp-set famine to the quick. "Lo!" to myself I mus'd, "the race, who lost Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak Prey'd on her child." The sockets seem'd as rings, From which the gems were drops. Who reads the name Of man upon his forehead, there the M Had trac'd most plainly. Who would deem, that scent Of water and an apple, could have prov'd Powerful to generate such pining want, Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood Wond'ring what thus could waste them (for the cause Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind Appear'd not) lo! a spirit turn'd his eyes In their deep-sunken cell, and fasten'd then On me, then cried with vehemence aloud: "What grace is this vouchsaf'd me?" By his looks I ne'er had recogniz'd him: but the voice Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal'd. Remembrance of his alter'd lineaments Was kindled from that spark; and I agniz'd The visage of Forese. "Ah! respect This wan and leprous wither'd skin," thus he Suppliant implor'd, "this macerated flesh. Speak to me truly of thyself. And who Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there? Be it not said thou Scorn'st to talk with me." "That face of thine," I answer'd him, "which dead I once bewail'd, disposes me not less For weeping, when I see It thus transform'd. Say then, by Heav'n, what blasts ye thus? The whilst I wonder, ask not Speech from me: unapt Is he to speak, whom other will employs." He thus: "The water and tee plant we pass'd, Virtue possesses, by th' eternal will Infus'd, the which so pines me. Every spirit, Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg'd Too grossly, here in hunger and in thirst Is purified. The odour, which the fruit, And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe, Inflames us with desire to feed and drink. Nor once alone encompassing our route We come to add fresh fuel to the pain: Pain, said Iolace rather: for that will To the tree leads us, by which Christ was led To call Elias, joyful when he paid Our ransom from his vein." I answering thus: "Forese! from that day, in which the world For better life thou changedst, not five years Have circled. If the power of sinning more Were first concluded in thee, ere thou knew'st That kindly grief, which re-espouses us To God, how hither art thou come so soon? I thought to find thee lower, there, where time Is recompense for time." He straight replied: "To drink up the sweet wormwood of affliction I have been brought thus early by the tears Stream'd down my Nella's cheeks. Her prayers devout, Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oft Expectance lingers, and have set me free From th' other circles. In the sight of God So much the dearer is my widow priz'd, She whom I lov'd so fondly, as she ranks More singly eminent for virtuous deeds. The tract most barb'rous of Sardinia's isle, Hath dames more chaste and modester by far Than that wherein I left her. O sweet brother! What wouldst thou have me say? A time to come Stands full within my view, to which this hour Shall not be counted of an ancient date, When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn'd Th' unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bare Unkerchief'd bosoms to the common gaze. What savage women hath the world e'er seen, What Saracens, for whom there needed scourge Of spiritual or other discipline, To force them walk with cov'ring on their limbs! But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav'n Wafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak, Their mouths were op'd for howling: they shall taste Of Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here) Or ere the cheek of him be cloth'd with down Who is now rock'd with lullaby asleep. Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more, Thou seest how not I alone but all Gaze, where thou veil'st the intercepted sun." Whence I replied: "If thou recall to mind What we were once together, even yet Remembrance of those days may grieve thee sore. That I forsook that life, was due to him Who there precedes me, some few evenings past, When she was round, who shines with sister lamp To his, that glisters yonder," and I show'd The sun. "Tis he, who through profoundest night Of he true dead has brought me, with this flesh As true, that follows. From that gloom the aid Of his sure comfort drew me on to climb, And climbing wind along this mountain-steep, Which rectifies in you whate'er the world Made crooked and deprav'd I have his word, That he will bear me company as far As till I come where Beatrice dwells: But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit, Who thus hath promis'd," and I pointed to him; "The other is that shade, for whom so late Your realm, as he arose, exulting shook Through every pendent cliff and rocky bound." CANTO XXIV Our journey was not slacken'd by our talk, Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake, And urg'd our travel stoutly, like a ship When the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms, That seem'd things dead and dead again, drew in At their deep-delved orbs rare wonder of me, Perceiving I had life; and I my words Continued, and thus spake; "He journeys up Perhaps more tardily then else he would, For others' sake. But tell me, if thou know'st, Where is Piccarda? Tell me, if I see Any of mark, among this multitude, Who eye me thus."--"My sister (she for whom, 'Twixt beautiful and good I cannot say Which name was fitter ) wears e'en now her crown, And triumphs in Olympus." Saying this, He added: "Since spare diet hath so worn Our semblance out, 't is lawful here to name Each one. This," and his finger then he rais'd, "Is Buonaggiuna,--Buonaggiuna, he Of Lucca: and that face beyond him, pierc'd Unto a leaner fineness than the rest, Had keeping of the church: he was of Tours, And purges by wan abstinence away Bolsena's eels and cups of muscadel." He show'd me many others, one by one, And all, as they were nam'd, seem'd well content; For no dark gesture I discern'd in any. I saw through hunger Ubaldino grind His teeth on emptiness; and Boniface, That wav'd the crozier o'er a num'rous flock. I saw the Marquis, who tad time erewhile To swill at Forli with less drought, yet so Was one ne'er sated. I howe'er, like him, That gazing 'midst a crowd, singles out one, So singled him of Lucca; for methought Was none amongst them took such note of me. Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca: The sound was indistinct, and murmur'd there, Where justice, that so strips them, fix'd her sting. "Spirit!" said I, "it seems as thou wouldst fain Speak with me. Let me hear thee. Mutual wish To converse prompts, which let us both indulge." He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born, Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make My city please thee, blame it as they may. Go then with this forewarning. If aught false My whisper too implied, th' event shall tell But say, if of a truth I see the man Of that new lay th' inventor, which begins With 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." To whom I thus: "Count of me but as one Who am the scribe of love; that, when he breathes, Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write." "Brother!" said he, "the hind'rance which once held The notary with Guittone and myself, Short of that new and sweeter style I hear, Is now disclos'd. I see how ye your plumes Stretch, as th' inditer guides them; which, no question, Ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond, Sees not the distance parts one style from other." And, as contented, here he held his peace. Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile, In squared regiment direct their course, Then stretch themselves in file for speedier flight; Thus all the tribe of spirits, as they turn'd Their visage, faster deaf, nimble alike Through leanness and desire. And as a man, Tir'd With the motion of a trotting steed, Slacks pace, and stays behind his company, Till his o'erbreathed lungs keep temperate time; E'en so Forese let that holy crew Proceed, behind them lingering at my side, And saying: "When shall I again behold thee?" "How long my life may last," said I, "I know not; This know, how soon soever I return, My wishes will before me have arriv'd. Sithence the place, where I am set to live, Is, day by day, more scoop'd of all its good, And dismal ruin seems to threaten it." "Go now," he cried: "lo! he, whose guilt is most, Passes before my vision, dragg'd at heels Of an infuriate beast. Toward the vale, Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds, Each step increasing swiftness on the last; Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth him A corse most vilely shatter'd. No long space Those wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyes Look'd up to heav'n) "ere thou shalt plainly see That which my words may not more plainly tell. I quit thee: time is precious here: I lose Too much, thus measuring my pace with shine." As from a troop of well-rank'd chivalry One knight, more enterprising than the rest, Pricks forth at gallop, eager to display His prowess in the first encounter prov'd So parted he from us with lengthen'd strides, And left me on the way with those twain spirits, Who were such mighty marshals of the world. When he beyond us had so fled mine eyes No nearer reach'd him, than my thought his words, The branches of another fruit, thick hung, And blooming fresh, appear'd. E'en as our steps Turn'd thither, not far off it rose to view. Beneath it were a multitude, that rais'd Their hands, and shouted forth I know not What Unto the boughs; like greedy and fond brats, That beg, and answer none obtain from him, Of whom they beg; but more to draw them on, He at arm's length the object of their wish Above them holds aloft, and hides it not. At length, as undeceiv'd they went their way: And we approach the tree, who vows and tears Sue to in vain, the mighty tree. "Pass on, And come not near. Stands higher up the wood, Whereof Eve tasted, and from it was ta'en 'this plant." Such sounds from midst the thickets came. Whence I, with either bard, close to the side That rose, pass'd forth beyond. "Remember," next We heard, "those noblest creatures of the clouds, How they their twofold bosoms overgorg'd Oppos'd in fight to Theseus: call to mind The Hebrews, how effeminate they stoop'd To ease their thirst; whence Gideon's ranks were thinn'd, As he to Midian march'd adown the hills." Thus near one border coasting, still we heard The sins of gluttony, with woe erewhile Reguerdon'd. Then along the lonely path, Once more at large, full thousand paces on We travel'd, each contemplative and mute. "Why pensive journey thus ye three alone?" Thus suddenly a voice exclaim'd: whereat I shook, as doth a scar'd and paltry beast; Then rais'd my head to look from whence it came. Was ne'er, in furnace, glass, or metal seen So bright and glowing red, as was the shape I now beheld. "If ye desire to mount," He cried, "here must ye turn. This way he goes, Who goes in quest of peace." His countenance Had dazzled me; and to my guides I fac'd Backward, like one who walks, as sound directs. As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs up On freshen'd wing the air of May, and breathes Of fragrance, all impregn'd with herb and flowers, E'en such a wind I felt upon my front Blow gently, and the moving of a wing Perceiv'd, that moving shed ambrosial smell; And then a voice: "Blessed are they, whom grace Doth so illume, that appetite in them Exhaleth no inordinate desire, Still hung'ring as the rule of temperance wills." CANTO XXV It was an hour, when he who climbs, had need To walk uncrippled: for the sun had now To Taurus the meridian circle left, And to the Scorpion left the night. As one That makes no pause, but presses on his road, Whate'er betide him, if some urgent need Impel: so enter'd we upon our way, One before other; for, but singly, none That steep and narrow scale admits to climb. E'en as the young stork lifteth up his wing Through wish to fly, yet ventures not to quit The nest, and drops it; so in me desire Of questioning my guide arose, and fell, Arriving even to the act, that marks A man prepar'd for speech. Him all our haste Restrain'd not, but thus spake the sire belov'd: Fear not to speed the shaft, that on thy lip Stands trembling for its flight. Encourag'd thus I straight began: "How there can leanness come, Where is no want of nourishment to feed?" "If thou," he answer'd, "hadst remember'd thee, How Meleager with the wasting brand Wasted alike, by equal fires consum'd, This would not trouble thee: and hadst thou thought, How in the mirror your reflected form With mimic motion vibrates, what now seems Hard, had appear'd no harder than the pulp Of summer fruit mature. But that thy will In certainty may find its full repose, Lo Statius here! on him I call, and pray That he would now be healer of thy wound." "If in thy presence I unfold to him The secrets of heaven's vengeance, let me plead Thine own injunction, to exculpate me." So Statius answer'd, and forthwith began: "Attend my words, O son, and in thy mind Receive them: so shall they be light to clear The doubt thou offer'st. Blood, concocted well, Which by the thirsty veins is ne'er imbib'd, And rests as food superfluous, to be ta'en From the replenish'd table, in the heart Derives effectual virtue, that informs The several human limbs, as being that, Which passes through the veins itself to make them. Yet more concocted it descends, where shame Forbids to mention: and from thence distils In natural vessel on another's blood. Then each unite together, one dispos'd T' endure, to act the other, through meet frame Of its recipient mould: that being reach'd, It 'gins to work, coagulating first; Then vivifies what its own substance caus'd To bear. With animation now indued, The active virtue (differing from a plant No further, than that this is on the way And at its limit that) continues yet To operate, that now it moves, and feels, As sea sponge clinging to the rock: and there Assumes th' organic powers its seed convey'd. 'This is the period, son! at which the virtue, That from the generating heart proceeds, Is pliant and expansive; for each limb Is in the heart by forgeful nature plann'd. How babe of animal becomes, remains For thy consid'ring. At this point, more wise, Than thou hast err'd, making the soul disjoin'd From passive intellect, because he saw No organ for the latter's use assign'd. "Open thy bosom to the truth that comes. Know soon as in the embryo, to the brain, Articulation is complete, then turns The primal Mover with a smile of joy On such great work of nature, and imbreathes New spirit replete with virtue, that what here Active it finds, to its own substance draws, And forms an individual soul, that lives, And feels, and bends reflective on itself. And that thou less mayst marvel at the word, Mark the sun's heat, how that to wine doth change, Mix'd with the moisture filter'd through the vine. "When Lachesis hath spun the thread, the soul Takes with her both the human and divine, Memory, intelligence, and will, in act Far keener than before, the other powers Inactive all and mute. No pause allow'd, In wond'rous sort self-moving, to one strand Of those, where the departed roam, she falls, Here learns her destin'd path. Soon as the place Receives her, round the plastic virtue beams, Distinct as in the living limbs before: And as the air, when saturate with showers, The casual beam refracting, decks itself With many a hue; so here the ambient air Weareth that form, which influence of the soul Imprints on it; and like the flame, that where The fire moves, thither follows, so henceforth The new form on the spirit follows still: Hence hath it semblance, and is shadow call'd, With each sense even to the sight endued: Hence speech is ours, hence laughter, tears, and sighs Which thou mayst oft have witness'd on the mount Th' obedient shadow fails not to present Whatever varying passion moves within us. And this the cause of what thou marvel'st at." Now the last flexure of our way we reach'd, And to the right hand turning, other care Awaits us. Here the rocky precipice Hurls forth redundant flames, and from the rim A blast upblown, with forcible rebuff Driveth them back, sequester'd from its bound. Behoov'd us, one by one, along the side, That border'd on the void, to pass; and I Fear'd on one hand the fire, on th' other fear'd Headlong to fall: when thus th' instructor warn'd: "Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes. A little swerving and the way is lost." Then from the bosom of the burning mass, "O God of mercy!" heard I sung; and felt No less desire to turn. And when I saw Spirits along the flame proceeding, I Between their footsteps and mine own was fain To share by turns my view. At the hymn's close They shouted loud, "I do not know a man;" Then in low voice again took up the strain, Which once more ended, "To the wood," they cried, "Ran Dian, and drave forth Callisto, stung With Cytherea's poison:" then return'd Unto their song; then marry a pair extoll'd, Who liv'd in virtue chastely, and the bands Of wedded love. Nor from that task, I ween, Surcease they; whilesoe'er the scorching fire Enclasps them. Of such skill appliance needs To medicine the wound, that healeth last. 
8794	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Part 5 Cantos 26 - 33 CANTO XXVI While singly thus along the rim we walk'd, Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well. Avail it that I caution thee." The sun Now all the western clime irradiate chang'd From azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd, My passing shadow made the umber'd flame Burn ruddier. At so strange a sight I mark'd That many a spirit marvel'd on his way. This bred occasion first to speak of me, "He seems," said they, "no insubstantial frame:" Then to obtain what certainty they might, Stretch'd towards me, careful not to overpass The burning pale. "O thou, who followest The others, haply not more slow than they, But mov'd by rev'rence, answer me, who burn In thirst and fire: nor I alone, but these All for thine answer do more thirst, than doth Indian or Aethiop for the cooling stream. Tell us, how is it that thou mak'st thyself A wall against the sun, as thou not yet Into th' inextricable toils of death Hadst enter'd?" Thus spake one, and I had straight Declar'd me, if attention had not turn'd To new appearance. Meeting these, there came, Midway the burning path, a crowd, on whom Earnestly gazing, from each part I view The shadows all press forward, sev'rally Each snatch a hasty kiss, and then away. E'en so the emmets, 'mid their dusky troops, Peer closely one at other, to spy out Their mutual road perchance, and how they thrive. That friendly greeting parted, ere dispatch Of the first onward step, from either tribe Loud clamour rises: those, who newly come, Shout "Sodom and Gomorrah!" these, "The cow Pasiphae enter'd, that the beast she woo'd Might rush unto her luxury." Then as cranes, That part towards the Riphaean mountains fly, Part towards the Lybic sands, these to avoid The ice, and those the sun; so hasteth off One crowd, advances th' other; and resume Their first song weeping, and their several shout. Again drew near my side the very same, Who had erewhile besought me, and their looks Mark'd eagerness to listen. I, who twice Their will had noted, spake: "O spirits secure, Whene'er the time may be, of peaceful end! My limbs, nor crude, nor in mature old age, Have I left yonder: here they bear me, fed With blood, and sinew-strung. That I no more May live in blindness, hence I tend aloft. There is a dame on high, who wind for us This grace, by which my mortal through your realm I bear. But may your utmost wish soon meet Such full fruition, that the orb of heaven, Fullest of love, and of most ample space, Receive you, as ye tell (upon my page Henceforth to stand recorded) who ye are, And what this multitude, that at your backs Have past behind us." As one, mountain-bred, Rugged and clownish, if some city's walls He chance to enter, round him stares agape, Confounded and struck dumb; e'en such appear'd Each spirit. But when rid of that amaze, (Not long the inmate of a noble heart) He, who before had question'd, thus resum'd: "O blessed, who, for death preparing, tak'st Experience of our limits, in thy bark! Their crime, who not with us proceed, was that, For which, as he did triumph, Caesar heard The snout of 'queen,' to taunt him. Hence their cry Of 'Sodom,' as they parted, to rebuke Themselves, and aid the burning by their shame. Our sinning was Hermaphrodite: but we, Because the law of human kind we broke, Following like beasts our vile concupiscence, Hence parting from them, to our own disgrace Record the name of her, by whom the beast In bestial tire was acted. Now our deeds Thou know'st, and how we sinn'd. If thou by name Wouldst haply know us, time permits not now To tell so much, nor can I. Of myself Learn what thou wishest. Guinicelli I, Who having truly sorrow'd ere my last, Already cleanse me." With such pious joy, As the two sons upon their mother gaz'd From sad Lycurgus rescu'd, such my joy (Save that I more represt it) when I heard From his own lips the name of him pronounc'd, Who was a father to me, and to those My betters, who have ever us'd the sweet And pleasant rhymes of love. So nought I heard Nor spake, but long time thoughtfully I went, Gazing on him; and, only for the fire, Approach'd not nearer. When my eyes were fed By looking on him, with such solemn pledge, As forces credence, I devoted me Unto his service wholly. In reply He thus bespake me: "What from thee I hear Is grav'd so deeply on my mind, the waves Of Lethe shall not wash it off, nor make A whit less lively. But as now thy oath Has seal'd the truth, declare what cause impels That love, which both thy looks and speech bewray." "Those dulcet lays," I answer'd, "which, as long As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, Shall make us love the very ink that trac'd them." "Brother!" he cried, and pointed at a shade Before him, "there is one, whose mother speech Doth owe to him a fairer ornament. He in love ditties and the tales of prose Without a rival stands, and lets the fools Talk on, who think the songster of Limoges O'ertops him. Rumour and the popular voice They look to more than truth, and so confirm Opinion, ere by art or reason taught. Thus many of the elder time cried up Guittone, giving him the prize, till truth By strength of numbers vanquish'd. If thou own So ample privilege, as to have gain'd Free entrance to the cloister, whereof Christ Is Abbot of the college, say to him One paternoster for me, far as needs For dwellers in this world, where power to sin No longer tempts us." Haply to make way For one, that follow'd next, when that was said, He vanish'd through the fire, as through the wave A fish, that glances diving to the deep. I, to the spirit he had shown me, drew A little onward, and besought his name, For which my heart, I said, kept gracious room. He frankly thus began: "Thy courtesy So wins on me, I have nor power nor will To hide me. I am Arnault; and with songs, Sorely lamenting for my folly past, Thorough this ford of fire I wade, and see The day, I hope for, smiling in my view. I pray ye by the worth that guides ye up Unto the summit of the scale, in time Remember ye my suff'rings." With such words He disappear'd in the refining flame. CANTO XXVII Now was the sun so station'd, as when first His early radiance quivers on the heights, Where stream'd his Maker's blood, while Libra hangs Above Hesperian Ebro, and new fires Meridian flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the' angel of God Appear'd before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink, And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpass'd our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he Sang: then near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as one Laid in the grave. My hands together clasp'd, And upward stretching, on the fire I look'd, And busy fancy conjur'd up the forms Erewhile beheld alive consum'd in flames. Th' escorting spirits turn'd with gentle looks Toward me, and the Mantuan spake: "My son, Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death. Remember thee, remember thee, if I Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee: now I come More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now? Of this be sure: though in its womb that flame A thousand years contain'd thee, from thy head No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth, Approach, and with thy hands thy vesture's hem Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief. Lay now all fear, O lay all fear aside. Turn hither, and come onward undismay'd." I still, though conscience urg'd' no step advanc'd. When still he saw me fix'd and obstinate, Somewhat disturb'd he cried: "Mark now, my son, From Beatrice thou art by this wall Divided." As at Thisbe's name the eye Of Pyramus was open'd (when life ebb'd Fast from his veins), and took one parting glance, While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turn'd To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard The name, that springs forever in my breast. He shook his forehead; and, "How long," he said, "Linger we now?" then smil'd, as one would smile Upon a child, that eyes the fruit and yields. Into the fire before me then he walk'd; And Statius, who erewhile no little space Had parted us, he pray'd to come behind. I would have cast me into molten glass To cool me, when I enter'd; so intense Rag'd the conflagrant mass. The sire belov'd, To comfort me, as he proceeded, still Of Beatrice talk'd. "Her eyes," saith he, "E'en now I seem to view." From the other side A voice, that sang, did guide us, and the voice Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard, "Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds, That hail'd us from within a light, which shone So radiant, I could not endure the view. "The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes. Delay not: ere the western sky is hung With blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our way Upright within the rock arose, and fac'd Such part of heav'n, that from before my steps The beams were shrouded of the sinking sun. Nor many stairs were overpass, when now By fading of the shadow we perceiv'd The sun behind us couch'd: and ere one face Of darkness o'er its measureless expanse Involv'd th' horizon, and the night her lot Held individual, each of us had made A stair his pallet: not that will, but power, Had fail'd us, by the nature of that mount Forbidden further travel. As the goats, That late have skipp'd and wanton'd rapidly Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en Their supper on the herb, now silent lie And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown, While noonday rages; and the goatherd leans Upon his staff, and leaning watches them: And as the swain, that lodges out all night In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey Disperse them; even so all three abode, I as a goat and as the shepherds they, Close pent on either side by shelving rock. A little glimpse of sky was seen above; Yet by that little I beheld the stars In magnitude and rustle shining forth With more than wonted glory. As I lay, Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing, Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oft Tidings of future hap. About the hour, As I believe, when Venus from the east First lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orb Seems always glowing with the fire of love, A lady young and beautiful, I dream'd, Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came, Methought I saw her ever and anon Bending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang: "Know ye, whoever of my name would ask, That I am Leah: for my brow to weave A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply. To please me at the crystal mirror, here I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she Before her glass abides the livelong day, Her radiant eyes beholding, charm'd no less, Than I with this delightful task. Her joy In contemplation, as in labour mine." And now as glimm'ring dawn appear'd, that breaks More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he Sojourns less distant on his homeward way, Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled My slumber; whence I rose and saw my guide Already risen. "That delicious fruit, Which through so many a branch the zealous care Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day Appease thy hunger." Such the words I heard From Virgil's lip; and never greeting heard So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight Desire so grew upon desire to mount, Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings Increasing for my flight. When we had run O'er all the ladder to its topmost round, As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'd His eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son, The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen, And art arriv'd, where of itself my ken No further reaches. I with skill and art Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, O'ercome the straighter. Lo! the sun, that darts His beam upon thy forehead! lo! the herb, The arboreta and flowers, which of itself This land pours forth profuse! Will those bright eyes With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste To succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down, Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more Sanction of warning voice or sign from me, Free of thy own arbitrement to choose, Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense Were henceforth error. I invest thee then With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself." CANTO XXVIII Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade With lively greenness the new-springing day Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank, Along the champain leisurely my way Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides Delicious odour breath'd. A pleasant air, That intermitted never, never veer'd, Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind Of softest influence: at which the sprays, Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part Where first the holy mountain casts his shade, Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still Upon their top the feather'd quiristers Applied their wonted art, and with full joy Welcom'd those hours of prime, and warbled shrill Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays inept tenor; even as from branch to branch, Along the piney forests on the shore Of Chiassi, rolls the gath'ring melody, When Eolus hath from his cavern loos'd The dripping south. Already had my steps, Though slow, so far into that ancient wood Transported me, I could not ken the place Where I had enter'd, when behold! my path Was bounded by a rill, which to the left With little rippling waters bent the grass, That issued from its brink. On earth no wave How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have Some mixture in itself, compar'd with this, Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll'd, Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er Admits or sun or moon light there to shine. My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyes Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey The tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue, In prodigal variety: and there, As object, rising suddenly to view, That from our bosom every thought beside With the rare marvel chases, I beheld A lady all alone, who, singing, went, And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful! Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart, Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beam Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd: "Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song. Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks, I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd Proserpine, in that season, when her child The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring." As when a lady, turning in the dance, Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce One step before the other to the ground; Over the yellow and vermilion flowers Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like, Valing her sober eyes, and came so near, That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound. Arriving where the limped waters now Lav'd the green sward, her eyes she deign'd to raise, That shot such splendour on me, as I ween Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart. Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil'd through her graceful fingers shifted still The intermingling dyes, which without seed That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er, (A curb for ever to the pride of man) Was by Leander not more hateful held For floating, with inhospitable wave 'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me That flood, because it gave no passage thence. "Strangers ye come, and haply in this place, That cradled human nature in its birth, Wond'ring, ye not without suspicion view My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody, 'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,' will give ye light, Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me, Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine." She spake; and I replied: "I know not how To reconcile this wave and rustling sound Of forest leaves, with what I late have heard Of opposite report." She answering thus: "I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds, Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloud That hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joy Is only in himself, created man For happiness, and gave this goodly place, His pledge and earnest of eternal peace. Favour'd thus highly, through his own defect He fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell, And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang'd Laughter unblam'd and ever-new delight. That vapours none, exhal'd from earth beneath, Or from the waters (which, wherever heat Attracts them, follow), might ascend thus far To vex man's peaceful state, this mountain rose So high toward the heav'n, nor fears the rage Of elements contending, from that part Exempted, where the gate his limit bars. Because the circumambient air throughout With its first impulse circles still, unless Aught interpose to cheek or thwart its course; Upon the summit, which on every side To visitation of th' impassive air Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes Beneath its sway th' umbrageous wood resound: And in the shaken plant such power resides, That it impregnates with its efficacy The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume That wafted flies abroad; and th' other land Receiving (as 't is worthy in itself, Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive, And from its womb produces many a tree Of various virtue. This when thou hast heard, The marvel ceases, if in yonder earth Some plant without apparent seed be found To fix its fibrous stem. And further learn, That with prolific foison of all seeds, This holy plain is fill'd, and in itself Bears fruit that ne'er was pluck'd on other soil. "The water, thou behold'st, springs not from vein, As stream, that intermittently repairs And spends his pulse of life, but issues forth From fountain, solid, undecaying, sure; And by the will omnific, full supply Feeds whatsoe'er On either side it pours; On this devolv'd with power to take away Remembrance of offence, on that to bring Remembrance back of every good deed done. From whence its name of Lethe on this part; On th' other Eunoe: both of which must first Be tasted ere it work; the last exceeding All flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may now Be well contented, if I here break off, No more revealing: yet a corollary I freely give beside: nor deem my words Less grateful to thee, if they somewhat pass The stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yore The golden age recorded and its bliss, On the Parnassian mountain, of this place Perhaps had dream'd. Here was man guiltless, here Perpetual spring and every fruit, and this The far-fam'd nectar." Turning to the bards, When she had ceas'd, I noted in their looks A smile at her conclusion; then my face Again directed to the lovely dame. CANTO XXIX Singing, as if enamour'd, she resum'd And clos'd the song, with "Blessed they whose sins Are cover'd." Like the wood-nymphs then, that tripp'd Singly across the sylvan shadows, one Eager to view and one to 'scape the sun, So mov'd she on, against the current, up The verdant rivage. I, her mincing step Observing, with as tardy step pursued. Between us not an hundred paces trod, The bank, on each side bending equally, Gave me to face the orient. Nor our way Far onward brought us, when to me at once She turn'd, and cried: "My brother! look and hearken." And lo! a sudden lustre ran across Through the great forest on all parts, so bright I doubted whether lightning were abroad; But that expiring ever in the spleen, That doth unfold it, and this during still And waxing still in splendor, made me question What it might be: and a sweet melody Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide With warrantable zeal the hardihood Of our first parent, for that there were earth Stood in obedience to the heav'ns, she only, Woman, the creature of an hour, endur'd not Restraint of any veil: which had she borne Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these, Had from the first, and long time since, been mine. While through that wilderness of primy sweets That never fade, suspense I walk'd, and yet Expectant of beatitude more high, Before us, like a blazing fire, the air Under the green boughs glow'd; and, for a song, Distinct the sound of melody was heard. O ye thrice holy virgins! for your sakes If e'er I suffer'd hunger, cold and watching, Occasion calls on me to crave your bounty. Now through my breast let Helicon his stream Pour copious; and Urania with her choir Arise to aid me: while the verse unfolds Things that do almost mock the grasp of thought. Onward a space, what seem'd seven trees of gold, The intervening distance to mine eye Falsely presented; but when I was come So near them, that no lineament was lost Of those, with which a doubtful object, seen Remotely, plays on the misdeeming sense, Then did the faculty, that ministers Discourse to reason, these for tapers of gold Distinguish, and it th' singing trace the sound "Hosanna." Above, their beauteous garniture Flam'd with more ample lustre, than the moon Through cloudless sky at midnight in her full. I turn'd me full of wonder to my guide; And he did answer with a countenance Charg'd with no less amazement: whence my view Reverted to those lofty things, which came So slowly moving towards us, that the bride Would have outstript them on her bridal day. The lady called aloud: "Why thus yet burns Affection in thee for these living, lights, And dost not look on that which follows them?" I straightway mark'd a tribe behind them walk, As if attendant on their leaders, cloth'd With raiment of such whiteness, as on earth Was never. On my left, the wat'ry gleam Borrow'd, and gave me back, when there I look'd. As in a mirror, my left side portray'd. When I had chosen on the river's edge Such station, that the distance of the stream Alone did separate me; there I stay'd My steps for clearer prospect, and beheld The flames go onward, leaving, as they went, The air behind them painted as with trail Of liveliest pencils! so distinct were mark'd All those sev'n listed colours, whence the sun Maketh his bow, and Cynthia her zone. These streaming gonfalons did flow beyond My vision; and ten paces, as I guess, Parted the outermost. Beneath a sky So beautiful, came foul and-twenty elders, By two and two, with flower-de-luces crown'd. All sang one song: "Blessed be thou among The daughters of Adam! and thy loveliness Blessed for ever!" After that the flowers, And the fresh herblets, on the opposite brink, Were free from that elected race; as light In heav'n doth second light, came after them Four animals, each crown'd with verdurous leaf. With six wings each was plum'd, the plumage full Of eyes, and th' eyes of Argus would be such, Were they endued with life. Reader, more rhymes Will not waste in shadowing forth their form: For other need no straitens, that in this I may not give my bounty room. But read Ezekiel; for he paints them, from the north How he beheld them come by Chebar's flood, In whirlwind, cloud and fire; and even such As thou shalt find them character'd by him, Here were they; save as to the pennons; there, From him departing, John accords with me. The space, surrounded by the four, enclos'd A car triumphal: on two wheels it came Drawn at a Gryphon's neck; and he above Stretch'd either wing uplifted, 'tween the midst And the three listed hues, on each side three; So that the wings did cleave or injure none; And out of sight they rose. The members, far As he was bird, were golden; white the rest With vermeil intervein'd. So beautiful A car in Rome ne'er grac'd Augustus pomp, Or Africanus': e'en the sun's itself Were poor to this, that chariot of the sun Erroneous, which in blazing ruin fell At Tellus' pray'r devout, by the just doom Mysterious of all-seeing Jove. Three nymphs at the right wheel, came circling in smooth dance; The one so ruddy, that her form had scarce Been known within a furnace of clear flame: The next did look, as if the flesh and bones Were emerald: snow new-fallen seem'd the third. Now seem'd the white to lead, the ruddy now; And from her song who led, the others took Their treasure, swift or slow. At th' other wheel, A band quaternion, each in purple clad, Advanc'd with festal step, as of them one The rest conducted, one, upon whose front Three eyes were seen. In rear of all this group, Two old men I beheld, dissimilar In raiment, but in port and gesture like, Solid and mainly grave; of whom the one Did show himself some favour'd counsellor Of the great Coan, him, whom nature made To serve the costliest creature of her tribe. His fellow mark'd an opposite intent, Bearing a sword, whose glitterance and keen edge, E'en as I view'd it with the flood between, Appall'd me. Next four others I beheld, Of humble seeming: and, behind them all, One single old man, sleeping, as he came, With a shrewd visage. And these seven, each Like the first troop were habited, but wore No braid of lilies on their temples wreath'd. Rather with roses and each vermeil flower, A sight, but little distant, might have sworn, That they were all on fire above their brow. Whenas the car was o'er against me, straight. Was heard a thund'ring, at whose voice it seem'd The chosen multitude were stay'd; for there, With the first ensigns, made they solemn halt. CANTO XXX Soon as the polar light, which never knows Setting nor rising, nor the shadowy veil Of other cloud than sin, fair ornament Of the first heav'n, to duty each one there Safely convoying, as that lower doth The steersman to his port, stood firmly fix'd; Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the van Between the Gryphon and its radiance came, Did turn them to the car, as to their rest: And one, as if commission'd from above, In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud: "Come, spouse, from Libanus!" and all the rest Took up the song--At the last audit so The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh, As, on the sacred litter, at the voice Authoritative of that elder, sprang A hundred ministers and messengers Of life eternal. "Blessed thou! who com'st!" And, "O," they cried, "from full hands scatter ye Unwith'ring lilies;" and, so saying, cast Flowers over head and round them on all sides. I have beheld, ere now, at break of day, The eastern clime all roseate, and the sky Oppos'd, one deep and beautiful serene, And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists Attemper'd at lids rising, that the eye Long while endur'd the sight: thus in a cloud Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose, And down, within and outside of the car, Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath'd, A virgin in my view appear'd, beneath Green mantle, rob'd in hue of living flame: And o'er my Spirit, that in former days Within her presence had abode so long, No shudd'ring terror crept. Mine eyes no more Had knowledge of her; yet there mov'd from her A hidden virtue, at whose touch awak'd, The power of ancient love was strong within me. No sooner on my vision streaming, smote The heav'nly influence, which years past, and e'en In childhood, thrill'd me, than towards Virgil I Turn'd me to leftward, panting, like a babe, That flees for refuge to his mother's breast, If aught have terrified or work'd him woe: And would have cried: "There is no dram of blood, That doth not quiver in me. The old flame Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire:" But Virgil had bereav'd us of himself, Virgil, my best-lov'd father; Virgil, he To whom I gave me up for safety: nor, All, our prime mother lost, avail'd to save My undew'd cheeks from blur of soiling tears. "Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay, Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edge Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that." As to the prow or stern, some admiral Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, When 'mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; Thus on the left side of the car I saw, (Turning me at the sound of mine own name, Which here I am compell'd to register) The virgin station'd, who before appeared Veil'd in that festive shower angelical. Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes; Though from her brow the veil descending, bound With foliage of Minerva, suffer'd not That I beheld her clearly; then with act Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall, Added, as one, who speaking keepeth back The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech: "Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am Beatrice. What! and hast thou deign'd at last Approach the mountainnewest not, O man! Thy happiness is whole?" Down fell mine eyes On the clear fount, but there, myself espying, Recoil'd, and sought the greensward: such a weight Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien Of that stern majesty, which doth surround mother's presence to her awe-struck child, She look'd; a flavour of such bitterness Was mingled in her pity. There her words Brake off, and suddenly the angels sang: "In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:" But went no farther than, "Thou Lord, hast set My feet in ample room." As snow, that lies Amidst the living rafters on the back Of Italy congeal'd when drifted high And closely pil'd by rough Sclavonian blasts, Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls, And straightway melting it distils away, Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I, Without a sigh or tear, or ever these Did sing, that with the chiming of heav'n's sphere, Still in their warbling chime: but when the strain Of dulcet symphony, express'd for me Their soft compassion, more than could the words "Virgin, why so consum'st him?" then the ice, Congeal'd about my bosom, turn'd itself To spirit and water, and with anguish forth Gush'd through the lips and eyelids from the heart. Upon the chariot's right edge still she stood, Immovable, and thus address'd her words To those bright semblances with pity touch'd: "Ye in th' eternal day your vigils keep, So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth, Conveys from you a single step in all The goings on of life: thence with more heed I shape mine answer, for his ear intended, Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow now May equal the transgression. Not alone Through operation of the mighty orbs, That mark each seed to some predestin'd aim, As with aspect or fortunate or ill The constellations meet, but through benign Largess of heav'nly graces, which rain down From such a height, as mocks our vision, this man Was in the freshness of his being, such, So gifted virtually, that in him All better habits wond'rously had thriv'd. The more of kindly strength is in the soil, So much doth evil seed and lack of culture Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness. These looks sometime upheld him; for I show'd My youthful eyes, and led him by their light In upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd The threshold of my second age, and chang'd My mortal for immortal, then he left me, And gave himself to others. When from flesh To spirit I had risen, and increase Of beauty and of virtue circled me, I was less dear to him, and valued less. His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways, Following false images of good, that make No promise perfect. Nor avail'd me aught To sue for inspirations, with the which, I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise, Did call him back; of them so little reck'd him, Such depth he fell, that all device was short Of his preserving, save that he should view The children of perdition. To this end I visited the purlieus of the dead: And one, who hath conducted him thus high, Receiv'd my supplications urg'd with weeping. It were a breaking of God's high decree, If Lethe should be past, and such food tasted Without the cost of some repentant tear." CANTO XXXI "O Thou!" her words she thus without delay Resuming, turn'd their point on me, to whom They but with lateral edge seem'd harsh before, "Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream, If this be true. A charge so grievous needs Thine own avowal." On my faculty Such strange amazement hung, the voice expir'd Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth. A little space refraining, then she spake: "What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The wave On thy remembrances of evil yet Hath done no injury." A mingled sense Of fear and of confusion, from my lips Did such a "Yea" produce, as needed help Of vision to interpret. As when breaks In act to be discharg'd, a cross-bow bent Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretch'd, The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark; Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst Beneath the heavy load, and thus my voice Was slacken'd on its way. She straight began: "When my desire invited thee to love The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings, What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain Did meet thee, that thou so should'st quit the hope Of further progress, or what bait of ease Or promise of allurement led thee on Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere should'st rather wait?" A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voice To answer, hardly to these sounds my lips Gave utterance, wailing: "Thy fair looks withdrawn, Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turn'd My steps aside." She answering spake: "Hadst thou Been silent, or denied what thou avow'st, Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more: such eye Observes it. But whene'er the sinner's cheek Breaks forth into the precious-streaming tears Of self-accusing, in our court the wheel Of justice doth run counter to the edge. Howe'er that thou may'st profit by thy shame For errors past, and that henceforth more strength May arm thee, when thou hear'st the Siren-voice, Lay thou aside the motive to this grief, And lend attentive ear, while I unfold How opposite a way my buried flesh Should have impell'd thee. Never didst thou spy In art or nature aught so passing sweet, As were the limbs, that in their beauteous frame Enclos'd me, and are scatter'd now in dust. If sweetest thing thus fail'd thee with my death, What, afterward, of mortal should thy wish Have tempted? When thou first hadst felt the dart Of perishable things, in my departing For better realms, thy wing thou should'st have prun'd To follow me, and never stoop'd again To 'bide a second blow for a slight girl, Or other gaud as transient and as vain. The new and inexperienc'd bird awaits, Twice it may be, or thrice, the fowler's aim; But in the sight of one, whose plumes are full, In vain the net is spread, the arrow wing'd." I stood, as children silent and asham'd Stand, list'ning, with their eyes upon the earth, Acknowledging their fault and self-condemn'd. And she resum'd: "If, but to hear thus pains thee, Raise thou thy beard, and lo! what sight shall do!" With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm, Rent from its fibers by a blast, that blows From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land, Than I at her behest my visage rais'd: And thus the face denoting by the beard, I mark'd the secret sting her words convey'd. No sooner lifted I mine aspect up, Than downward sunk that vision I beheld Of goodly creatures vanish; and mine eyes Yet unassur'd and wavering, bent their light On Beatrice. Towards the animal, Who joins two natures in one form, she turn'd, And, even under shadow of her veil, And parted by the verdant rill, that flow'd Between, in loveliness appear'd as much Her former self surpassing, as on earth All others she surpass'd. Remorseful goads Shot sudden through me. Each thing else, the more Its love had late beguil'd me, now the more I Was loathsome. On my heart so keenly smote The bitter consciousness, that on the ground O'erpower'd I fell: and what my state was then, She knows who was the cause. When now my strength Flow'd back, returning outward from the heart, The lady, whom alone I first had seen, I found above me. "Loose me not," she cried: "Loose not thy hold;" and lo! had dragg'd me high As to my neck into the stream, while she, Still as she drew me after, swept along, Swift as a shuttle, bounding o'er the wave. The blessed shore approaching then was heard So sweetly, "Tu asperges me," that I May not remember, much less tell the sound. The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasp'd My temples, and immerg'd me, where 't was fit The wave should drench me: and thence raising up, Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphs Presented me so lav'd, and with their arm They each did cover me. "Here are we nymphs, And in the heav'n are stars. Or ever earth Was visited of Beatrice, we Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her. We to her eyes will lead thee; but the light Of gladness that is in them, well to scan, Those yonder three, of deeper ken than ours, Thy sight shall quicken." Thus began their song; And then they led me to the Gryphon's breast, While, turn'd toward us, Beatrice stood. "Spare not thy vision. We have stationed thee Before the emeralds, whence love erewhile Hath drawn his weapons on thee." As they spake, A thousand fervent wishes riveted Mine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood Still fix'd toward the Gryphon motionless. As the sun strikes a mirror, even thus Within those orbs the twofold being, shone, For ever varying, in one figure now Reflected, now in other. Reader! muse How wond'rous in my sight it seem'd to mark A thing, albeit steadfast in itself, Yet in its imag'd semblance mutable. Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soul Fed on the viand, whereof still desire Grows with satiety, the other three With gesture, that declar'd a loftier line, Advanc'd: to their own carol on they came Dancing in festive ring angelical. "Turn, Beatrice!" was their song: "O turn Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one, Who to behold thee many a wearisome pace Hath measur'd. Gracious at our pray'r vouchsafe Unveil to him thy cheeks: that he may mark Thy second beauty, now conceal'd." O splendour! O sacred light eternal! who is he So pale with musing in Pierian shades, Or with that fount so lavishly imbued, Whose spirit should not fail him in th' essay To represent thee such as thou didst seem, When under cope of the still-chiming heaven Thou gav'st to open air thy charms reveal'd. CANTO XXXII Mine eyes with such an eager coveting, Were bent to rid them of their ten years' thirst, No other sense was waking: and e'en they Were fenc'd on either side from heed of aught; So tangled in its custom'd toils that smile Of saintly brightness drew me to itself, When forcibly toward the left my sight The sacred virgins turn'd; for from their lips I heard the warning sounds: "Too fix'd a gaze!" Awhile my vision labor'd; as when late Upon the' o'erstrained eyes the sun hath smote: But soon to lesser object, as the view Was now recover'd (lesser in respect To that excess of sensible, whence late I had perforce been sunder'd) on their right I mark'd that glorious army wheel, and turn, Against the sun and sev'nfold lights, their front. As when, their bucklers for protection rais'd, A well-rang'd troop, with portly banners curl'd, Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground: E'en thus the goodly regiment of heav'n Proceeding, all did pass us, ere the car Had slop'd his beam. Attendant at the wheels The damsels turn'd; and on the Gryphon mov'd The sacred burden, with a pace so smooth, No feather on him trembled. The fair dame Who through the wave had drawn me, companied By Statius and myself, pursued the wheel, Whose orbit, rolling, mark'd a lesser arch. Through the high wood, now void (the more her blame, Who by the serpent was beguil'd) I past With step in cadence to the harmony Angelic. Onward had we mov'd, as far Perchance as arrow at three several flights Full wing'd had sped, when from her station down Descended Beatrice. With one voice All murmur'd "Adam," circling next a plant Despoil'd of flowers and leaf on every bough. Its tresses, spreading more as more they rose, Were such, as 'midst their forest wilds for height The Indians might have gaz'd at. "Blessed thou! Gryphon, whose beak hath never pluck'd that tree Pleasant to taste: for hence the appetite Was warp'd to evil." Round the stately trunk Thus shouted forth the rest, to whom return'd The animal twice-gender'd: "Yea: for so The generation of the just are sav'd." And turning to the chariot-pole, to foot He drew it of the widow'd branch, and bound There left unto the stock whereon it grew. As when large floods of radiance from above Stream, with that radiance mingled, which ascends Next after setting of the scaly sign, Our plants then burgeon, and each wears anew His wonted colours, ere the sun have yok'd Beneath another star his flamy steeds; Thus putting forth a hue, more faint than rose, And deeper than the violet, was renew'd The plant, erewhile in all its branches bare. Unearthly was the hymn, which then arose. I understood it not, nor to the end Endur'd the harmony. Had I the skill To pencil forth, how clos'd th' unpitying eyes Slumb'ring, when Syrinx warbled, (eyes that paid So dearly for their watching,) then like painter, That with a model paints, I might design The manner of my falling into sleep. But feign who will the slumber cunningly; I pass it by to when I wak'd, and tell How suddenly a flash of splendour rent The curtain of my sleep, and one cries out: "Arise, what dost thou?" As the chosen three, On Tabor's mount, admitted to behold The blossoming of that fair tree, whose fruit Is coveted of angels, and doth make Perpetual feast in heaven, to themselves Returning at the word, whence deeper sleeps Were broken, that they their tribe diminish'd saw, Both Moses and Elias gone, and chang'd The stole their master wore: thus to myself Returning, over me beheld I stand The piteous one, who cross the stream had brought My steps. "And where," all doubting, I exclaim'd, "Is Beatrice?"--"See her," she replied, "Beneath the fresh leaf seated on its root. Behold th' associate choir that circles her. The others, with a melody more sweet And more profound, journeying to higher realms, Upon the Gryphon tend." If there her words Were clos'd, I know not; but mine eyes had now Ta'en view of her, by whom all other thoughts Were barr'd admittance. On the very ground Alone she sat, as she had there been left A guard upon the wain, which I beheld Bound to the twyform beast. The seven nymphs Did make themselves a cloister round about her, And in their hands upheld those lights secure From blast septentrion and the gusty south. "A little while thou shalt be forester here: And citizen shalt be forever with me, Of that true Rome, wherein Christ dwells a Roman To profit the misguided world, keep now Thine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest, Take heed thou write, returning to that place." Thus Beatrice: at whose feet inclin'd Devout, at her behest, my thought and eyes, I, as she bade, directed. Never fire, With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloud Leap'd downward from the welkin's farthest bound, As I beheld the bird of Jove descending Pounce on the tree, and, as he rush'd, the rind, Disparting crush beneath him, buds much more And leaflets. On the car with all his might He struck, whence, staggering like a ship, it reel'd, At random driv'n, to starboard now, o'ercome, And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves. Next springing up into the chariot's womb A fox I saw, with hunger seeming pin'd Of all good food. But, for his ugly sins The saintly maid rebuking him, away Scamp'ring he turn'd, fast as his hide-bound corpse Would bear him. Next, from whence before he came, I saw the eagle dart into the hull O' th' car, and leave it with his feathers lin'd; And then a voice, like that which issues forth From heart with sorrow riv'd, did issue forth From heav'n, and, "O poor bark of mine!" it cried, "How badly art thou freighted!" Then, it seem'd, That the earth open'd between either wheel, And I beheld a dragon issue thence, That through the chariot fix'd his forked train; And like a wasp that draggeth back the sting, So drawing forth his baleful train, he dragg'd Part of the bottom forth, and went his way Exulting. What remain'd, as lively turf With green herb, so did clothe itself with plumes, Which haply had with purpose chaste and kind Been offer'd; and therewith were cloth'd the wheels, Both one and other, and the beam, so quickly A sigh were not breath'd sooner. Thus transform'd, The holy structure, through its several parts, Did put forth heads, three on the beam, and one On every side; the first like oxen horn'd, But with a single horn upon their front The four. Like monster sight hath never seen. O'er it methought there sat, secure as rock On mountain's lofty top, a shameless whore, Whose ken rov'd loosely round her. At her side, As 't were that none might bear her off, I saw A giant stand; and ever, and anon They mingled kisses. But, her lustful eyes Chancing on me to wander, that fell minion Scourg'd her from head to foot all o'er; then full Of jealousy, and fierce with rage, unloos'd The monster, and dragg'd on, so far across The forest, that from me its shades alone Shielded the harlot and the new-form'd brute. CANTO XXXIII "The heathen, Lord! are come!" responsive thus, The trinal now, and now the virgin band Quaternion, their sweet psalmody began, Weeping; and Beatrice listen'd, sad And sighing, to the song', in such a mood, That Mary, as she stood beside the cross, Was scarce more chang'd. But when they gave her place To speak, then, risen upright on her feet, She, with a colour glowing bright as fire, Did answer: "Yet a little while, and ye Shall see me not; and, my beloved sisters, Again a little while, and ye shall see me." Before her then she marshall'd all the seven, And, beck'ning only motion'd me, the dame, And that remaining sage, to follow her. So on she pass'd; and had not set, I ween, Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyes Her eyes encounter'd; and, with visage mild, "So mend thy pace," she cried, "that if my words Address thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac'd To hear them." Soon as duly to her side I now had hasten'd: "Brother!" she began, "Why mak'st thou no attempt at questioning, As thus we walk together?" Like to those Who, speaking with too reverent an awe Before their betters, draw not forth the voice Alive unto their lips, befell me shell That I in sounds imperfect thus began: "Lady! what I have need of, that thou know'st, And what will suit my need." She answering thus: "Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thou Henceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more, As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me: The vessel, which thou saw'st the serpent break, Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame, Hope not to scare God's vengeance with a sop. Without an heir for ever shall not be That eagle, he, who left the chariot plum'd, Which monster made it first and next a prey. Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the stars E'en now approaching, whose conjunction, free From all impediment and bar, brings on A season, in the which, one sent from God, (Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out) That foul one, and th' accomplice of her guilt, The giant, both shall slay. And if perchance My saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx, Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foils The intellect with blindness) yet ere long Events shall be the Naiads, that will solve This knotty riddle, and no damage light On flock or field. Take heed; and as these words By me are utter'd, teach them even so To those who live that life, which is a race To death: and when thou writ'st them, keep in mind Not to conceal how thou hast seen the plant, That twice hath now been spoil'd. This whoso robs, This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deed Sins against God, who for his use alone Creating hallow'd it. For taste of this, In pain and in desire, five thousand years And upward, the first soul did yearn for him, Who punish'd in himself the fatal gust. "Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this height And summit thus inverted of the plant, Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts, As Elsa's numbing waters, to thy soul, And their fond pleasures had not dyed it dark As Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen, In such momentous circumstance alone, God's equal justice morally implied In the forbidden tree. But since I mark thee In understanding harden'd into stone, And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain'd, So that thine eye is dazzled at my word, I will, that, if not written, yet at least Painted thou take it in thee, for the cause, That one brings home his staff inwreath'd with palm." I thus: "As wax by seal, that changeth not Its impress, now is stamp'd my brain by thee. But wherefore soars thy wish'd-for speech so high Beyond my sight, that loses it the more, The more it strains to reach it?"--"To the end That thou mayst know," she answer'd straight, "the school, That thou hast follow'd; and how far behind, When following my discourse, its learning halts: And mayst behold your art, from the divine As distant, as the disagreement is 'Twixt earth and heaven's most high and rapturous orb." "I not remember," I replied, "that e'er I was estrang'd from thee, nor for such fault Doth conscience chide me." Smiling she return'd: "If thou canst, not remember, call to mind How lately thou hast drunk of Lethe's wave; And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame, In that forgetfulness itself conclude Blame from thy alienated will incurr'd. From henceforth verily my words shall be As naked as will suit them to appear In thy unpractis'd view." More sparkling now, And with retarded course the sun possess'd The circle of mid-day, that varies still As th' aspect varies of each several clime, When, as one, sent in vaward of a troop For escort, pauses, if perchance he spy Vestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus'd The sev'nfold band, arriving at the verge Of a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen, Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oft To overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff. And, where they stood, before them, as it seem'd, Tigris and Euphrates both beheld, Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends, Linger at parting. "O enlight'ning beam! O glory of our kind! beseech thee say What water this, which from one source deriv'd Itself removes to distance from itself?" To such entreaty answer thus was made: "Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this." And here, as one, who clears himself of blame Imputed, the fair dame return'd: "Of me He this and more hath learnt; and I am safe That Lethe's water hath not hid it from him." And Beatrice: "Some more pressing care That oft the memory 'reeves, perchance hath made His mind's eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows! Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, revive His fainting virtue." As a courteous spirit, That proffers no excuses, but as soon As he hath token of another's will, Makes it his own; when she had ta'en me, thus The lovely maiden mov'd her on, and call'd To Statius with an air most lady-like: "Come thou with him." Were further space allow'd, Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part, That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne'er Been sated. But, since all the leaves are full, Appointed for this second strain, mine art With warning bridle checks me. I return'd From the most holy wave, regenerate, If 'en as new plants renew'd with foliage new, Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars. 
8789	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. HELL Cantos 1 - 34 CANTO I IN the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood, astray Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell It were no easy task, how savage wild That forest, how robust and rough its growth, Which to remember only, my dismay Renews, in bitterness not far from death. Yet to discourse of what there good befell, All else will I relate discover'd there. How first I enter'd it I scarce can say, Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd My senses down, when the true path I left, But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread, I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad Already vested with that planet's beam, Who leads all wanderers safe through every way. Then was a little respite to the fear, That in my heart's recesses deep had lain, All of that night, so pitifully pass'd: And as a man, with difficult short breath, Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore, Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits, That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame After short pause recomforted, again I journey'd on over that lonely steep, The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light, And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd, Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove To check my onward going; that ofttimes With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd. The hour was morning's prime, and on his way Aloft the sun ascended with those stars, That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin Of that swift animal, the matin dawn And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd, And by new dread succeeded, when in view A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd, With his head held aloft and hunger-mad, That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd Full of all wants, and many a land hath made Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd, That of the height all hope I lost. As one, Who with his gain elated, sees the time When all unwares is gone, he inwardly Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I, Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace, Who coming o'er against me, by degrees Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests. While to the lower space with backward step I fell, my ken discern'd the form one of one, Whose voice seem'd faint through long disuse of speech. When him in that great desert I espied, "Have mercy on me!" cried I out aloud, "Spirit! or living man! what e'er thou be!" He answer'd: "Now not man, man once I was, And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both By country, when the power of Julius yet Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time Of fabled deities and false. A bard Was I, and made Anchises' upright son The subject of my song, who came from Troy, When the flames prey'd on Ilium's haughty towers. But thou, say wherefore to such perils past Return'st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?" "And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring, From which such copious floods of eloquence Have issued?" I with front abash'd replied. "Glory and light of all the tuneful train! May it avail me that I long with zeal Have sought thy volume, and with love immense Have conn'd it o'er. My master thou and guide! Thou he from whom alone I have deriv'd That style, which for its beauty into fame Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled. O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!" "For every vein and pulse throughout my frame She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw That I was weeping, answer'd, "Thou must needs Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape From out that savage wilderness. This beast, At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death: So bad and so accursed in her kind, That never sated is her ravenous will, Still after food more craving than before. To many an animal in wedlock vile She fastens, and shall yet to many more, Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy Her with sharp pain. He will not life support By earth nor its base metals, but by love, Wisdom, and virtue, and his land shall be The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might Shall safety to Italia's plains arise, For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure, Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell. He with incessant chase through every town Shall worry, until he to hell at length Restore her, thence by envy first let loose. I for thy profit pond'ring now devise, That thou mayst follow me, and I thy guide Will lead thee hence through an eternal space, Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see Spirits of old tormented, who invoke A second death; and those next view, who dwell Content in fire, for that they hope to come, Whene'er the time may be, among the blest, Into whose regions if thou then desire T' ascend, a spirit worthier than I Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart, Thou shalt be left: for that Almighty King, Who reigns above, a rebel to his law, Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed, That to his city none through me should come. He in all parts hath sway; there rules, there holds His citadel and throne. O happy those, Whom there he chooses!" I to him in few: "Bard! by that God, whom thou didst not adore, I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse I may escape) to lead me, where thou saidst, That I Saint Peter's gate may view, and those Who as thou tell'st, are in such dismal plight." Onward he mov'd, I close his steps pursu'd. CANTO II NOW was the day departing, and the air, Imbrown'd with shadows, from their toils releas'd All animals on earth; and I alone Prepar'd myself the conflict to sustain, Both of sad pity, and that perilous road, Which my unerring memory shall retrace. O Muses! O high genius! now vouchsafe Your aid! O mind! that all I saw hast kept Safe in a written record, here thy worth And eminent endowments come to proof. I thus began: "Bard! thou who art my guide, Consider well, if virtue be in me Sufficient, ere to this high enterprise Thou trust me. Thou hast told that Silvius' sire, Yet cloth'd in corruptible flesh, among Th' immortal tribes had entrance, and was there Sensible present. Yet if heaven's great Lord, Almighty foe to ill, such favour shew'd, In contemplation of the high effect, Both what and who from him should issue forth, It seems in reason's judgment well deserv'd: Sith he of Rome, and of Rome's empire wide, In heaven's empyreal height was chosen sire: Both which, if truth be spoken, were ordain'd And 'stablish'd for the holy place, where sits Who to great Peter's sacred chair succeeds. He from this journey, in thy song renown'd, Learn'd things, that to his victory gave rise And to the papal robe. In after-times The chosen vessel also travel'd there, To bring us back assurance in that faith, Which is the entrance to salvation's way. But I, why should I there presume? or who Permits it? not Aeneas I nor Paul. Myself I deem not worthy, and none else Will deem me. I, if on this voyage then I venture, fear it will in folly end. Thou, who art wise, better my meaning know'st, Than I can speak." As one, who unresolves What he hath late resolv'd, and with new thoughts Changes his purpose, from his first intent Remov'd; e'en such was I on that dun coast, Wasting in thought my enterprise, at first So eagerly embrac'd. "If right thy words I scan," replied that shade magnanimous, "Thy soul is by vile fear assail'd, which oft So overcasts a man, that he recoils From noblest resolution, like a beast At some false semblance in the twilight gloom. That from this terror thou mayst free thyself, I will instruct thee why I came, and what I heard in that same instant, when for thee Grief touch'd me first. I was among the tribe, Who rest suspended, when a dame, so blest And lovely, I besought her to command, Call'd me; her eyes were brighter than the star Of day; and she with gentle voice and soft Angelically tun'd her speech address'd: "O courteous shade of Mantua! thou whose fame Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts! A friend, not of my fortune but myself, On the wide desert in his road has met Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turn'd. Now much I dread lest he past help have stray'd, And I be ris'n too late for his relief, From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now, And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue, And by all means for his deliverance meet, Assist him. So to me will comfort spring. I who now bid thee on this errand forth Am Beatrice; from a place I come (Note: Beatrice. I use this word, as it is pronounced in the Italian, as consisting of four syllables, of which the third is a long one.) Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence, Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell." She then was silent, and I thus began: "O Lady! by whose influence alone, Mankind excels whatever is contain'd Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb, So thy command delights me, that to obey, If it were done already, would seem late. No need hast thou farther to speak thy will; Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth To leave that ample space, where to return Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath." She then: "Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire, I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone Are to be fear'd, whence evil may proceed, None else, for none are terrible beside. I am so fram'd by God, thanks to his grace! That any suff'rance of your misery Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief That hindrance, which I send thee to remove, That God's stern judgment to her will inclines." To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake: "Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid And I commend him to thee." At her word Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe, And coming to the place, where I abode Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days, She thus address'd me: "Thou true praise of God! Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent To him, who so much lov'd thee, as to leave For thy sake all the multitude admires? Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail, Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood, Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?" "Ne'er among men did any with such speed Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, As when these words were spoken, I came here, Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all Who well have mark'd it, into honour brings." "When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes Tearful she turn'd aside; whereat I felt Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she will'd, Thus am I come: I sav'd thee from the beast, Who thy near way across the goodly mount Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee then? Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast Harbour vile fear? why hast not courage there And noble daring? Since three maids so blest Thy safety plan, e'en in the court of heaven; And so much certain good my words forebode." As florets, by the frosty air of night Bent down and clos'd, when day has blanch'd their leaves, Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems; So was my fainting vigour new restor'd, And to my heart such kindly courage ran, That I as one undaunted soon replied: "O full of pity she, who undertook My succour! and thou kind who didst perform So soon her true behest! With such desire Thou hast dispos'd me to renew my voyage, That my first purpose fully is resum'd. Lead on: one only will is in us both. Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord." So spake I; and when he had onward mov'd, I enter'd on the deep and woody way. CANTO III "THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. "All hope abandon ye who enter here." Such characters in colour dim I mark'd Over a portal's lofty arch inscrib'd: Whereat I thus: "Master, these words import Hard meaning." He as one prepar'd replied: "Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave; Here be vile fear extinguish'd. We are come Where I have told thee we shall see the souls To misery doom'd, who intellectual good Have lost." And when his hand he had stretch'd forth To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheer'd, Into that secret place he led me on. Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans Resounded through the air pierc'd by no star, That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, Horrible languages, outcries of woe, Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds, Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd, Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. I then, with error yet encompass'd, cried: "O master! What is this I hear? What race Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?" He thus to me: "This miserable fate Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv'd Without or praise or blame, with that ill band Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious prov'd Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe Should glory thence with exultation vain." I then: "Master! what doth aggrieve them thus, That they lament so loud?" He straight replied: "That will I tell thee briefly. These of death No hope may entertain: and their blind life So meanly passes, that all other lots They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, Which whirling ran around so rapidly, That it no pause obtain'd: and following came Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er Have thought, that death so many had despoil'd. When some of these I recogniz'd, I saw And knew the shade of him, who to base fear Yielding, abjur'd his high estate. Forthwith I understood for certain this the tribe Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their cheeks With blood, that mix'd with tears dropp'd to their feet, And by disgustful worms was gather'd there. Then looking farther onwards I beheld A throng upon the shore of a great stream: Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem So eager to pass o'er, as I discern Through the blear light?" He thus to me in few: "This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive Beside the woeful tide of Acheron." Then with eyes downward cast and fill'd with shame, Fearing my words offensive to his ear, Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech Abstain'd. And lo! toward us in a bark Comes on an old man hoary white with eld, Crying, "Woe to you wicked spirits! hope not Ever to see the sky again. I come To take you to the other shore across, Into eternal darkness, there to dwell In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave These who are dead." But soon as he beheld I left them not, "By other way," said he, "By other haven shalt thou come to shore, Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat Must carry." Then to him thus spake my guide: "Charon! thyself torment not: so 't is will'd, Where will and power are one: ask thou no more." Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, Around whose eyes glar'd wheeling flames. Meanwhile Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang'd, And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words They heard. God and their parents they blasphem'd, The human kind, the place, the time, and seed That did engender them and give them birth. Then all together sorely wailing drew To the curs'd strand, that every man must pass Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, Beck'ning, and each, that lingers, with his oar Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves, One still another following, till the bough Strews all its honours on the earth beneath; E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood Cast themselves one by one down from the shore, Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. Thus go they over through the umber'd wave, And ever they on the opposing bank Be landed, on this side another throng Still gathers. "Son," thus spake the courteous guide, "Those, who die subject to the wrath of God, All here together come from every clime, And to o'erpass the river are not loth: For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath past Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, Now mayst thou know the import of his words." This said, the gloomy region trembling shook So terribly, that yet with clammy dews Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast, That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame, Which all my senses conquer'd quite, and I Down dropp'd, as one with sudden slumber seiz'd. CANTO IV BROKE the deep slumber in my brain a crash Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself, As one by main force rous'd. Risen upright, My rested eyes I mov'd around, and search'd With fixed ken to know what place it was, Wherein I stood. For certain on the brink I found me of the lamentable vale, The dread abyss, that joins a thund'rous sound Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep, And thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain Explor'd its bottom, nor could aught discern. "Now let us to the blind world there beneath Descend;" the bard began all pale of look: "I go the first, and thou shalt follow next." Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus: "How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread, Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?" He then: "The anguish of that race below With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way Urges to haste." Onward, this said, he mov'd; And ent'ring led me with him on the bounds Of the first circle, that surrounds th' abyss. Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard Except of sighs, that made th' eternal air Tremble, not caus'd by tortures, but from grief Felt by those multitudes, many and vast, Of men, women, and infants. Then to me The gentle guide: "Inquir'st thou not what spirits Are these, which thou beholdest? Ere thou pass Farther, I would thou know, that these of sin Were blameless; and if aught they merited, It profits not, since baptism was not theirs, The portal to thy faith. If they before The Gospel liv'd, they serv'd not God aright; And among such am I. For these defects, And for no other evil, we are lost;" "Only so far afflicted, that we live Desiring without hope." So grief assail'd My heart at hearing this, for well I knew Suspended in that Limbo many a soul Of mighty worth. "O tell me, sire rever'd! Tell me, my master!" I began through wish Of full assurance in that holy faith, Which vanquishes all error; "say, did e'er Any, or through his own or other's merit, Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?" Piercing the secret purport of my speech, He answer'd: "I was new to that estate, When I beheld a puissant one arrive Amongst us, with victorious trophy crown'd. He forth the shade of our first parent drew, Abel his child, and Noah righteous man, Of Moses lawgiver for faith approv'd, Of patriarch Abraham, and David king, Israel with his sire and with his sons, Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won, And others many more, whom he to bliss Exalted. Before these, be thou assur'd, No spirit of human kind was ever sav'd." We, while he spake, ceas'd not our onward road, Still passing through the wood; for so I name Those spirits thick beset. We were not far On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere Prevailing shin'd. Yet we a little space Were distant, not so far but I in part Discover'd, that a tribe in honour high That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art And science valu'st! who are these, that boast Such honour, separate from all the rest?" He answer'd: "The renown of their great names That echoes through your world above, acquires Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanc'd." Meantime a voice I heard: "Honour the bard Sublime! his shade returns that left us late!" No sooner ceas'd the sound, than I beheld Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps, Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad. When thus my master kind began: "Mark him, Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen, The other three preceding, as their lord. This is that Homer, of all bards supreme: Flaccus the next in satire's vein excelling; The third is Naso; Lucan is the last. Because they all that appellation own, With which the voice singly accosted me, Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge." So I beheld united the bright school Of him the monarch of sublimest song, That o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together short discourse had held, They turn'd to me, with salutation kind Beck'ning me; at the which my master smil'd: Nor was this all; but greater honour still They gave me, for they made me of their tribe; And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band. Far as the luminous beacon on we pass'd Speaking of matters, then befitting well To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot Of a magnificent castle we arriv'd, Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this As o'er dry land we pass'd. Next through seven gates I with those sages enter'd, and we came Into a mead with lively verdure fresh. There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around Majestically mov'd, and in their port Bore eminent authority; they spake Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet. We to one side retir'd, into a place Open and bright and lofty, whence each one Stood manifest to view. Incontinent There on the green enamel of the plain Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight I am exalted in my own esteem. Electra there I saw accompanied By many, among whom Hector I knew, Anchises' pious son, and with hawk's eye Caesar all arm'd, and by Camilla there Penthesilea. On the other side Old King Latinus, seated by his child Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld, Who Tarquin chas'd, Lucretia, Cato's wife Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there; And sole apart retir'd, the Soldan fierce. Then when a little more I rais'd my brow, I spied the master of the sapient throng, Seated amid the philosophic train. Him all admire, all pay him rev'rence due. There Socrates and Plato both I mark'd, Nearest to him in rank; Democritus, Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes, With Heraclitus, and Empedocles, And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage, Zeno, and Dioscorides well read In nature's secret lore. Orpheus I mark'd And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca, Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Galenus, Avicen, and him who made That commentary vast, Averroes. Of all to speak at full were vain attempt; For my wide theme so urges, that ofttimes My words fall short of what bechanc'd. In two The six associates part. Another way My sage guide leads me, from that air serene, Into a climate ever vex'd with storms: And to a part I come where no light shines. CANTO V FROM the first circle I descended thus Down to the second, which, a lesser space Embracing, so much more of grief contains Provoking bitter moans. There, Minos stands Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all Who enter, strict examining the crimes, Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath, According as he foldeth him around: For when before him comes th' ill fated soul, It all confesses; and that judge severe Of sins, considering what place in hell Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft Himself encircles, as degrees beneath He dooms it to descend. Before him stand Always a num'rous throng; and in his turn Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl'd. "O thou! who to this residence of woe Approachest?" when he saw me coming, cried Minos, relinquishing his dread employ, "Look how thou enter here; beware in whom Thou place thy trust; let not the entrance broad Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide: "Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way By destiny appointed; so 'tis will'd Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more." Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. Now am I come where many a plaining voice Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd A noise as of a sea in tempest torn By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell With restless fury drives the spirits on Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy. When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans, And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. I understood that to this torment sad The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom Reason by lust is sway'd. As in large troops And multitudinous, when winter reigns, The starlings on their wings are borne abroad; So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls. On this side and on that, above, below, It drives them: hope of rest to solace them Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, Chanting their dol'rous notes, traverse the sky, Stretch'd out in long array: so I beheld Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on By their dire doom. Then I: "Instructor! who Are these, by the black air so scourg'd?"--"The first 'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he replied, "O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice Of luxury was so shameless, that she made Liking be lawful by promulg'd decree, To clear the blame she had herself incurr'd. This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ, That she succeeded Ninus her espous'd; And held the land, which now the Soldan rules. The next in amorous fury slew herself, And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith: Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen." There mark'd I Helen, for whose sake so long The time was fraught with evil; there the great Achilles, who with love fought to the end. Paris I saw, and Tristan; and beside A thousand more he show'd me, and by name Pointed them out, whom love bereav'd of life. When I had heard my sage instructor name Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpower'd By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly I would address those two together coming, Which seem so light before the wind." He thus: "Note thou, when nearer they to us approach." "Then by that love which carries them along, Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind Sway'd them toward us, I thus fram'd my speech: "O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves By fond desire invited, on wide wings And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, Cleave the air, wafted by their will along; Thus issu'd from that troop, where Dido ranks, They through the ill air speeding; with such force My cry prevail'd by strong affection urg'd. "O gracious creature and benign! who go'st Visiting, through this element obscure, Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru'd; If for a friend the King of all we own'd, Our pray'r to him should for thy peace arise, Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. ()f whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth, Is situate on the coast, where Po descends To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. "Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, Entangled him by that fair form, from me Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: Love, that denial takes from none belov'd, Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not. "Love brought us to one death: Caina waits The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their words; At hearing which downward I bent my looks, And held them there so long, that the bard cried: "What art thou pond'ring?" I in answer thus: "Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!" Then turning, I to them my speech address'd. And thus began: "Francesca! your sad fate Even to tears my grief and pity moves. But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs, By what, and how love granted, that ye knew Your yet uncertain wishes?" She replied: "No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand! That kens Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do, As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wished smile, rapturously kiss'd By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, The other wail'd so sorely, that heartstruck I through compassion fainting, seem'd not far From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground. CANTO VI MY sense reviving, that erewhile had droop'd With pity for the kindred shades, whence grief O'ercame me wholly, straight around I see New torments, new tormented souls, which way Soe'er I move, or turn, or bend my sight. In the third circle I arrive, of show'rs Ceaseless, accursed, heavy, and cold, unchang'd For ever, both in kind and in degree. Large hail, discolour'd water, sleety flaw Through the dun midnight air stream'd down amain: Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell. Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange, Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog Over the multitude immers'd beneath. His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard, His belly large, and claw'd the hands, with which He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs, Under the rainy deluge, with one side The other screening, oft they roll them round, A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm Descried us, savage Cerberus, he op'd His jaws, and the fangs show'd us; not a limb Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth Rais'd them, and cast it in his ravenous maw. E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall His fury, bent alone with eager haste To swallow it; so dropp'd the loathsome cheeks Of demon Cerberus, who thund'ring stuns The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain. We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet Upon their emptiness, that substance seem'd. They all along the earth extended lay Save one, that sudden rais'd himself to sit, Soon as that way he saw us pass. "O thou!" He cried, "who through the infernal shades art led, Own, if again thou know'st me. Thou wast fram'd Or ere my frame was broken." I replied: "The anguish thou endur'st perchance so takes Thy form from my remembrance, that it seems As if I saw thee never. But inform Me who thou art, that in a place so sad Art set, and in such torment, that although Other be greater, more disgustful none Can be imagin'd." He in answer thus: "Thy city heap'd with envy to the brim, Ay that the measure overflows its bounds, Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin Of glutt'ny, damned vice, beneath this rain, E'en as thou see'st, I with fatigue am worn; Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these Have by like crime incurr'd like punishment." No more he said, and I my speech resum'd: "Ciacco! thy dire affliction grieves me much, Even to tears. But tell me, if thou know'st, What shall at length befall the citizens Of the divided city; whether any just one Inhabit there: and tell me of the cause, Whence jarring discord hath assail'd it thus?" He then: "After long striving they will come To blood; and the wild party from the woods Will chase the other with much injury forth. Then it behoves, that this must fall, within Three solar circles; and the other rise By borrow'd force of one, who under shore Now rests. It shall a long space hold aloof Its forehead, keeping under heavy weight The other oppress'd, indignant at the load, And grieving sore. The just are two in number, But they neglected. Av'rice, envy, pride, Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all On fire." Here ceas'd the lamentable sound; And I continu'd thus: "Still would I learn More from thee, farther parley still entreat. Of Farinata and Tegghiaio say, They who so well deserv'd, of Giacopo, Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest, who bent Their minds on working good. Oh! tell me where They bide, and to their knowledge let me come. For I am press'd with keen desire to hear, If heaven's sweet cup or poisonous drug of hell Be to their lip assign'd." He answer'd straight: "These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss. If thou so far descendest, thou mayst see them. But to the pleasant world when thou return'st, Of me make mention, I entreat thee, there. No more I tell thee, answer thee no more." This said, his fixed eyes he turn'd askance, A little ey'd me, then bent down his head, And 'midst his blind companions with it fell. When thus my guide: "No more his bed he leaves, Ere the last angel-trumpet blow. The Power Adverse to these shall then in glory come, Each one forthwith to his sad tomb repair, Resume his fleshly vesture and his form, And hear the eternal doom re-echoing rend The vault." So pass'd we through that mixture foul Of spirits and rain, with tardy steps; meanwhile Touching, though slightly, on the life to come. For thus I question'd: "Shall these tortures, Sir! When the great sentence passes, be increas'd, Or mitigated, or as now severe?" He then: "Consult thy knowledge; that decides That as each thing to more perfection grows, It feels more sensibly both good and pain. Though ne'er to true perfection may arrive This race accurs'd, yet nearer then than now They shall approach it." Compassing that path Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse Much more than I relate between us pass'd: Till at the point, where the steps led below, Arriv'd, there Plutus, the great foe, we found. CANTO VII "AH me! O Satan! Satan!" loud exclaim'd Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm: And the kind sage, whom no event surpris'd, To comfort me thus spake: "Let not thy fear Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none To hinder down this rock thy safe descent." Then to that sworn lip turning, "Peace!" he cried, "Curs'd wolf! thy fury inward on thyself Prey, and consume thee! Through the dark profound Not without cause he passes. So 't is will'd On high, there where the great Archangel pour'd Heav'n's vengeance on the first adulterer proud." As sails full spread and bellying with the wind Drop suddenly collaps'd, if the mast split; So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend. Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge, Gain'd on the dismal shore, that all the woe Hems in of all the universe. Ah me! Almighty Justice! in what store thou heap'st New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld! Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this? E'en as a billow, on Charybdis rising, Against encounter'd billow dashing breaks; Such is the dance this wretched race must lead, Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found, From one side and the other, with loud voice, Both roll'd on weights by main forge of their breasts, Then smote together, and each one forthwith Roll'd them back voluble, turning again, Exclaiming these, "Why holdest thou so fast?" Those answering, "And why castest thou away?" So still repeating their despiteful song, They to the opposite point on either hand Travers'd the horrid circle: then arriv'd, Both turn'd them round, and through the middle space Conflicting met again. At sight whereof I, stung with grief, thus spake: "O say, my guide! What race is this? Were these, whose heads are shorn, On our left hand, all sep'rate to the church?" He straight replied: "In their first life these all In mind were so distorted, that they made, According to due measure, of their wealth, No use. This clearly from their words collect, Which they howl forth, at each extremity Arriving of the circle, where their crime Contrary in kind disparts them. To the church Were separate those, that with no hairy cowls Are crown'd, both Popes and Cardinals, o'er whom Av'rice dominion absolute maintains." I then: "Mid such as these some needs must be, Whom I shall recognize, that with the blot Of these foul sins were stain'd." He answering thus: "Vain thought conceiv'st thou. That ignoble life, Which made them vile before, now makes them dark, And to all knowledge indiscernible. Forever they shall meet in this rude shock: These from the tomb with clenched grasp shall rise, Those with close-shaven locks. That ill they gave, And ill they kept, hath of the beauteous world Depriv'd, and set them at this strife, which needs No labour'd phrase of mine to set it off. Now may'st thou see, my son! how brief, how vain, The goods committed into fortune's hands, For which the human race keep such a coil! Not all the gold, that is beneath the moon, Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls Might purchase rest for one." I thus rejoin'd: "My guide! of thee this also would I learn; This fortune, that thou speak'st of, what it is, Whose talons grasp the blessings of the world?" He thus: "O beings blind! what ignorance Besets you? Now my judgment hear and mark. He, whose transcendent wisdom passes all, The heavens creating, gave them ruling powers To guide them, so that each part shines to each, Their light in equal distribution pour'd. By similar appointment he ordain'd Over the world's bright images to rule Superintendence of a guiding hand And general minister, which at due time May change the empty vantages of life From race to race, from one to other's blood, Beyond prevention of man's wisest care: Wherefore one nation rises into sway, Another languishes, e'en as her will Decrees, from us conceal'd, as in the grass The serpent train. Against her nought avails Your utmost wisdom. She with foresight plans, Judges, and carries on her reign, as theirs The other powers divine. Her changes know None intermission: by necessity She is made swift, so frequent come who claim Succession in her favours. This is she, So execrated e'en by those, whose debt To her is rather praise; they wrongfully With blame requite her, and with evil word; But she is blessed, and for that recks not: Amidst the other primal beings glad Rolls on her sphere, and in her bliss exults. Now on our way pass we, to heavier woe Descending: for each star is falling now, That mounted at our entrance, and forbids Too long our tarrying." We the circle cross'd To the next steep, arriving at a well, That boiling pours itself down to a foss Sluic'd from its source. Far murkier was the wave Than sablest grain: and we in company Of the inky waters, journeying by their side, Enter'd, though by a different track, beneath. Into a lake, the Stygian nam'd, expands The dismal stream, when it hath reach'd the foot Of the grey wither'd cliffs. Intent I stood To gaze, and in the marish sunk descried A miry tribe, all naked, and with looks Betok'ning rage. They with their hands alone Struck not, but with the head, the breast, the feet, Cutting each other piecemeal with their fangs. The good instructor spake; "Now seest thou, son! The souls of those, whom anger overcame. This too for certain know, that underneath The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs Into these bubbles make the surface heave, As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn." Fix'd in the slime they say: "Sad once were we In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, Carrying a foul and lazy mist within: Now in these murky settlings are we sad." Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats. But word distinct can utter none." Our route Thus compass'd we, a segment widely stretch'd Between the dry embankment, and the core Of the loath'd pool, turning meanwhile our eyes Downward on those who gulp'd its muddy lees; Nor stopp'd, till to a tower's low base we came. CANTO VIII MY theme pursuing, I relate that ere We reach'd the lofty turret's base, our eyes Its height ascended, where two cressets hung We mark'd, and from afar another light Return the signal, so remote, that scarce The eye could catch its beam. I turning round To the deep source of knowledge, thus inquir'd: "Say what this means? and what that other light In answer set? what agency doth this?" "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, If the marsh-gender'd fog conceal it not." Never was arrow from the cord dismiss'd, That ran its way so nimbly through the air, As a small bark, that through the waves I spied Toward us coming, under the sole sway Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud: "Art thou arriv'd, fell spirit?"--"Phlegyas, Phlegyas, This time thou criest in vain," my lord replied; "No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er The slimy pool we pass." As one who hears Of some great wrong he hath sustain'd, whereat Inly he pines; so Phlegyas inly pin'd In his fierce ire. My guide descending stepp'd Into the skiff, and bade me enter next Close at his side; nor till my entrance seem'd The vessel freighted. Soon as both embark'd, Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow, More deeply than with others it is wont. While we our course o'er the dead channel held. One drench'd in mire before me came, and said; "Who art thou, that thou comest ere thine hour?" I answer'd: "Though I come, I tarry not; But who art thou, that art become so foul?" "One, as thou seest, who mourn:" he straight replied. To which I thus: "In mourning and in woe, Curs'd spirit! tarry thou.g I know thee well, E'en thus in filth disguis'd." Then stretch'd he forth Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage Aware, thrusting him back: "Away! down there; "To the other dogs!" then, with his arms my neck Encircling, kiss'd my cheek, and spake: "O soul Justly disdainful! blest was she in whom Thou was conceiv'd! He in the world was one For arrogance noted; to his memory No virtue lends its lustre; even so Here is his shadow furious. There above How many now hold themselves mighty kings Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraise!" I then: "Master! him fain would I behold Whelm'd in these dregs, before we quit the lake." He thus: "Or ever to thy view the shore Be offer'd, satisfied shall be that wish, Which well deserves completion." Scarce his words Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes Set on him with such violence, that yet For that render I thanks to God and praise "To Filippo Argenti:" cried they all: And on himself the moody Florentine Turn'd his avenging fangs. Him here we left, Nor speak I of him more. But on mine ear Sudden a sound of lamentation smote, Whereat mine eye unbarr'd I sent abroad. And thus the good instructor: "Now, my son! Draws near the city, that of Dis is nam'd, With its grave denizens, a mighty throng." I thus: "The minarets already, Sir! There certes in the valley I descry, Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire Had issu'd." He replied: "Eternal fire, That inward burns, shows them with ruddy flame Illum'd; as in this nether hell thou seest." We came within the fosses deep, that moat This region comfortless. The walls appear'd As they were fram'd of iron. We had made Wide circuit, ere a place we reach'd, where loud The mariner cried vehement: "Go forth! The entrance is here!" Upon the gates I spied More than a thousand, who of old from heaven Were hurl'd. With ireful gestures, "Who is this," They cried, "that without death first felt, goes through The regions of the dead?" My sapient guide Made sign that he for secret parley wish'd; Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus They spake: "Come thou alone; and let him go Who hath so hardily enter'd this realm. Alone return he by his witless way; If well he know it, let him prove. For thee, Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark Hast been his escort." Now bethink thee, reader! What cheer was mine at sound of those curs'd words. I did believe I never should return. "O my lov'd guide! who more than seven times Security hast render'd me, and drawn From peril deep, whereto I stood expos'd, Desert me not," I cried, "in this extreme. And if our onward going be denied, Together trace we back our steps with speed." My liege, who thither had conducted me, Replied: "Fear not: for of our passage none Hath power to disappoint us, by such high Authority permitted. But do thou Expect me here; meanwhile thy wearied spirit Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assur'd I will not leave thee in this lower world." This said, departs the sire benevolent, And quits me. Hesitating I remain At war 'twixt will and will not in my thoughts. I could not hear what terms he offer'd them, But they conferr'd not long, for all at once To trial fled within. Clos'd were the gates By those our adversaries on the breast Of my liege lord: excluded he return'd To me with tardy steps. Upon the ground His eyes were bent, and from his brow eras'd All confidence, while thus with sighs he spake: "Who hath denied me these abodes of woe?" Then thus to me: "That I am anger'd, think No ground of terror: in this trial I Shall vanquish, use what arts they may within For hindrance. This their insolence, not new, Erewhile at gate less secret they display'd, Which still is without bolt; upon its arch Thou saw'st the deadly scroll: and even now On this side of its entrance, down the steep, Passing the circles, unescorted, comes One whose strong might can open us this land." CANTO IX THE hue, which coward dread on my pale cheeks Imprinted, when I saw my guide turn back, Chas'd that from his which newly they had worn, And inwardly restrain'd it. He, as one Who listens, stood attentive: for his eye Not far could lead him through the sable air, And the thick-gath'ring cloud. "It yet behooves We win this fight"--thus he began--"if not-- Such aid to us is offer'd.--Oh, how long Me seems it, ere the promis'd help arrive!" I noted, how the sequel of his words Clok'd their beginning; for the last he spake Agreed not with the first. But not the less My fear was at his saying; sith I drew To import worse perchance, than that he held, His mutilated speech. "Doth ever any Into this rueful concave's extreme depth Descend, out of the first degree, whose pain Is deprivation merely of sweet hope?" Thus I inquiring. "Rarely," he replied, "It chances, that among us any makes This journey, which I wend. Erewhile 'tis true Once came I here beneath, conjur'd by fell Erictho, sorceress, who compell'd the shades Back to their bodies. No long space my flesh Was naked of me, when within these walls She made me enter, to draw forth a spirit From out of Judas' circle. Lowest place Is that of all, obscurest, and remov'd Farthest from heav'n's all-circling orb. The road Full well I know: thou therefore rest secure. That lake, the noisome stench exhaling, round The city' of grief encompasses, which now We may not enter without rage." Yet more He added: but I hold it not in mind, For that mine eye toward the lofty tower Had drawn me wholly, to its burning top. Where in an instant I beheld uprisen At once three hellish furies stain'd with blood: In limb and motion feminine they seem'd; Around them greenest hydras twisting roll'd Their volumes; adders and cerastes crept Instead of hair, and their fierce temples bound. He knowing well the miserable hags Who tend the queen of endless woe, thus spake: "Mark thou each dire Erinnys. To the left This is Megaera; on the right hand she, Who wails, Alecto; and Tisiphone I' th' midst." This said, in silence he remain'd Their breast they each one clawing tore; themselves Smote with their palms, and such shrill clamour rais'd, That to the bard I clung, suspicion-bound. "Hasten Medusa: so to adamant Him shall we change;" all looking down exclaim'd. "E'en when by Theseus' might assail'd, we took No ill revenge." "Turn thyself round, and keep Thy count'nance hid; for if the Gorgon dire Be shown, and thou shouldst view it, thy return Upwards would be for ever lost." This said, Himself my gentle master turn'd me round, Nor trusted he my hands, but with his own He also hid me. Ye of intellect Sound and entire, mark well the lore conceal'd Under close texture of the mystic strain! And now there came o'er the perturbed waves Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made Either shore tremble, as if of a wind Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung, That 'gainst some forest driving all its might, Plucks off the branches, beats them down and hurls Afar; then onward passing proudly sweeps Its whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly. Mine eyes he loos'd, and spake: "And now direct Thy visual nerve along that ancient foam, There, thickest where the smoke ascends." As frogs Before their foe the serpent, through the wave Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits Destroy'd, so saw I fleeing before one Who pass'd with unwet feet the Stygian sound. He, from his face removing the gross air, Oft his left hand forth stretch'd, and seem'd alone By that annoyance wearied. I perceiv'd That he was sent from heav'n, and to my guide Turn'd me, who signal made that I should stand Quiet, and bend to him. Ah me! how full Of noble anger seem'd he! To the gate He came, and with his wand touch'd it, whereat Open without impediment it flew. "Outcasts of heav'n! O abject race and scorn'd!" Began he on the horrid grunsel standing, "Whence doth this wild excess of insolence Lodge in you? wherefore kick you 'gainst that will Ne'er frustrate of its end, and which so oft Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs? What profits at the fays to but the horn? Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence Bears still, peel'd of their hair, his throat and maw." This said, he turn'd back o'er the filthy way, And syllable to us spake none, but wore The semblance of a man by other care Beset, and keenly press'd, than thought of him Who in his presence stands. Then we our steps Toward that territory mov'd, secure After the hallow'd words. We unoppos'd There enter'd; and my mind eager to learn What state a fortress like to that might hold, I soon as enter'd throw mine eye around, And see on every part wide-stretching space Replete with bitter pain and torment ill. As where Rhone stagnates on the plains of Arles, Or as at Pola, near Quarnaro's gulf, That closes Italy and laves her bounds, The place is all thick spread with sepulchres; So was it here, save what in horror here Excell'd: for 'midst the graves were scattered flames, Wherewith intensely all throughout they burn'd, That iron for no craft there hotter needs. Their lids all hung suspended, and beneath From them forth issu'd lamentable moans, Such as the sad and tortur'd well might raise. I thus: "Master! say who are these, interr'd Within these vaults, of whom distinct we hear The dolorous sighs?" He answer thus return'd: "The arch-heretics are here, accompanied By every sect their followers; and much more, Than thou believest, tombs are freighted: like With like is buried; and the monuments Are different in degrees of heat." This said, He to the right hand turning, on we pass'd Betwixt the afflicted and the ramparts high. CANTO X NOW by a secret pathway we proceed, Between the walls, that hem the region round, And the tormented souls: my master first, I close behind his steps. "Virtue supreme!" I thus began; "who through these ample orbs In circuit lead'st me, even as thou will'st, Speak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those, Who lie within these sepulchres, be seen? Already all the lids are rais'd, and none O'er them keeps watch." He thus in answer spake "They shall be closed all, what-time they here From Josaphat return'd shall come, and bring Their bodies, which above they now have left. The cemetery on this part obtain With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body make the spirit die. Here therefore satisfaction shall be soon Both to the question ask'd, and to the wish, Which thou conceal'st in silence." I replied: "I keep not, guide belov'd! from thee my heart Secreted, but to shun vain length of words, A lesson erewhile taught me by thyself." "O Tuscan! thou who through the city of fire Alive art passing, so discreet of speech! Here please thee stay awhile. Thy utterance Declares the place of thy nativity To be that noble land, with which perchance I too severely dealt." Sudden that sound Forth issu'd from a vault, whereat in fear I somewhat closer to my leader's side Approaching, he thus spake: "What dost thou? Turn. Lo, Farinata, there! who hath himself Uplifted: from his girdle upwards all Expos'd behold him." On his face was mine Already fix'd; his breast and forehead there Erecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held E'en hell. Between the sepulchres to him My guide thrust me with fearless hands and prompt, This warning added: "See thy words be clear!" He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot, Ey'd me a space, then in disdainful mood Address'd me: "Say, what ancestors were thine?" I, willing to obey him, straight reveal'd The whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow Somewhat uplifting, cried: "Fiercely were they Adverse to me, my party, and the blood From whence I sprang: twice therefore I abroad Scatter'd them." "Though driv'n out, yet they each time From all parts," answer'd I, "return'd; an art Which yours have shown, they are not skill'd to learn." Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw, Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin, Leaning, methought, upon its knees uprais'd. It look'd around, as eager to explore If there were other with me; but perceiving That fond imagination quench'd, with tears Thus spake: "If thou through this blind prison go'st. Led by thy lofty genius and profound, Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?" I straight replied: "Not of myself I come, By him, who there expects me, through this clime Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son Had in contempt." Already had his words And mode of punishment read me his name, Whence I so fully answer'd. He at once Exclaim'd, up starting, "How! said'st thou he HAD? No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye The blessed daylight?" Then of some delay I made ere my reply aware, down fell Supine, not after forth appear'd he more. Meanwhile the other, great of soul, near whom I yet was station'd, chang'd not count'nance stern, Nor mov'd the neck, nor bent his ribbed side. "And if," continuing the first discourse, "They in this art," he cried, "small skill have shown, That doth torment me more e'en than this bed. But not yet fifty times shall be relum'd Her aspect, who reigns here Queen of this realm, Ere thou shalt know the full weight of that art. So to the pleasant world mayst thou return, As thou shalt tell me, why in all their laws, Against my kin this people is so fell?" "The slaughter and great havoc," I replied, "That colour'd Arbia's flood with crimson stain-- To these impute, that in our hallow'd dome Such orisons ascend." Sighing he shook The head, then thus resum'd: "In that affray I stood not singly, nor without just cause Assuredly should with the rest have stirr'd; But singly there I stood, when by consent Of all, Florence had to the ground been raz'd, The one who openly forbad the deed." "So may thy lineage find at last repose," I thus adjur'd him, "as thou solve this knot, Which now involves my mind. If right I hear, Ye seem to view beforehand, that which time Leads with him, of the present uninform'd." "We view, as one who hath an evil sight," He answer'd, "plainly, objects far remote: So much of his large spendour yet imparts The Almighty Ruler; but when they approach Or actually exist, our intellect Then wholly fails, nor of your human state Except what others bring us know we aught. Hence therefore mayst thou understand, that all Our knowledge in that instant shall expire, When on futurity the portals close." Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse Smitten, I added thus: "Now shalt thou say To him there fallen, that his offspring still Is to the living join'd; and bid him know, That if from answer silent I abstain'd, 'Twas that my thought was occupied intent Upon that error, which thy help hath solv'd." But now my master summoning me back I heard, and with more eager haste besought The spirit to inform me, who with him Partook his lot. He answer thus return'd: "More than a thousand with me here are laid Within is Frederick, second of that name, And the Lord Cardinal, and of the rest I speak not." He, this said, from sight withdrew. But I my steps towards the ancient bard Reverting, ruminated on the words Betokening me such ill. Onward he mov'd, And thus in going question'd: "Whence the amaze That holds thy senses wrapt?" I satisfied The inquiry, and the sage enjoin'd me straight: "Let thy safe memory store what thou hast heard To thee importing harm; and note thou this," With his rais'd finger bidding me take heed, "When thou shalt stand before her gracious beam, Whose bright eye all surveys, she of thy life The future tenour will to thee unfold." Forthwith he to the left hand turn'd his feet: We left the wall, and tow'rds the middle space Went by a path, that to a valley strikes; Which e'en thus high exhal'd its noisome steam. CANTO XI UPON the utmost verge of a high bank, By craggy rocks environ'd round, we came, Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow'd: And here to shun the horrible excess Of fetid exhalation, upward cast From the profound abyss, behind the lid Of a great monument we stood retir'd, Whereon this scroll I mark'd: "I have in charge Pope Anastasius, whom Photinus drew From the right path.--Ere our descent behooves We make delay, that somewhat first the sense, To the dire breath accustom'd, afterward Regard it not." My master thus; to whom Answering I spake: "Some compensation find That the time past not wholly lost." He then: "Lo! how my thoughts e'en to thy wishes tend! My son! within these rocks," he thus began, "Are three close circles in gradation plac'd, As these which now thou leav'st. Each one is full Of spirits accurs'd; but that the sight alone Hereafter may suffice thee, listen how And for what cause in durance they abide. "Of all malicious act abhorr'd in heaven, The end is injury; and all such end Either by force or fraud works other's woe But fraud, because of man peculiar evil, To God is more displeasing; and beneath The fraudulent are therefore doom'd to' endure Severer pang. The violent occupy All the first circle; and because to force Three persons are obnoxious, in three rounds Each within other sep'rate is it fram'd. To God, his neighbour, and himself, by man Force may be offer'd; to himself I say And his possessions, as thou soon shalt hear At full. Death, violent death, and painful wounds Upon his neighbour he inflicts; and wastes By devastation, pillage, and the flames, His substance. Slayers, and each one that smites In malice, plund'rers, and all robbers, hence The torment undergo of the first round In different herds. Man can do violence To himself and his own blessings: and for this He in the second round must aye deplore With unavailing penitence his crime, Whoe'er deprives himself of life and light, In reckless lavishment his talent wastes, And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy. To God may force be offer'd, in the heart Denying and blaspheming his high power, And nature with her kindly law contemning. And thence the inmost round marks with its seal Sodom and Cahors, and all such as speak Contemptuously of the Godhead in their hearts. "Fraud, that in every conscience leaves a sting, May be by man employ'd on one, whose trust He wins, or on another who withholds Strict confidence. Seems as the latter way Broke but the bond of love which Nature makes. Whence in the second circle have their nest Dissimulation, witchcraft, flatteries, Theft, falsehood, simony, all who seduce To lust, or set their honesty at pawn, With such vile scum as these. The other way Forgets both Nature's general love, and that Which thereto added afterwards gives birth To special faith. Whence in the lesser circle, Point of the universe, dread seat of Dis, The traitor is eternally consum'd." I thus: "Instructor, clearly thy discourse Proceeds, distinguishing the hideous chasm And its inhabitants with skill exact. But tell me this: they of the dull, fat pool, Whom the rain beats, or whom the tempest drives, Or who with tongues so fierce conflicting meet, Wherefore within the city fire-illum'd Are not these punish'd, if God's wrath be on them? And if it be not, wherefore in such guise Are they condemned?" He answer thus return'd: "Wherefore in dotage wanders thus thy mind, Not so accustom'd? or what other thoughts Possess it? Dwell not in thy memory The words, wherein thy ethic page describes Three dispositions adverse to Heav'n's will, Incont'nence, malice, and mad brutishness, And how incontinence the least offends God, and least guilt incurs? If well thou note This judgment, and remember who they are, Without these walls to vain repentance doom'd, Thou shalt discern why they apart are plac'd From these fell spirits, and less wreakful pours Justice divine on them its vengeance down." "O Sun! who healest all imperfect sight, Thou so content'st me, when thou solv'st my doubt, That ignorance not less than knowledge charms. Yet somewhat turn thee back," I in these words Continu'd, "where thou saidst, that usury Offends celestial Goodness; and this knot Perplex'd unravel." He thus made reply: "Philosophy, to an attentive ear, Clearly points out, not in one part alone, How imitative nature takes her course From the celestial mind and from its art: And where her laws the Stagyrite unfolds, Not many leaves scann'd o'er, observing well Thou shalt discover, that your art on her Obsequious follows, as the learner treads In his instructor's step, so that your art Deserves the name of second in descent From God. These two, if thou recall to mind Creation's holy book, from the beginning Were the right source of life and excellence To human kind. But in another path The usurer walks; and Nature in herself And in her follower thus he sets at nought, Placing elsewhere his hope. But follow now My steps on forward journey bent; for now The Pisces play with undulating glance Along the horizon, and the Wain lies all O'er the north-west; and onward there a space Is our steep passage down the rocky height." CANTO XII THE place where to descend the precipice We came, was rough as Alp, and on its verge Such object lay, as every eye would shun. As is that ruin, which Adice's stream On this side Trento struck, should'ring the wave, Or loos'd by earthquake or for lack of prop; For from the mountain's summit, whence it mov'd To the low level, so the headlong rock Is shiver'd, that some passage it might give To him who from above would pass; e'en such Into the chasm was that descent: and there At point of the disparted ridge lay stretch'd The infamy of Crete, detested brood Of the feign'd heifer: and at sight of us It gnaw'd itself, as one with rage distract. To him my guide exclaim'd: "Perchance thou deem'st The King of Athens here, who, in the world Above, thy death contriv'd. Monster! avaunt! He comes not tutor'd by thy sister's art, But to behold your torments is he come." Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow Hath struck him, but unable to proceed Plunges on either side; so saw I plunge The Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim'd: "Run to the passage! while he storms, 't is well That thou descend." Thus down our road we took Through those dilapidated crags, that oft Mov'd underneath my feet, to weight like theirs Unus'd. I pond'ring went, and thus he spake: "Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin'd steep, Guarded by the brute violence, which I Have vanquish'd now. Know then, that when I erst Hither descended to the nether hell, This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt (If well I mark) not long ere He arrived, Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoil Of the highest circle, then through all its bounds Such trembling seiz'd the deep concave and foul, I thought the universe was thrill'd with love, Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oft Been into chaos turn'd: and in that point, Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down. But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood Approaches, in the which all those are steep'd, Who have by violence injur'd." O blind lust! O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us on In the brief life, and in the eternal then Thus miserably o'erwhelm us. I beheld An ample foss, that in a bow was bent, As circling all the plain; for so my guide Had told. Between it and the rampart's base On trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm'd, As to the chase they on the earth were wont. At seeing us descend they each one stood; And issuing from the troop, three sped with bows And missile weapons chosen first; of whom One cried from far: "Say to what pain ye come Condemn'd, who down this steep have journied? Speak From whence ye stand, or else the bow I draw." To whom my guide: "Our answer shall be made To Chiron, there, when nearer him we come. Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash." Then me he touch'd, and spake: "Nessus is this, Who for the fair Deianira died, And wrought himself revenge for his own fate. He in the midst, that on his breast looks down, Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs'd; That other Pholus, prone to wrath." Around The foss these go by thousands, aiming shafts At whatsoever spirit dares emerge From out the blood, more than his guilt allows. We to those beasts, that rapid strode along, Drew near, when Chiron took an arrow forth, And with the notch push'd back his shaggy beard To the cheek-bone, then his great mouth to view Exposing, to his fellows thus exclaim'd: "Are ye aware, that he who comes behind Moves what he touches? The feet of the dead Are not so wont." My trusty guide, who now Stood near his breast, where the two natures join, Thus made reply: "He is indeed alive, And solitary so must needs by me Be shown the gloomy vale, thereto induc'd By strict necessity, not by delight. She left her joyful harpings in the sky, Who this new office to my care consign'd. He is no robber, no dark spirit I. But by that virtue, which empowers my step To treat so wild a path, grant us, I pray, One of thy band, whom we may trust secure, Who to the ford may lead us, and convey Across, him mounted on his back; for he Is not a spirit that may walk the air." Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thus To Nessus spake: "Return, and be their guide. And if ye chance to cross another troop, Command them keep aloof." Onward we mov'd, The faithful escort by our side, along The border of the crimson-seething flood, Whence from those steep'd within loud shrieks arose. Some there I mark'd, as high as to their brow Immers'd, of whom the mighty Centaur thus: "These are the souls of tyrants, who were given To blood and rapine. Here they wail aloud Their merciless wrongs. Here Alexander dwells, And Dionysius fell, who many a year Of woe wrought for fair Sicily. That brow Whereon the hair so jetty clust'ring hangs, Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locks Obizzo' of Este, in the world destroy'd By his foul step-son." To the bard rever'd I turned me round, and thus he spake; "Let him Be to thee now first leader, me but next To him in rank." Then farther on a space The Centaur paus'd, near some, who at the throat Were extant from the wave; and showing us A spirit by itself apart retir'd, Exclaim'd: "He in God's bosom smote the heart, Which yet is honour'd on the bank of Thames." A race I next espied, who held the head, And even all the bust above the stream. 'Midst these I many a face remember'd well. Thus shallow more and more the blood became, So that at last it but imbru'd the feet; And there our passage lay athwart the foss. "As ever on this side the boiling wave Thou seest diminishing," the Centaur said, "So on the other, be thou well assur'd, It lower still and lower sinks its bed, Till in that part it reuniting join, Where 't is the lot of tyranny to mourn. There Heav'n's stern justice lays chastising hand On Attila, who was the scourge of earth, On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts Tears ever by the seething flood unlock'd From the Rinieri, of Corneto this, Pazzo the other nam'd, who fill'd the ways With violence and war." This said, he turn'd, And quitting us, alone repass'd the ford. CANTO XIII ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank, We enter'd on a forest, where no track Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these, Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields, Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream. Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same Who from the Strophades the Trojan band Drove with dire boding of their future woe. Broad are their pennons, of the human form Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. The kind instructor in these words began: "Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now I' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou come Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold, As would my speech discredit." On all sides I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see From whom they might have issu'd. In amaze Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd, That I had thought so many voices came From some amid those thickets close conceal'd, And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop off A single twig from one of those ill plants, The thought thou hast conceiv'd shall vanish quite." Thereat a little stretching forth my hand, From a great wilding gather'd I a branch, And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?" Then as the dark blood trickled down its side, These words it added: "Wherefore tear'st me thus? Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast? Men once were we, that now are rooted here. Thy hand might well have spar'd us, had we been The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green, That burning at one end from the other sends A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind That forces out its way, so burst at once, Forth from the broken splinter words and blood. I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as one Assail'd by terror, and the sage replied: "If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'd What he hath seen but in my verse describ'd, He never against thee had stretch'd his hand. But I, because the thing surpass'd belief, Prompted him to this deed, which even now Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast; That, for this wrong to do thee some amends, In the upper world (for thither to return Is granted him) thy fame he may revive." "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge A little longer, in the snare detain'd, Count it not grievous. I it was, who held Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards, Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, That besides me, into his inmost breast Scarce any other could admittance find. The faith I bore to my high charge was such, It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins. The harlot, who ne'er turn'd her gloating eyes From Caesar's household, common vice and pest Of courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all; And to Augustus they so spread the flame, That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes. My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, Just as I was, unjust toward myself. By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, That never faith I broke to my liege lord, Who merited such honour; and of you, If any to the world indeed return, Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words Were ended, then to me the bard began: "Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask, If more thou wish to learn." Whence I replied: "Question thou him again of whatsoe'er Will, as thou think'st, content me; for no power Have I to ask, such pity' is at my heart." He thus resum'd; "So may he do for thee Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet Be pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare, How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied; And whether any ever from such frame Be loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell." Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon Chang'd into sounds articulate like these; "Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs The fierce soul from the body, by itself Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls, No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, It rises to a sapling, growing thence A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come For our own spoils, yet not so that with them We may again be clad; for what a man Takes from himself it is not just he have. Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung, Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade." Attentive yet to listen to the trunk We stood, expecting farther speech, when us A noise surpris'd, as when a man perceives The wild boar and the hunt approach his place Of station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughs Loud rustling round him hears. And lo! there came Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, That they before them broke each fan o' th' wood. "Haste now," the foremost cried, "now haste thee death!" The other, as seem'd, impatient of delay Exclaiming, "Lano! not so bent for speed Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field." And then, for that perchance no longer breath Suffic'd him, of himself and of a bush One group he made. Behind them was the wood Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet, As greyhounds that have newly slipp'd the leash. On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, And having rent him piecemeal bore away The tortur'd limbs. My guide then seiz'd my hand, And led me to the thicket, which in vain Mourn'd through its bleeding wounds: "O Giacomo Of Sant' Andrea! what avails it thee," It cried, "that of me thou hast made thy screen? For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?" When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?" He answer'd: "Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in time To spy the shameful havoc, that from me My leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up, And at the foot of their sad parent-tree Carefully lay them. In that city' I dwelt, Who for the Baptist her first patron chang'd, Whence he for this shall cease not with his art To work her woe: and if there still remain'd not On Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him, Those citizens, who rear'd once more her walls Upon the ashes left by Attila, Had labour'd without profit of their toil. I slung the fatal noose from my own roof." CANTO XIV SOON as the charity of native land Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leaves Collected, and to him restor'd, who now Was hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thence We came, which from the third the second round Divides, and where of justice is display'd Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next A plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bed Each plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves round Its garland on all sides, as round the wood Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge, Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wide Of arid sand and thick, resembling most The soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod. Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'd By all, who read what here my eyes beheld! Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, All weeping piteously, to different laws Subjected: for on the earth some lay supine, Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd Incessantly around; the latter tribe, More numerous, those fewer who beneath The torment lay, but louder in their grief. O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd. As in the torrid Indian clime, the son Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band Descending, solid flames, that to the ground Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop To trample on the soil; for easier thus The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone; So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove The viands, doubly to augment the pain. Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began: "Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st, Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth To stop our entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?" Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd My guide of him, exclaim'd: "Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; "Help, help, good Mulciber!" as erst he cried In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'd Than I before had heard him: "Capaneus! Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy pride Lives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage, Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full." Next turning round to me with milder lip He spake: "This of the seven kings was one, Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held, As still he seems to hold, God in disdain, And sets his high omnipotence at nought. But, as I told him, his despiteful mood Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it. Follow me now; and look thou set not yet Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood Keep ever close." Silently on we pass'd To where there gushes from the forest's bound A little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet lifts My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs From Bulicame, to be portion'd out Among the sinful women; so ran this Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank Stone-built, and either margin at its side, Whereon I straight perceiv'd our passage lay. "Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate We enter'd first, whose threshold is to none Denied, nought else so worthy of regard, As is this river, has thine eye discern'd, O'er which the flaming volley all is quench'd." So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv'n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd. "In midst of ocean," forthwith he began, "A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam'd, Under whose monarch in old times the world Liv'd pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, Call'd Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, Deserted now like a forbidden thing. It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse, Chose for the secret cradle of her son; And better to conceal him, drown'd in shouts His infant cries. Within the mount, upright An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold His head is shap'd, pure silver are the breast And arms; thence to the middle is of brass. And downward all beneath well-temper'd steel, Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which Than on the other more erect he stands, Each part except the gold, is rent throughout; And from the fissure tears distil, which join'd Penetrate to that cave. They in their course Thus far precipitated down the rock Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon; Then by this straiten'd channel passing hence Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all, Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself Shall see it) I here give thee no account." Then I to him: "If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?" He straight replied: "The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass'd, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb. Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks." Then I again inquir'd: "Where flow the streams Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one Thou tell'st not, and the other of that shower, Thou say'st, is form'd." He answer thus return'd: "Doubtless thy questions all well pleas'd I hear. Yet the red seething wave might have resolv'd One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see, But not within this hollow, in the place, Whither to lave themselves the spirits go, Whose blame hath been by penitence remov'd." He added: "Time is now we quit the wood. Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames; For over them all vapour is extinct." CANTO XV One of the solid margins bears us now Envelop'd in the mist, that from the stream Arising, hovers o'er, and saves from fire Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear Their mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs Along the Brenta, to defend their towns And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt On Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds, So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to these Made equal, by the master, whosoe'er He was, that rais'd them here. We from the wood Were not so far remov'd, that turning round I might not have discern'd it, when we met A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier. They each one ey'd us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon, And toward us sharpen'd their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle's eye. Thus narrowly explor'd by all the tribe, I was agniz'd of one, who by the skirt Caught me, and cried, "What wonder have we here!" And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm, Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks, That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not But I remember'd him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer'd: "Sir! Brunetto! "And art thou here?" He thus to me: "My son! Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." I thus to him replied: "Much as I can, I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing, That I here seat me with thee, I consent; His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain'd." "O son!" said he, "whoever of this throng One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, No fan to ventilate him, when the fire Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin My troop, who go mourning their endless doom." I dar'd not from the path descend to tread On equal ground with him, but held my head Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise. "What chance or destiny," thus he began, "Ere the last day conducts thee here below? And who is this, that shows to thee the way?" "There up aloft," I answer'd, "in the life Serene, I wander'd in a valley lost, Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd. But yester-morn I left it: then once more Into that vale returning, him I met; And by this path homeward he leads me back." "If thou," he answer'd, "follow but thy star, Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: Unless in fairer days my judgment err'd. And if my fate so early had not chanc'd, Seeing the heav'ns thus bounteous to thee, I Had gladly giv'n thee comfort in thy work. But that ungrateful and malignant race, Who in old times came down from Fesole, Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint, Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity. Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour'd crabs It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. Old fame reports them in the world for blind, Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well: Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve, That thou by either party shalt be crav'd With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far From the goat's tooth. The herd of Fesole May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, If any such yet spring on their rank bed, In which the holy seed revives, transmitted From those true Romans, who still there remain'd, When it was made the nest of so much ill." "Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied, "Thou from the confines of man's nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity; And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive. This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd. Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course." Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake: "He listens to good purpose who takes note." I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe. "To know of some is well;" thus he replied, "But of the rest silence may best beseem. Time would not serve us for report so long. In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks, Men of great learning and no less renown, By one same sin polluted in the world. With them is Priscian, and Accorso's son Francesco herds among that wretched throng: And, if the wish of so impure a blotch Possess'd thee, him thou also might'st have seen, Who by the servants' servant was transferr'd From Arno's seat to Bacchiglione, where His ill-strain'd nerves he left. I more would add, But must from farther speech and onward way Alike desist, for yonder I behold A mist new-risen on the sandy plain. A company, with whom I may not sort, Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee, Wherein I yet survive; my sole request." This said he turn'd, and seem'd as one of those, Who o'er Verona's champain try their speed For the green mantle, and of them he seem'd, Not he who loses but who gains the prize. CANTO XVI NOW came I where the water's din was heard, As down it fell into the other round, Resounding like the hum of swarming bees: When forth together issu'd from a troop, That pass'd beneath the fierce tormenting storm, Three spirits, running swift. They towards us came, And each one cried aloud, "Oh do thou stay! Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem To be some inmate of our evil land." Ah me! what wounds I mark'd upon their limbs, Recent and old, inflicted by the flames! E'en the remembrance of them grieves me yet. Attentive to their cry my teacher paus'd, And turn'd to me his visage, and then spake; "Wait now! our courtesy these merit well: And were 't not for the nature of the place, Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, That haste had better suited thee than them." They, when we stopp'd, resum'd their ancient wail, And soon as they had reach'd us, all the three Whirl'd round together in one restless wheel. As naked champions, smear'd with slippery oil, Are wont intent to watch their place of hold And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet; Thus each one, as he wheel'd, his countenance At me directed, so that opposite The neck mov'd ever to the twinkling feet. "If misery of this drear wilderness," Thus one began, "added to our sad cheer And destitute, do call forth scorn on us And our entreaties, let our great renown Incline thee to inform us who thou art, That dost imprint with living feet unharm'd The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou see'st My steps pursuing, naked though he be And reft of all, was of more high estate Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste Gualdrada, him they Guidoguerra call'd, Who in his lifetime many a noble act Achiev'd, both by his wisdom and his sword. The other, next to me that beats the sand, Is Aldobrandi, name deserving well, In the upper world, of honour; and myself Who in this torment do partake with them, Am Rusticucci, whom, past doubt, my wife Of savage temper, more than aught beside Hath to this evil brought." If from the fire I had been shelter'd, down amidst them straight I then had cast me, nor my guide, I deem, Would have restrain'd my going; but that fear Of the dire burning vanquish'd the desire, Which made me eager of their wish'd embrace. I then began: "Not scorn, but grief much more, Such as long time alone can cure, your doom Fix'd deep within me, soon as this my lord Spake words, whose tenour taught me to expect That such a race, as ye are, was at hand. I am a countryman of yours, who still Affectionate have utter'd, and have heard Your deeds and names renown'd. Leaving the gall For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide Hath promis'd to me. But behooves, that far As to the centre first I downward tend." "So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs," He answer straight return'd; "and so thy fame Shine bright, when thou art gone; as thou shalt tell, If courtesy and valour, as they wont, Dwell in our city, or have vanish'd clean? For one amidst us late condemn'd to wail, Borsiere, yonder walking with his peers, Grieves us no little by the news he brings." "An upstart multitude and sudden gains, Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee Engender'd, so that now in tears thou mourn'st!" Thus cried I with my face uprais'd, and they All three, who for an answer took my words, Look'd at each other, as men look when truth Comes to their ear. "If thou at other times," They all at once rejoin'd, "so easily Satisfy those, who question, happy thou, Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought! Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime, Returning to behold the radiant stars, When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past, See that of us thou speak among mankind." This said, they broke the circle, and so swift Fled, that as pinions seem'd their nimble feet. Not in so short a time might one have said "Amen," as they had vanish'd. Straight my guide Pursu'd his track. I follow'd; and small space Had we pass'd onward, when the water's sound Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce Heard one another's speech for the loud din. E'en as the river, that holds on its course Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo, On the left side of Apennine, toward The east, which Acquacheta higher up They call, ere it descend into the vale, At Forli by that name no longer known, Rebellows o'er Saint Benedict, roll'd on From the Alpine summit down a precipice, Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads; Thus downward from a craggy steep we found, That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud, So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn'd. I had a cord that brac'd my girdle round, Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take The painted leopard. This when I had all Unloosen'd from me (so my master bade) I gather'd up, and stretch'd it forth to him. Then to the right he turn'd, and from the brink Standing few paces distant, cast it down Into the deep abyss. "And somewhat strange," Thus to myself I spake, "signal so strange Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye Thus follows." Ah! what caution must men use With those who look not at the deed alone, But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill! "Quickly shall come," he said, "what I expect, Thine eye discover quickly, that whereof Thy thought is dreaming." Ever to that truth, Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears, A man, if possible, should bar his lip; Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach. But silence here were vain; and by these notes Which now I sing, reader! I swear to thee, So may they favour find to latest times! That through the gross and murky air I spied A shape come swimming up, that might have quell'd The stoutest heart with wonder, in such guise As one returns, who hath been down to loose An anchor grappled fast against some rock, Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies, Who upward springing close draws in his feet. CANTO XVII "LO! the fell monster with the deadly sting! Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls And firm embattled spears, and with his filth Taints all the world!" Thus me my guide address'd, And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore, Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge. Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear'd, His head and upper part expos'd on land, But laid not on the shore his bestial train. His face the semblance of a just man's wore, So kind and gracious was its outward cheer; The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws Reach'd to the armpits, and the back and breast, And either side, were painted o'er with nodes And orbits. Colours variegated more Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state With interchangeable embroidery wove, Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom. As ofttimes a light skiff, moor'd to the shore, Stands part in water, part upon the land; Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor, The beaver settles watching for his prey; So on the rim, that fenc'd the sand with rock, Sat perch'd the fiend of evil. In the void Glancing, his tail upturn'd its venomous fork, With sting like scorpion's arm'd. Then thus my guide: "Now need our way must turn few steps apart, Far as to that ill beast, who couches there." Thereat toward the right our downward course We shap'd, and, better to escape the flame And burning marle, ten paces on the verge Proceeded. Soon as we to him arrive, A little further on mine eye beholds A tribe of spirits, seated on the sand Near the wide chasm. Forthwith my master spake: "That to the full thy knowledge may extend Of all this round contains, go now, and mark The mien these wear: but hold not long discourse. Till thou returnest, I with him meantime Will parley, that to us he may vouchsafe The aid of his strong shoulders." Thus alone Yet forward on the extremity I pac'd Of that seventh circle, where the mournful tribe Were seated. At the eyes forth gush'd their pangs. Against the vapours and the torrid soil Alternately their shifting hands they plied. Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round. Noting the visages of some, who lay Beneath the pelting of that dolorous fire, One of them all I knew not; but perceiv'd, That pendent from his neck each bore a pouch With colours and with emblems various mark'd, On which it seem'd as if their eye did feed. And when amongst them looking round I came, A yellow purse I saw with azure wrought, That wore a lion's countenance and port. Then still my sight pursuing its career, Another I beheld, than blood more red. A goose display of whiter wing than curd. And one, who bore a fat and azure swine Pictur'd on his white scrip, addressed me thus: "What dost thou in this deep? Go now and know, Since yet thou livest, that my neighbour here Vitaliano on my left shall sit. A Paduan with these Florentines am I. Ofttimes they thunder in mine ears, exclaiming 'O haste that noble knight! he who the pouch With the three beaks will bring!'" This said, he writh'd The mouth, and loll'd the tongue out, like an ox That licks his nostrils. I, lest longer stay He ill might brook, who bade me stay not long, Backward my steps from those sad spirits turn'd. My guide already seated on the haunch Of the fierce animal I found; and thus He me encourag'd. "Be thou stout; be bold. Down such a steep flight must we now descend! Mount thou before: for that no power the tail May have to harm thee, I will be i' th' midst." As one, who hath an ague fit so near, His nails already are turn'd blue, and he Quivers all o'er, if he but eye the shade; Such was my cheer at hearing of his words. But shame soon interpos'd her threat, who makes The servant bold in presence of his lord. I settled me upon those shoulders huge, And would have said, but that the words to aid My purpose came not, "Look thou clasp me firm!" But he whose succour then not first I prov'd, Soon as I mounted, in his arms aloft, Embracing, held me up, and thus he spake: "Geryon! now move thee! be thy wheeling gyres Of ample circuit, easy thy descent. Think on th' unusual burden thou sustain'st." As a small vessel, back'ning out from land, Her station quits; so thence the monster loos'd, And when he felt himself at large, turn'd round There where the breast had been, his forked tail. Thus, like an eel, outstretch'd at length he steer'd, Gath'ring the air up with retractile claws. Not greater was the dread when Phaeton The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven, Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapt in flames; Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceiv'd, By liquefaction of the scalded wax, The trusted pennons loosen'd from his loins, His sire exclaiming loud, "Ill way thou keep'st!" Than was my dread, when round me on each part The air I view'd, and other object none Save the fell beast. He slowly sailing, wheels His downward motion, unobserv'd of me, But that the wind, arising to my face, Breathes on me from below. Now on our right I heard the cataract beneath us leap With hideous crash; whence bending down to' explore, New terror I conceiv'd at the steep plunge: For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear: So that all trembling close I crouch'd my limbs, And then distinguish'd, unperceiv'd before, By the dread torments that on every side Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound. As falcon, that hath long been on the wing, But lure nor bird hath seen, while in despair The falconer cries, "Ah me! thou stoop'st to earth!" Wearied descends, and swiftly down the sky In many an orbit wheels, then lighting sits At distance from his lord in angry mood; So Geryon lighting places us on foot Low down at base of the deep-furrow'd rock, And, of his burden there discharg'd, forthwith Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string. CANTO XVIII THERE is a place within the depths of hell Call'd Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain'd With hue ferruginous, e'en as the steep That round it circling winds. Right in the midst Of that abominable region, yawns A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains, Throughout its round, between the gulf and base Of the high craggy banks, successive forms Ten trenches, in its hollow bottom sunk. As where to guard the walls, full many a foss Begirds some stately castle, sure defence Affording to the space within, so here Were model'd these; and as like fortresses E'en from their threshold to the brink without, Are flank'd with bridges; from the rock's low base Thus flinty paths advanc'd, that 'cross the moles And dikes, struck onward far as to the gulf, That in one bound collected cuts them off. Such was the place, wherein we found ourselves From Geryon's back dislodg'd. The bard to left Held on his way, and I behind him mov'd. On our right hand new misery I saw, New pains, new executioners of wrath, That swarming peopled the first chasm. Below Were naked sinners. Hitherward they came, Meeting our faces from the middle point, With us beyond but with a larger stride. E'en thus the Romans, when the year returns Of Jubilee, with better speed to rid The thronging multitudes, their means devise For such as pass the bridge; that on one side All front toward the castle, and approach Saint Peter's fane, on th' other towards the mount. Each divers way along the grisly rock, Horn'd demons I beheld, with lashes huge, That on their back unmercifully smote. Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe! None for the second waited nor the third. Meantime as on I pass'd, one met my sight Whom soon as view'd; "Of him," cried I, "not yet Mine eye hath had his fill." With fixed gaze I therefore scann'd him. Straight the teacher kind Paus'd with me, and consented I should walk Backward a space, and the tormented spirit, Who thought to hide him, bent his visage down. But it avail'd him nought; for I exclaim'd: "Thou who dost cast thy eye upon the ground, Unless thy features do belie thee much, Venedico art thou. But what brings thee Into this bitter seas'ning?" He replied: "Unwillingly I answer to thy words. But thy clear speech, that to my mind recalls The world I once inhabited, constrains me. Know then 'twas I who led fair Ghisola To do the Marquis' will, however fame The shameful tale have bruited. Nor alone Bologna hither sendeth me to mourn Rather with us the place is so o'erthrong'd That not so many tongues this day are taught, Betwixt the Reno and Savena's stream, To answer SIPA in their country's phrase. And if of that securer proof thou need, Remember but our craving thirst for gold." Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong Struck, and exclaim'd, "Away! corrupter! here Women are none for sale." Forthwith I join'd My escort, and few paces thence we came To where a rock forth issued from the bank. That easily ascended, to the right Upon its splinter turning, we depart From those eternal barriers. When arriv'd, Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass The scourged souls: "Pause here," the teacher said, "And let these others miserable, now Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld, For that together they with us have walk'd." From the old bridge we ey'd the pack, who came From th' other side towards us, like the rest, Excoriate from the lash. My gentle guide, By me unquestion'd, thus his speech resum'd: "Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends, And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear. How yet the regal aspect he retains! Jason is he, whose skill and prowess won The ram from Colchos. To the Lemnian isle His passage thither led him, when those bold And pitiless women had slain all their males. There he with tokens and fair witching words Hypsipyle beguil'd, a virgin young, Who first had all the rest herself beguil'd. Impregnated he left her there forlorn. Such is the guilt condemns him to this pain. Here too Medea's inj'ries are avenged. All bear him company, who like deceit To his have practis'd. And thus much to know Of the first vale suffice thee, and of those Whom its keen torments urge." Now had we come Where, crossing the next pier, the straighten'd path Bestrides its shoulders to another arch. Hence in the second chasm we heard the ghosts, Who jibber in low melancholy sounds, With wide-stretch'd nostrils snort, and on themselves Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf From the foul steam condens'd, encrusting hung, That held sharp combat with the sight and smell. So hollow is the depth, that from no part, Save on the summit of the rocky span, Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came; And thence I saw, within the foss below, A crowd immers'd in ordure, that appear'd Draff of the human body. There beneath Searching with eye inquisitive, I mark'd One with his head so grim'd, 't were hard to deem, If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried: "Why greedily thus bendest more on me, Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken?" "Because if true my mem'ry," I replied, "I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks, And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung. Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." Then beating on his brain these words he spake: "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." My leader thus: "A little further stretch Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan, Who there doth rend her with defiled nails, Now crouching down, now risen on her feet. "Thais is this, the harlot, whose false lip Answer'd her doting paramour that ask'd, 'Thankest me much!'--'Say rather wondrously,' And seeing this here satiate be our view." CANTO XIX WOE to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you, His wretched followers! who the things of God, Which should be wedded unto goodness, them, Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute For gold and silver in adultery! Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours Is the third chasm. Upon the following vault We now had mounted, where the rock impends Directly o'er the centre of the foss. Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art, Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, And in the evil world, how just a meed Allotting by thy virtue unto all! I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides And in its bottom full of apertures, All equal in their width, and circular each, Nor ample less nor larger they appear'd Than in Saint John's fair dome of me belov'd Those fram'd to hold the pure baptismal streams, One of the which I brake, some few years past, To save a whelming infant; and be this A seal to undeceive whoever doubts The motive of my deed. From out the mouth Of every one, emerg'd a sinner's feet And of the legs high upward as the calf The rest beneath was hid. On either foot The soles were burning, whence the flexile joints Glanc'd with such violent motion, as had snapt Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame, Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along The surface, scarcely touching where it moves; So here, from heel to point, glided the flames. "Master! say who is he, than all the rest Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom A ruddier flame doth prey?" I thus inquir'd. "If thou be willing," he replied, "that I Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls, He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs." I then: "As pleases thee to me is best. Thou art my lord; and know'st that ne'er I quit Thy will: what silence hides that knowest thou." Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn'd, And on our left descended to the depth, A narrow strait and perforated close. Nor from his side my leader set me down, Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb Quiv'ring express'd his pang. "Whoe'er thou art, Sad spirit! thus revers'd, and as a stake Driv'n in the soil!" I in these words began, "If thou be able, utter forth thy voice." There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive A wretch for murder doom'd, who e'en when fix'd, Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. He shouted: "Ha! already standest there? Already standest there, O Boniface! By many a year the writing play'd me false. So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, For which thou fearedst not in guile to take The lovely lady, and then mangle her?" I felt as those who, piercing not the drift Of answer made them, stand as if expos'd In mockery, nor know what to reply, When Virgil thus admonish'd: "Tell him quick, I am not he, not he, whom thou believ'st." And I, as was enjoin'd me, straight replied. That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet, And sighing next in woeful accent spake: "What then of me requirest? If to know So much imports thee, who I am, that thou Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn That in the mighty mantle I was rob'd, And of a she-bear was indeed the son, So eager to advance my whelps, that there My having in my purse above I stow'd, And here myself. Under my head are dragg'd The rest, my predecessors in the guilt Of simony. Stretch'd at their length they lie Along an opening in the rock. 'Midst them I also low shall fall, soon as he comes, For whom I took thee, when so hastily I question'd. But already longer time Hath pass'd, since my souls kindled, and I thus Upturn'd have stood, than is his doom to stand Planted with fiery feet. For after him, One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive, From forth the west, a shepherd without law, Fated to cover both his form and mine. He a new Jason shall be call'd, of whom In Maccabees we read; and favour such As to that priest his king indulgent show'd, Shall be of France's monarch shown to him." I know not if I here too far presum'd, But in this strain I answer'd: "Tell me now, What treasures from St. Peter at the first Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys Into his charge? Surely he ask'd no more But, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the rest Or gold or silver of Matthias took, When lots were cast upon the forfeit place Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then; Thy punishment of right is merited: And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin, Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir'd. If reverence of the keys restrain'd me not, Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet Severer speech might use. Your avarice O'ercasts the world with mourning, under foot Treading the good, and raising bad men up. Of shepherds, like to you, th' Evangelist Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves, With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld, She who with seven heads tower'd at her birth, And from ten horns her proof of glory drew, Long as her spouse in virtue took delight. Of gold and silver ye have made your god, Diff'ring wherein from the idolater, But he that worships one, a hundred ye? Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth, Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower, Which the first wealthy Father gain'd from thee!" Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang Spinning on either sole. I do believe My teacher well was pleas'd, with so compos'd A lip, he listen'd ever to the sound Of the true words I utter'd. In both arms He caught, and to his bosom lifting me Upward retrac'd the way of his descent. Nor weary of his weight he press'd me close, Till to the summit of the rock we came, Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier. His cherish'd burden there gently he plac'd Upon the rugged rock and steep, a path Not easy for the clamb'ring goat to mount. Thence to my view another vale appear'd CANTO XX AND now the verse proceeds to torments new, Fit argument of this the twentieth strain Of the first song, whose awful theme records The spirits whelm'd in woe. Earnest I look'd Into the depth, that open'd to my view, Moisten'd with tears of anguish, and beheld A tribe, that came along the hollow vale, In silence weeping: such their step as walk Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth. As on them more direct mine eye descends, Each wondrously seem'd to be revers'd At the neck-bone, so that the countenance Was from the reins averted: and because None might before him look, they were compell'd To' advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos'd, But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so. Now, reader! think within thyself, so God Fruit of thy reading give thee! how I long Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld Near me our form distorted in such guise, That on the hinder parts fall'n from the face The tears down-streaming roll'd. Against a rock I leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim'd: "What, and art thou too witless as the rest? Here pity most doth show herself alive, When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his, Who with Heaven's judgment in his passion strives? Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man, Before whose eyes earth gap'd in Thebes, when all Cried out, 'Amphiaraus, whither rushest? 'Why leavest thou the war?' He not the less Fell ruining far as to Minos down, Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makes The breast his shoulders, and who once too far Before him wish'd to see, now backward looks, And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note, Who semblance chang'd, when woman he became Of male, through every limb transform'd, and then Once more behov'd him with his rod to strike The two entwining serpents, ere the plumes, That mark'd the better sex, might shoot again. "Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes. On Luni's mountains 'midst the marbles white, Where delves Carrara's hind, who wons beneath, A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars And main-sea wide in boundless view he held. "The next, whose loosen'd tresses overspread Her bosom, which thou seest not (for each hair On that side grows) was Manto, she who search'd Through many regions, and at length her seat Fix'd in my native land, whence a short space My words detain thy audience. When her sire From life departed, and in servitude The city dedicate to Bacchus mourn'd, Long time she went a wand'rer through the world. Aloft in Italy's delightful land A lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp, That o'er the Tyrol locks Germania in, Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills, Methinks, and more, water between the vale Camonica and Garda and the height Of Apennine remote. There is a spot At midway of that lake, where he who bears Of Trento's flock the past'ral staff, with him Of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each Passing that way his benediction give. A garrison of goodly site and strong Peschiera stands, to awe with front oppos'd The Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shore More slope each way descends. There, whatsoev'er Benacus' bosom holds not, tumbling o'er Down falls, and winds a river flood beneath Through the green pastures. Soon as in his course The steam makes head, Benacus then no more They call the name, but Mincius, till at last Reaching Governo into Po he falls. Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh It covers, pestilent in summer oft. Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw 'Midst of the fen a territory waste And naked of inhabitants. To shun All human converse, here she with her slaves Plying her arts remain'd, and liv'd, and left Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes, Who round were scatter'd, gath'ring to that place Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos'd On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones They rear'd themselves a city, for her sake, Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot, Nor ask'd another omen for the name, Wherein more numerous the people dwelt, Ere Casalodi's madness by deceit Was wrong'd of Pinamonte. If thou hear Henceforth another origin assign'd Of that my country, I forewarn thee now, That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth." I answer'd: "Teacher, I conclude thy words So certain, that all else shall be to me As embers lacking life. But now of these, Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see Any that merit more especial note. For thereon is my mind alone intent." He straight replied: "That spirit, from whose cheek The beard sweeps o'er his shoulders brown, what time Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce The cradles were supplied, the seer was he In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign When first to cut the cable. Him they nam'd Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain, In which majestic measure well thou know'st, Who know'st it all. That other, round the loins So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot, Practis'd in ev'ry slight of magic wile. "Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark, Who now were willing, he had tended still The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. "See next the wretches, who the needle left, The shuttle and the spindle, and became Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought With images and herbs. But onward now: For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well: For she good service did thee in the gloom Of the deep wood." This said, both onward mov'd. CANTO XXI THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk, The which my drama cares not to rehearse, Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood To view another gap, within the round Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs. Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place. In the Venetians' arsenal as boils Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear Their unsound vessels; for th' inclement time Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while His bark one builds anew, another stops The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage; One hammers at the prow, one at the poop; This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls, The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent So not by force of fire but art divine Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round Lim'd all the shore beneath. I that beheld, But therein nought distinguish'd, save the surge, Rais'd by the boiling, in one mighty swell Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there I fix'd my ken below, "Mark! mark!" my guide Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place, Wherein I stood. I turn'd myself as one, Impatient to behold that which beheld He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans, That he his flight delays not for the view. Behind me I discern'd a devil black, That running, up advanc'd along the rock. Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake! In act how bitter did he seem, with wings Buoyant outstretch'd and feet of nimblest tread! His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp Was with a sinner charg'd; by either haunch He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast. "Ye of our bridge!" he cried, "keen-talon'd fiends! Lo! one of Santa Zita's elders! Him Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more. That land hath store of such. All men are there, Except Bonturo, barterers: of 'no' For lucre there an 'aye' is quickly made." Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd, Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos'd Sped with like eager haste. That other sank And forthwith writhing to the surface rose. But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge, Cried "Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave. Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not, Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch." This said, They grappled him with more than hundred hooks, And shouted: "Cover'd thou must sport thee here; So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch." E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms, To thrust the flesh into the caldron down With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. Me then my guide bespake: "Lest they descry, That thou art here, behind a craggy rock Bend low and screen thee; and whate'er of force Be offer'd me, or insult, fear thou not: For I am well advis'd, who have been erst In the like fray." Beyond the bridge's head Therewith he pass'd, and reaching the sixth pier, Behov'd him then a forehead terror-proof. With storm and fury, as when dogs rush forth Upon the poor man's back, who suddenly From whence he standeth makes his suit; so rush'd Those from beneath the arch, and against him Their weapons all they pointed. He aloud: "Be none of you outrageous: ere your time Dare seize me, come forth from amongst you one, "Who having heard my words, decide he then If he shall tear these limbs." They shouted loud, "Go, Malacoda!" Whereat one advanc'd, The others standing firm, and as he came, "What may this turn avail him?" he exclaim'd. "Believ'st thou, Malacoda! I had come Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," My teacher answered, "without will divine And destiny propitious? Pass we then For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I should lead Another through this savage wilderness." Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop The instrument of torture at his feet, And to the rest exclaim'd: "We have no power To strike him." Then to me my guide: "O thou! Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit Low crouching, safely now to me return." I rose, and towards him moved with speed: the fiends Meantime all forward drew: me terror seiz'd Lest they should break the compact they had made. Thus issuing from Caprona, once I saw Th' infantry dreading, lest his covenant The foe should break; so close he hemm'd them round. I to my leader's side adher'd, mine eyes With fixt and motionless observance bent On their unkindly visage. They their hooks Protruding, one the other thus bespake: "Wilt thou I touch him on the hip?" To whom Was answer'd: "Even so; nor miss thy aim." But he, who was in conf'rence with my guide, Turn'd rapid round, and thus the demon spake: "Stay, stay thee, Scarmiglione!" Then to us He added: "Further footing to your step This rock affords not, shiver'd to the base Of the sixth arch. But would you still proceed, Up by this cavern go: not distant far, Another rock will yield you passage safe. Yesterday, later by five hours than now, Twelve hundred threescore years and six had fill'd The circuit of their course, since here the way Was broken. Thitherward I straight dispatch Certain of these my scouts, who shall espy If any on the surface bask. With them Go ye: for ye shall find them nothing fell. Come Alichino forth," with that he cried, "And Calcabrina, and Cagnazzo thou! The troop of ten let Barbariccia lead. With Libicocco Draghinazzo haste, Fang'd Ciriatto, Grafflacane fierce, And Farfarello, and mad Rubicant. Search ye around the bubbling tar. For these, In safety lead them, where the other crag Uninterrupted traverses the dens." I then: "O master! what a sight is there! Ah! without escort, journey we alone, Which, if thou know the way, I covet not. Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl Threatens us present tortures?" He replied: "I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will, Gnarl on: 't is but in token of their spite Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep'd." To leftward o'er the pier they turn'd; but each Had first between his teeth prest close the tongue, Toward their leader for a signal looking, Which he with sound obscene triumphant gave. CANTO XXII IT hath been heretofore my chance to see Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, To onset sallying, or in muster rang'd, Or in retreat sometimes outstretch'd for flight; Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen, And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, And with inventions multiform, our own, Or introduc'd from foreign land; but ne'er To such a strange recorder I beheld, In evolution moving, horse nor foot, Nor ship, that tack'd by sign from land or star. With the ten demons on our way we went; Ah fearful company! but in the church With saints, with gluttons at the tavern's mess. Still earnest on the pitch I gaz'd, to mark All things whate'er the chasm contain'd, and those Who burn'd within. As dolphins, that, in sign To mariners, heave high their arched backs, That thence forewarn'd they may advise to save Their threaten'd vessels; so, at intervals, To ease the pain his back some sinner show'd, Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance. E'en as the frogs, that of a wat'ry moat Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out, Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed, Thus on each part the sinners stood, but soon As Barbariccia was at hand, so they Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus, As it befalls that oft one frog remains, While the next springs away: and Graffiacan, Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seiz'd His clotted locks, and dragg'd him sprawling up, That he appear'd to me an otter. Each Already by their names I knew, so well When they were chosen, I observ'd, and mark'd How one the other call'd. "O Rubicant! See that his hide thou with thy talons flay," Shouted together all the cursed crew. Then I: "Inform thee, master! if thou may, What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand His foes have laid." My leader to his side Approach'd, and whence he came inquir'd, to whom Was answer'd thus: "Born in Navarre's domain My mother plac'd me in a lord's retinue, For she had borne me to a losel vile, A spendthrift of his substance and himself. The good king Thibault after that I serv'd, To peculating here my thoughts were turn'd, Whereof I give account in this dire heat." Straight Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk Issued on either side, as from a boar, Ript him with one of these. 'Twixt evil claws The mouse had fall'n: but Barbariccia cried, Seizing him with both arms: "Stand thou apart, While I do fix him on my prong transpierc'd." Then added, turning to my guide his face, "Inquire of him, if more thou wish to learn, Ere he again be rent." My leader thus: "Then tell us of the partners in thy guilt; Knowest thou any sprung of Latian land Under the tar?"--"I parted," he replied, "But now from one, who sojourn'd not far thence; So were I under shelter now with him! Nor hook nor talon then should scare me more."--. "Too long we suffer," Libicocco cried, Then, darting forth a prong, seiz'd on his arm, And mangled bore away the sinewy part. Him Draghinazzo by his thighs beneath Would next have caught, whence angrily their chief, Turning on all sides round, with threat'ning brow Restrain'd them. When their strife a little ceas'd, Of him, who yet was gazing on his wound, My teacher thus without delay inquir'd: "Who was the spirit, from whom by evil hap Parting, as thou has told, thou cam'st to shore?"-- "It was the friar Gomita," he rejoin'd, "He of Gallura, vessel of all guile, Who had his master's enemies in hand, And us'd them so that they commend him well. Money he took, and them at large dismiss'd. So he reports: and in each other charge Committed to his keeping, play'd the part Of barterer to the height: with him doth herd The chief of Logodoro, Michel Zanche. Sardinia is a theme, whereof their tongue Is never weary. Out! alas! behold That other, how he grins! More would I say, But tremble lest he mean to maul me sore." Their captain then to Farfarello turning, Who roll'd his moony eyes in act to strike, Rebuk'd him thus: "Off! cursed bird! Avaunt!"-- "If ye desire to see or hear," he thus Quaking with dread resum'd, "or Tuscan spirits Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear. Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury, So that no vengeance they may fear from them, And I, remaining in this self-same place, Will for myself but one, make sev'n appear, When my shrill whistle shall be heard; for so Our custom is to call each other up." Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn'd, Then wagg'd the head and spake: "Hear his device, Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down." Whereto he thus, who fail'd not in rich store Of nice-wove toils; "Mischief forsooth extreme, Meant only to procure myself more woe!" No longer Alichino then refrain'd, But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake: "If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let The bank be as a shield, that we may see If singly thou prevail against us all." Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear! They each one turn'd his eyes to the other shore, He first, who was the hardest to persuade. The spirit of Navarre chose well his time, Planted his feet on land, and at one leap Escaping disappointed their resolve. Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit He therefore sped, exclaiming; "Thou art caught." But little it avail'd: terror outstripp'd His following flight: the other plung'd beneath, And he with upward pinion rais'd his breast: E'en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives The falcon near, dives instant down, while he Enrag'd and spent retires. That mockery In Calcabrina fury stirr'd, who flew After him, with desire of strife inflam'd; And, for the barterer had 'scap'd, so turn'd His talons on his comrade. O'er the dyke In grapple close they join'd; but the other prov'd A goshawk able to rend well his foe; And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat Was umpire soon between them, but in vain To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest, That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatch'd From the other coast, with all their weapons arm'd. They, to their post on each side speedily Descending, stretch'd their hooks toward the fiends, Who flounder'd, inly burning from their scars: And we departing left them to that broil. CANTO XXIII IN silence and in solitude we went, One first, the other following his steps, As minor friars journeying on their road. The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to muse Upon old Aesop's fable, where he told What fate unto the mouse and frog befell. For language hath not sounds more like in sense, Than are these chances, if the origin And end of each be heedfully compar'd. And as one thought bursts from another forth, So afterward from that another sprang, Which added doubly to my former fear. For thus I reason'd: "These through us have been So foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete, As needs must sting them sore. If anger then Be to their evil will conjoin'd, more fell They shall pursue us, than the savage hound Snatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass, I should not sooner draw unto myself Thy outward image, than I now imprint That from within. This moment came thy thoughts Presented before mine, with similar act And count'nance similar, so that from both I one design have fram'd. If the right coast Incline so much, that we may thence descend Into the other chasm, we shall escape Secure from this imagined pursuit." He had not spoke his purpose to the end, When I from far beheld them with spread wings Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide Caught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleep Is by the noise arous'd, and near her sees The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe And flies ne'er pausing, careful more of him Than of herself, that but a single vest Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock, Which closes on one part the other chasm. Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, When over us the steep they reach'd; but fear In him was none; for that high Providence, Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss, Power of departing thence took from them all. There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! We yet once more with them together turn'd To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly came The fainting people, that our company Was chang'd at every movement of the step. Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice, Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet, Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air. Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look Impatient eagerness of mind was mark'd To overtake me; but the load they bare And narrow path retarded their approach. Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askance Perus'd me, but spake not: then turning each To other thus conferring said: "This one Seems, by the action of his throat, alive. And, be they dead, what privilege allows They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?" Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." "By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied, "In the great city I was bred and grew, And wear the body I have ever worn. but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief, As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks? What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?" "Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue," One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross, That with their weight they make the balances To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were, Bologna's natives, Catalano I, He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter, To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo's vicinage can best declare." "O friars!" I began, "your miseries--" But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard. And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware, Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view'st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs. In straits like this along the foss are plac'd The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews." I noted then, How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell'd they come To lead us from this depth." He thus replied: "Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o'ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below." With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. CANTO XXIV IN the year's early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister's image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour's issue, that he seems Still to foresee the effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd His eye upon another. "Grapple that," Said he, "but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee." For one capp'd with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd. But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried, "For I am stout and fearless." Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: "To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not," Said he, "but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return." We from the bridge's head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn'd. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix'd the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'd To ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth. When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust again Uproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'd To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder'd with the monstrous agony He hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody." The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake: "It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart." CANTO XXV WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God! I level them at thee!" From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss, Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter'd more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm'd, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide: "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt." While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd; "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. "Where," said he, "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs The hideous monster intertwin'd his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, "Nor only one." The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang'd, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd That image miscreate, and so pass'd on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th' entrails of the other two Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first, One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd, As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd. He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other's substance. They in mutual guise So answer'd, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th' other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: "Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!" So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou, The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund'rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng'd, at its departure saw Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect Rais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu'd them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd; E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: "Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word," I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'd Already of the truth, already wish'd To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem'd Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?" He replied: "Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open'd wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles 'reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have power Of utt'rance from within these sparks," said I, "O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend." He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began: "O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate'er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd." Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'd From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T' explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd The bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the other hand already Ceuta past. "O brothers!" I began, "who to the west Through perils without number now have reach'd, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn'd, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oft Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter'd, when from far Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos'd." CANTO XVII NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem'd Pierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn'd the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey'd Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: "O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, "Depart thou, I solicit thee no more, Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood." Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O'ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France. "The old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd point On either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last: "If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. "A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so T' have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on, The high priest again seduc'd me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn'd; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord, Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask'd: and I was silent: for his words Seem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd: 'From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." "When I was number'd with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.'" Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me not A disputant in logic so exact." To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin'd eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: "This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e'er Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur'd booty made A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs One were to show transpierc'd, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th' englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, Haply so lingering to delay the pain Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet," My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin Conducts to torment; but, that he may make Full trial of your state, I who am dead Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true." More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed, Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not Here soon to follow me, that with good store Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows Yield him a victim to Novara's power, No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade, Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind Piero of Medicina, if again Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo; "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo, That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright The future, they out of life's tenement Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves Near to Cattolica, through perfidy Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen An injury so foul, by pirates done Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end, That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus: "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of; He speaks not for himself: the outcast this Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind, Affirming that delay to men prepar'd Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd, 'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race." I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off, As one grief-stung to madness. But I there Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw Things, such as I may fear without more proof To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, A headless trunk, that even as the rest Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said, "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself, And two there were in one, and one in two. How that may be he knows who ordereth so. When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on? Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below Among the maim'd and miserable shades? Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them That two and twenty miles the valley winds Its circuit, and already is the moon Beneath our feet: the time permitted now Is short, and more not seen remains to see." "If thou," I straight replied, "hadst weigh'd the cause For which I look'd, thou hadst perchance excus'd The tarrying still." My leader part pursu'd His way, the while I follow'd, answering him, And adding thus: "Within that cave I deem, Whereon so fixedly I held my ken, There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood, Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear." Then spake my master: "Let thy soul no more Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge's foot I mark'd how he did point with menacing look At thee, and heard him by the others nam'd Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul'd The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not That way, ere he was gone."--"O guide belov'd! His violent death yet unaveng'd," said I, "By any, who are partners in his shame, Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think, He pass'd me speechless by; and doing so Hath made me more compassionate his fate." So we discours'd to where the rock first show'd The other valley, had more light been there, E'en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came O'er the last cloister in the dismal rounds Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood Were to our view expos'd, then many a dart Of sore lament assail'd me, headed all With points of thrilling pity, that I clos'd Both ears against the volley with mine hands. As were the torment, if each lazar-house Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 'Twixt July and September, with the isle Sardinia and Maremma's pestilent fen, Had heap'd their maladies all in one foss Together; such was here the torment: dire The stench, as issuing steams from fester'd limbs. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. More rueful was it not methinks to see The nation in Aegina droop, what time Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, All fell, so full of malice was the air (And afterward, as bards of yore have told, The ancient people were restor'd anew From seed of emmets) than was here to see The spirits, that languish'd through the murky vale Up-pil'd on many a stack. Confus'd they lay, One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one Roll'd of another; sideling crawl'd a third Along the dismal pathway. Step by step We journey'd on, in silence looking round And list'ning those diseas'd, who strove in vain To lift their forms. Then two I mark'd, that sat Propp'd 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, A tetter bark'd them round. Nor saw I e'er Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord Impatient waited, or himself perchance Tir'd with long watching, as of these each one Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales Scrap'd from the bream or fish of broader mail. "O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off Thy coat of proof," thus spake my guide to one, "And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them, Tell me if any born of Latian land Be among these within: so may thy nails Serve thee for everlasting to this toil." "Both are of Latium," weeping he replied, "Whom tortur'd thus thou seest: but who art thou That hast inquir'd of us?" To whom my guide: "One that descend with this man, who yet lives, From rock to rock, and show him hell's abyss." Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." "Arezzo was my dwelling," answer'd one, "And me Albero of Sienna brought To die by fire; but that, for which I died, Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him, That I had learn'd to wing my flight in air. And he admiring much, as he was void Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him The secret of mine art: and only hence, Because I made him not a Daedalus, Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me. But Minos to this chasm last of the ten, For that I practis'd alchemy on earth, Has doom'd me. Him no subterfuge eludes." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." The other leprous spirit heard my words, And thus return'd: "Be Stricca from this charge Exempted, he who knew so temp'rately To lay out fortune's gifts; and Niccolo Who first the spice's costly luxury Discover'd in that garden, where such seed Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano Lavish'd his vineyards and wide-spreading woods, And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show'd A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know Who seconds thee against the Siennese Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen'd sight, That well my face may answer to thy ken; So shalt thou see I am Capocchio's ghost, Who forg'd transmuted metals by the power Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right, Thus needs must well remember how I aped Creative nature by my subtle art." CANTO XXX WHAT time resentment burn'd in Juno's breast For Semele against the Theban blood, As more than once in dire mischance was rued, Such fatal frenzy seiz'd on Athamas, That he his spouse beholding with a babe Laden on either arm, "Spread out," he cried, "The meshes, that I take the lioness And the young lions at the pass:" then forth Stretch'd he his merciless talons, grasping one, One helpless innocent, Learchus nam'd, Whom swinging down he dash'd upon a rock, And with her other burden self-destroy'd The hapless mother plung'd: and when the pride Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height, By fortune overwhelm'd, and the old king With his realm perish'd, then did Hecuba, A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw Polyxena first slaughter'd, and her son, Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach Next met the mourner's view, then reft of sense Did she run barking even as a dog; Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul. Bet ne'er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads Infixing in the limbs of man or beast, As now two pale and naked ghost I saw That gnarling wildly scamper'd, like the swine Excluded from his stye. One reach'd Capocchio, And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs, Dragg'd him, that o'er the solid pavement rubb'd His belly stretch'd out prone. The other shape, He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake; "That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood Of random mischief vents he still his spite." To whom I answ'ring: "Oh! as thou dost hope, The other may not flesh its jaws on thee, Be patient to inform us, who it is, Ere it speed hence."--"That is the ancient soul Of wretched Myrrha," he replied, "who burn'd With most unholy flame for her own sire, "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." When vanish'd the two furious shades, on whom Mine eye was held, I turn'd it back to view The other cursed spirits. One I saw In fashion like a lute, had but the groin Been sever'd, where it meets the forked part. Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch Suits not the visage, open'd wide his lips Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, One towards the chin, the other upward curl'd. "O ye, who in this world of misery, Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," Thus he began, "attentively regard Adamo's woe. When living, full supply Ne'er lack'd me of what most I coveted; One drop of water now, alas! I crave. The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes Of Casentino, making fresh and soft The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, Stand ever in my view; and not in vain; For more the pictur'd semblance dries me up, Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh Desert these shrivel'd cheeks. So from the place, Where I transgress'd, stern justice urging me, Takes means to quicken more my lab'ring sighs. There is Romena, where I falsified The metal with the Baptist's form imprest, For which on earth I left my body burnt. But if I here might see the sorrowing soul Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's limpid spring I would not change The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, If truly the mad spirits tell, that round Are wand'ring. But wherein besteads me that? My limbs are fetter'd. Were I but so light, That I each hundred years might move one inch, I had set forth already on this path, Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, Although eleven miles it wind, not more Than half of one across. They brought me down Among this tribe; induc'd by them I stamp'd The florens with three carats of alloy." "Who are that abject pair," I next inquir'd, "That closely bounding thee upon thy right Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep'd In the chill stream?"--"When to this gulf I dropt," He answer'd, "here I found them; since that hour They have not turn'd, nor ever shall, I ween, Till time hath run his course. One is that dame The false accuser of the Hebrew youth; Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, In such a cloud upsteam'd." When that he heard, One, gall'd perchance to be so darkly nam'd, With clench'd hand smote him on the braced paunch, That like a drum resounded: but forthwith Adamo smote him on the face, the blow Returning with his arm, that seem'd as hard. "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," Said Sinon; "I am here but for one fault, And thou for more than any imp beside." "Remember," he replied, "O perjur'd one, The horse remember, that did teem with death, And all the world be witness to thy guilt." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more, And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." CANTO XXXI THE very tongue, whose keen reproof before Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain'd, Now minister'd my cure. So have I heard, Achilles and his father's javelin caus'd Pain first, and then the boon of health restor'd. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, W cross'd th' encircled mound in silence. There Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom Mine eye advanc'd not: but I heard a horn Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made The thunder feeble. Following its course The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent On that one spot. So terrible a blast Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout O'erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench'd His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long My head was rais'd, when many lofty towers Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land Is this?" He answer'd straight: "Too long a space Of intervening darkness has thine eye To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err'd In thy imagining. Thither arriv'd Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." As when a fog disperseth gradually, Our vision traces what the mist involves Condens'd in air; so piercing through the gross And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more We near'd toward the brink, mine error fled, And fear came o'er me. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls, E'en thus the shore, encompassing th' abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav'n Yet threatens, when his mutt'ring thunder rolls. Of one already I descried the face, Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge Great part, and both arms down along his ribs. All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand Left framing of these monsters, did display Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she Repent her not of th' elephant and whale, Who ponders well confesses her therein Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force And evil will are back'd with subtlety, Resistance none avails. His visage seem'd In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops Saint Peter's Roman fane; and th' other bones Of like proportion, so that from above The bank, which girdled him below, such height Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders Had striv'n in vain to reach but to his hair. Full thirty ample palms was he expos'd Downward from whence a man his garments loops. "Raphel bai ameth sabi almi," So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns Became not; and my guide address'd him thus: "O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck, There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on. Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast Where hangs the baldrick!" Then to me he spake: "He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this, Through whose ill counsel in the world no more One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste Our words; for so each language is to him, As his to others, understood by none." Then to the leftward turning sped we forth, And at a sling's throw found another shade Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say What master hand had girt him; but he held Behind the right arm fetter'd, and before The other with a chain, that fasten'd him From the neck down, and five times round his form Apparent met the wreathed links. "This proud one Would of his strength against almighty Jove Make trial," said my guide; "whence he is thus Requited: Ephialtes him they call. "Great was his prowess, when the giants brought Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled, Now moves he never." Forthwith I return'd: "Fain would I, if 't were possible, mine eyes Of Briareus immeasurable gain'd Experience next." He answer'd: "Thou shalt see Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks And is unfetter'd, who shall place us there Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made Like to this spirit, save that in his looks More fell he seems." By violent earthquake rock'd Ne'er shook a tow'r, so reeling to its base, As Ephialtes. More than ever then I dreaded death, nor than the terror more Had needed, if I had not seen the cords That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on, Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete Without the head, forth issued from the cave. "O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, Seems as men yet believ'd, that through thine arm The sons of earth had conquer'd, now vouchsafe To place us down beneath, where numbing cold Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. He in the upper world can yet bestow Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks For life yet longer, if before the time Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake The teacher. He in haste forth stretch'd his hands, And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt That grapple straighten'd score. Soon as my guide Had felt it, he bespake me thus: "This way That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, That we were both one burden. As appears The tower of Carisenda, from beneath Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud So sail across, that opposite it hangs, Such then Antaeus seem'd, as at mine ease I mark'd him stooping. I were fain at times T' have pass'd another way. Yet in th' abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he plac'd us; nor there leaning stay'd, But rose as in a bark the stately mast. CANTO XXXII COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. A space I look'd around, then at my feet Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye, Whose bosoms thus together press," said I, "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent, And when their looks were lifted up to me, Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there. Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd. And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft, Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves. They from one body issued; and throughout Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade More worthy in congealment to be fix'd, Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia, No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be, Well knowest who he was: and to cut short All further question, in my form behold What once was Camiccione. I await Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on Toward the middle, at whose point unites All heavy substance, and I trembling went Through that eternal chillness, I know not If will it were or destiny, or chance, But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike With violent blow against the face of one. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that I will not tell nor show thee who I am, Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes Drawn in and downward, when another cried, "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright? What devil wrings thee?"--"Now," said I, "be dumb, Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee True tidings will I bear."--"Off," he replied, "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold. 'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd, Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd What other shade was with them, at thy side Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd The biting axe of Florence. Farther on, If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides, With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him Who op'd Faenza when the people slept." We now had left him, passing on our way, When I beheld two spirits by the ice Pent in one hollow, that the head of one Was cowl unto the other; and as bread Is raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost Did so apply his fangs to th' other's brain, Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd, Than on that skull and on its garbage he. "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that wherewith I speak be moist so long." CANTO XXXIII HIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast, That sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head, Which he behind had mangled, then began: "Thy will obeying, I call up afresh Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words, That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear Fruit of eternal infamy to him, The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be I know not, nor how here below art come: But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth Count Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close, Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en And after murder'd, need is not I tell. What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate Within that mew, which for my sake the name Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, Already through its opening sev'ral moons Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep, That from the future tore the curtain off. This one, methought, as master of the sport, Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs Inquisitive and keen, before him rang'd Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. After short course the father and the sons Seem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold; And if not now, why use thy tears to flow? Now had they waken'd; and the hour drew near When they were wont to bring us food; the mind Of each misgave him through his dream, and I Heard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up The horrible tower: whence uttering not a word I look'd upon the visage of my sons. I wept not: so all stone I felt within. They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried: "Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet I shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day Nor the next night, until another sun Came out upon the world. When a faint beam Had to our doleful prison made its way, And in four countenances I descry'd The image of my own, on either hand Through agony I bit, and they who thought I did it through desire of feeding, rose O' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, 'And do thou strip them off from us again.' Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down My spirit in stillness. That day and the next We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth! Why open'dst not upon us? When we came To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet Outstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help For me, my father!' There he died, and e'en Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth: "Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope Over them all, and for three days aloud Call'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame Of all the people, who their dwelling make In that fair region, where th' Italian voice Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack To punish, from their deep foundations rise Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee May perish in the waters! What if fame Reported that thy castles were betray'd By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou To stretch his children on the rack. For them, Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd, Where others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice Not on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd. There very weeping suffers not to weep; For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds Impediment, and rolling inward turns For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears Hang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show, Under the socket brimming all the cup. Now though the cold had from my face dislodg'd Each feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd Some breath of wind I felt. "Whence cometh this," Said I, "my master? Is not here below All vapour quench'd?"--"'Thou shalt be speedily," He answer'd, "where thine eye shall tell thee whence The cause descrying of this airy shower." Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd: "O souls so cruel! that the farthest post Hath been assign'd you, from this face remove The harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief Impregnate at my heart, some little space Ere it congeal again!" I thus replied: "Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid; And if I extricate thee not, far down As to the lowest ice may I descend!" "The friar Alberigo," answered he, "Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date More luscious for my fig."--"Hah!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou too dead!"--"How in the world aloft It fareth with my body," answer'd he, "I am right ignorant. Such privilege Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd. And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, As I did, yields her body to a fiend Who after moves and governs it at will, Till all its time be rounded; headlong she Falls to this cistern. And perchance above Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st, If thou but newly art arriv'd below. The years are many that have pass'd away, Since to this fastness Branca Doria came." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." He thus: "Not yet unto that upper foss By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd, When this one left a demon in his stead In his own body, and of one his kin, Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth Thy hand, and ope mine eyes." I op'd them not. Ill manners were best courtesy to him. Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way, With every foulness stain'd, why from the earth Are ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, As for his doings even now in soul Is in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem In body still alive upon the earth. CANTO XXXIV "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain Record the marvel) where the souls were all Whelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid, Others stood upright, this upon the soles, That on his head, a third with face to feet Arch'd like a bow. When to the point we came, Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see The creature eminent in beauty once, He from before me stepp'd and made me pause. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." How frozen and how faint I then became, Ask me not, reader! for I write it not, Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. I was not dead nor living. Think thyself If quick conception work in thee at all, How I did feel. That emperor, who sways The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice Stood forth; and I in stature am more like A giant, than the giants are in his arms. Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits With such a part. If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight! How passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy Upon his head three faces: one in front Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest; The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left To look on, such as come from whence old Nile Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth Two mighty wings, enormous as became A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they, But were in texture like a bat, and these He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam. At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three Were in this guise tormented. But far more Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit, Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide, "Is Judas, he that hath his head within And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears So large of limb. But night now re-ascends, And it is time for parting. All is seen." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. Soon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh Upon the swelling of the haunches turns, My leader there with pain and struggling hard Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before, And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts, That into hell methought we turn'd again. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. "Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet. The way is long, and much uncouth the road; And now within one hour and half of noon The sun returns." It was no palace-hall Lofty and luminous wherein we stood, But natural dungeon where ill footing was And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss I sep'rate," thus when risen I began, "My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free From error's thralldom. Where is now the ice? How standeth he in posture thus revers'd? And how from eve to morn in space so brief Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world. Thou wast on th' other side, so long as I Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass That point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd Under the hemisphere opposed to that, Which the great continent doth overspread, And underneath whose canopy expir'd The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd. Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere, Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn Here rises, when there evening sets: and he, Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd, As at the first. On this part he fell down From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before, Through fear of him did veil her with the sea, And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance To shun him was the vacant space left here By what of firm land on this side appears, That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath, From Belzebub as distant, as extends The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight, But by the sound of brooklet, that descends This way along the hollow of a rock, Which, as it winds with no precipitous course, The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climbed, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. 
8796	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. PARADISE Part 1 LIST OF CANTOS Canto 1 Canto 2 Canto 3 Canto 4 Canto 5 Canto 6 Canto 7 Canto 8 Canto 9 Canto 10 Canto 11 Canto 12 Canto 13 Canto 14 Canto 15 Canto 16 Canto 17 Canto 18 Canto 19 Canto 20 Canto 21 Canto 22 Canto 23 Canto 24 Canto 25 Canto 26 Canto 27 Canto 28 Canto 29 Canto 30 Canto 31 Canto 32 Canto 33 CANTO I His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd, Pierces the universe, and in one part Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. In heav'n, That largeliest of his light partakes, was I, Witness of things, which to relate again Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence; For that, so near approaching its desire Our intellect is to such depth absorb'd, That memory cannot follow. Nathless all, That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm Could store, shall now be matter of my song. Benign Apollo! this last labour aid, And make me such a vessel of thy worth, As thy own laurel claims of me belov'd. Thus far hath one of steep Parnassus' brows Suffic'd me; henceforth there is need of both For my remaining enterprise Do thou Enter into my bosom, and there breathe So, as when Marsyas by thy hand was dragg'd Forth from his limbs unsheath'd. O power divine! If thou to me of shine impart so much, That of that happy realm the shadow'd form Trac'd in my thoughts I may set forth to view, Thou shalt behold me of thy favour'd tree Come to the foot, and crown myself with leaves; For to that honour thou, and my high theme Will fit me. If but seldom, mighty Sire! To grace his triumph gathers thence a wreath Caesar or bard (more shame for human wills Deprav'd) joy to the Delphic god must spring From the Pierian foliage, when one breast Is with such thirst inspir'd. From a small spark Great flame hath risen: after me perchance Others with better voice may pray, and gain From the Cirrhaean city answer kind. Through diver passages, the world's bright lamp Rises to mortals, but through that which joins Four circles with the threefold cross, in best Course, and in happiest constellation set He comes, and to the worldly wax best gives Its temper and impression. Morning there, Here eve was by almost such passage made; And whiteness had o'erspread that hemisphere, Blackness the other part; when to the left I saw Beatrice turn'd, and on the sun Gazing, as never eagle fix'd his ken. As from the first a second beam is wont To issue, and reflected upwards rise, E'en as a pilgrim bent on his return, So of her act, that through the eyesight pass'd Into my fancy, mine was form'd; and straight, Beyond our mortal wont, I fix'd mine eyes Upon the sun. Much is allowed us there, That here exceeds our pow'r; thanks to the place Made for the dwelling of the human kind I suffer'd it not long, and yet so long That I beheld it bick'ring sparks around, As iron that comes boiling from the fire. And suddenly upon the day appear'd A day new-ris'n, as he, who hath the power, Had with another sun bedeck'd the sky. Her eyes fast fix'd on the eternal wheels, Beatrice stood unmov'd; and I with ken Fix'd upon her, from upward gaze remov'd At her aspect, such inwardly became As Glaucus, when he tasted of the herb, That made him peer among the ocean gods; Words may not tell of that transhuman change: And therefore let the example serve, though weak, For those whom grace hath better proof in store If I were only what thou didst create, Then newly, Love! by whom the heav'n is rul'd, Thou know'st, who by thy light didst bear me up. Whenas the wheel which thou dost ever guide, Desired Spirit! with its harmony Temper'd of thee and measur'd, charm'd mine ear, Then seem'd to me so much of heav'n to blaze With the sun's flame, that rain or flood ne'er made A lake so broad. The newness of the sound, And that great light, inflam'd me with desire, Keener than e'er was felt, to know their cause. Whence she who saw me, clearly as myself, To calm my troubled mind, before I ask'd, Open'd her lips, and gracious thus began: "With false imagination thou thyself Mak'st dull, so that thou seest not the thing, Which thou hadst seen, had that been shaken off. Thou art not on the earth as thou believ'st; For light'ning scap'd from its own proper place Ne'er ran, as thou hast hither now return'd." Although divested of my first-rais'd doubt, By those brief words, accompanied with smiles, Yet in new doubt was I entangled more, And said: "Already satisfied, I rest From admiration deep, but now admire How I above those lighter bodies rise." Whence, after utt'rance of a piteous sigh, She tow'rds me bent her eyes, with such a look, As on her frenzied child a mother casts; Then thus began: "Among themselves all things Have order; and from hence the form, which makes The universe resemble God. In this The higher creatures see the printed steps Of that eternal worth, which is the end Whither the line is drawn. All natures lean, In this their order, diversely, some more, Some less approaching to their primal source. Thus they to different havens are mov'd on Through the vast sea of being, and each one With instinct giv'n, that bears it in its course; This to the lunar sphere directs the fire, This prompts the hearts of mortal animals, This the brute earth together knits, and binds. Nor only creatures, void of intellect, Are aim'd at by this bow; but even those, That have intelligence and love, are pierc'd. That Providence, who so well orders all, With her own light makes ever calm the heaven, In which the substance, that hath greatest speed, Is turn'd: and thither now, as to our seat Predestin'd, we are carried by the force Of that strong cord, that never looses dart, But at fair aim and glad. Yet is it true, That as ofttimes but ill accords the form To the design of art, through sluggishness Of unreplying matter, so this course Is sometimes quitted by the creature, who Hath power, directed thus, to bend elsewhere; As from a cloud the fire is seen to fall, From its original impulse warp'd, to earth, By vicious fondness. Thou no more admire Thy soaring, (if I rightly deem,) than lapse Of torrent downwards from a mountain's height. There would in thee for wonder be more cause, If, free of hind'rance, thou hadst fix'd thyself Below, like fire unmoving on the earth." So said, she turn'd toward the heav'n her face. CANTO II All ye, who in small bark have following sail'd, Eager to listen, on the advent'rous track Of my proud keel, that singing cuts its way, Backward return with speed, and your own shores Revisit, nor put out to open sea, Where losing me, perchance ye may remain Bewilder'd in deep maze. The way I pass Ne'er yet was run: Minerva breathes the gale, Apollo guides me, and another Nine To my rapt sight the arctic beams reveal. Ye other few, who have outstretch'd the neck. Timely for food of angels, on which here They live, yet never know satiety, Through the deep brine ye fearless may put out Your vessel, marking, well the furrow broad Before you in the wave, that on both sides Equal returns. Those, glorious, who pass'd o'er To Colchos, wonder'd not as ye will do, When they saw Jason following the plough. The increate perpetual thirst, that draws Toward the realm of God's own form, bore us Swift almost as the heaven ye behold. Beatrice upward gaz'd, and I on her, And in such space as on the notch a dart Is plac'd, then loosen'd flies, I saw myself Arriv'd, where wond'rous thing engag'd my sight. Whence she, to whom no work of mine was hid, Turning to me, with aspect glad as fair, Bespake me: "Gratefully direct thy mind To God, through whom to this first star we come." Me seem'd as if a cloud had cover'd us, Translucent, solid, firm, and polish'd bright, Like adamant, which the sun's beam had smit Within itself the ever-during pearl Receiv'd us, as the wave a ray of light Receives, and rests unbroken. If I then Was of corporeal frame, and it transcend Our weaker thought, how one dimension thus Another could endure, which needs must be If body enter body, how much more Must the desire inflame us to behold That essence, which discovers by what means God and our nature join'd! There will be seen That which we hold through faith, not shown by proof, But in itself intelligibly plain, E'en as the truth that man at first believes. I answered: "Lady! I with thoughts devout, Such as I best can frame, give thanks to Him, Who hath remov'd me from the mortal world. But tell, I pray thee, whence the gloomy spots Upon this body, which below on earth Give rise to talk of Cain in fabling quaint?" She somewhat smil'd, then spake: "If mortals err In their opinion, when the key of sense Unlocks not, surely wonder's weapon keen Ought not to pierce thee; since thou find'st, the wings Of reason to pursue the senses' flight Are short. But what thy own thought is, declare." Then I: "What various here above appears, Is caus'd, I deem, by bodies dense or rare." She then resum'd: "Thou certainly wilt see In falsehood thy belief o'erwhelm'd, if well Thou listen to the arguments, which I Shall bring to face it. The eighth sphere displays Numberless lights, the which in kind and size May be remark'd of different aspects; If rare or dense of that were cause alone, One single virtue then would be in all, Alike distributed, or more, or less. Different virtues needs must be the fruits Of formal principles, and these, save one, Will by thy reasoning be destroy'd. Beside, If rarity were of that dusk the cause, Which thou inquirest, either in some part That planet must throughout be void, nor fed With its own matter; or, as bodies share Their fat and leanness, in like manner this Must in its volume change the leaves. The first, If it were true, had through the sun's eclipse Been manifested, by transparency Of light, as through aught rare beside effus'd. But this is not. Therefore remains to see The other cause: and if the other fall, Erroneous so must prove what seem'd to thee. If not from side to side this rarity Pass through, there needs must be a limit, whence Its contrary no further lets it pass. And hence the beam, that from without proceeds, Must be pour'd back, as colour comes, through glass Reflected, which behind it lead conceals. Now wilt thou say, that there of murkier hue Than in the other part the ray is shown, By being thence refracted farther back. From this perplexity will free thee soon Experience, if thereof thou trial make, The fountain whence your arts derive their streame. Three mirrors shalt thou take, and two remove From thee alike, and more remote the third. Betwixt the former pair, shall meet thine eyes; Then turn'd toward them, cause behind thy back A light to stand, that on the three shall shine, And thus reflected come to thee from all. Though that beheld most distant do not stretch A space so ample, yet in brightness thou Will own it equaling the rest. But now, As under snow the ground, if the warm ray Smites it, remains dismantled of the hue And cold, that cover'd it before, so thee, Dismantled in thy mind, I will inform With light so lively, that the tremulous beam Shall quiver where it falls. Within the heaven, Where peace divine inhabits, circles round A body, in whose virtue dies the being Of all that it contains. The following heaven, That hath so many lights, this being divides, Through different essences, from it distinct, And yet contain'd within it. The other orbs Their separate distinctions variously Dispose, for their own seed and produce apt. Thus do these organs of the world proceed, As thou beholdest now, from step to step, Their influences from above deriving, And thence transmitting downwards. Mark me well, How through this passage to the truth I ford, The truth thou lov'st, that thou henceforth alone, May'st know to keep the shallows, safe, untold. "The virtue and motion of the sacred orbs, As mallet by the workman's hand, must needs By blessed movers be inspir'd. This heaven, Made beauteous by so many luminaries, From the deep spirit, that moves its circling sphere, Its image takes an impress as a seal: And as the soul, that dwells within your dust, Through members different, yet together form'd, In different pow'rs resolves itself; e'en so The intellectual efficacy unfolds Its goodness multiplied throughout the stars; On its own unity revolving still. Different virtue compact different Makes with the precious body it enlivens, With which it knits, as life in you is knit. From its original nature full of joy, The virtue mingled through the body shines, As joy through pupil of the living eye. From hence proceeds, that which from light to light Seems different, and not from dense or rare. This is the formal cause, that generates Proportion'd to its power, the dusk or clear." CANTO III That sun, which erst with love my bosom warm'd Had of fair truth unveil'd the sweet aspect, By proof of right, and of the false reproof; And I, to own myself convinc'd and free Of doubt, as much as needed, rais'd my head Erect for speech. But soon a sight appear'd, Which, so intent to mark it, held me fix'd, That of confession I no longer thought. As through translucent and smooth glass, or wave Clear and unmov'd, and flowing not so deep As that its bed is dark, the shape returns So faint of our impictur'd lineaments, That on white forehead set a pearl as strong Comes to the eye: such saw I many a face, All stretch'd to speak, from whence I straight conceiv'd Delusion opposite to that, which rais'd Between the man and fountain, amorous flame. Sudden, as I perceiv'd them, deeming these Reflected semblances to see of whom They were, I turn'd mine eyes, and nothing saw; Then turn'd them back, directed on the light Of my sweet guide, who smiling shot forth beams From her celestial eyes. "Wonder not thou," She cry'd, "at this my smiling, when I see Thy childish judgment; since not yet on truth It rests the foot, but, as it still is wont, Makes thee fall back in unsound vacancy. True substances are these, which thou behold'st, Hither through failure of their vow exil'd. But speak thou with them; listen, and believe, That the true light, which fills them with desire, Permits not from its beams their feet to stray." Straight to the shadow which for converse seem'd Most earnest, I addressed me, and began, As one by over-eagerness perplex'd: "O spirit, born for joy! who in the rays Of life eternal, of that sweetness know'st The flavour, which, not tasted, passes far All apprehension, me it well would please, If thou wouldst tell me of thy name, and this Your station here." Whence she, with kindness prompt, And eyes glist'ning with smiles: "Our charity, To any wish by justice introduc'd, Bars not the door, no more than she above, Who would have all her court be like herself. I was a virgin sister in the earth; And if thy mind observe me well, this form, With such addition grac'd of loveliness, Will not conceal me long, but thou wilt know Piccarda, in the tardiest sphere thus plac'd, Here 'mid these other blessed also blest. Our hearts, whose high affections burn alone With pleasure, from the Holy Spirit conceiv'd, Admitted to his order dwell in joy. And this condition, which appears so low, Is for this cause assign'd us, that our vows Were in some part neglected and made void." Whence I to her replied: "Something divine Beams in your countenance, wond'rous fair, From former knowledge quite transmuting you. Therefore to recollect was I so slow. But what thou sayst hath to my memory Given now such aid, that to retrace your forms Is easier. Yet inform me, ye, who here Are happy, long ye for a higher place More to behold, and more in love to dwell?" She with those other spirits gently smil'd, Then answer'd with such gladness, that she seem'd With love's first flame to glow: "Brother! our will Is in composure settled by the power Of charity, who makes us will alone What we possess, and nought beyond desire; If we should wish to be exalted more, Then must our wishes jar with the high will Of him, who sets us here, which in these orbs Thou wilt confess not possible, if here To be in charity must needs befall, And if her nature well thou contemplate. Rather it is inherent in this state Of blessedness, to keep ourselves within The divine will, by which our wills with his Are one. So that as we from step to step Are plac'd throughout this kingdom, pleases all, E'en as our King, who in us plants his will; And in his will is our tranquillity; It is the mighty ocean, whither tends Whatever it creates and nature makes." Then saw I clearly how each spot in heav'n Is Paradise, though with like gracious dew The supreme virtue show'r not over all. But as it chances, if one sort of food Hath satiated, and of another still The appetite remains, that this is ask'd, And thanks for that return'd; e'en so did I In word and motion, bent from her to learn What web it was, through which she had not drawn The shuttle to its point. She thus began: "Exalted worth and perfectness of life The Lady higher up enshrine in heaven, By whose pure laws upon your nether earth The robe and veil they wear, to that intent, That e'en till death they may keep watch or sleep With their great bridegroom, who accepts each vow, Which to his gracious pleasure love conforms. from the world, to follow her, when young Escap'd; and, in her vesture mantling me, Made promise of the way her sect enjoins. Thereafter men, for ill than good more apt, Forth snatch'd me from the pleasant cloister's pale. God knows how after that my life was fram'd. This other splendid shape, which thou beholdst At my right side, burning with all the light Of this our orb, what of myself I tell May to herself apply. From her, like me A sister, with like violence were torn The saintly folds, that shaded her fair brows. E'en when she to the world again was brought In spite of her own will and better wont, Yet not for that the bosom's inward veil Did she renounce. This is the luminary Of mighty Constance, who from that loud blast, Which blew the second over Suabia's realm, That power produc'd, which was the third and last." She ceas'd from further talk, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and with that song Vanish'd, as heavy substance through deep wave. Mine eye, that far as it was capable, Pursued her, when in dimness she was lost, Turn'd to the mark where greater want impell'd, And bent on Beatrice all its gaze. But she as light'ning beam'd upon my looks: So that the sight sustain'd it not at first. Whence I to question her became less prompt. CANTO IV Between two kinds of food, both equally Remote and tempting, first a man might die Of hunger, ere he one could freely choose. E'en so would stand a lamb between the maw Of two fierce wolves, in dread of both alike: E'en so between two deer a dog would stand, Wherefore, if I was silent, fault nor praise I to myself impute, by equal doubts Held in suspense, since of necessity It happen'd. Silent was I, yet desire Was painted in my looks; and thus I spake My wish more earnestly than language could. As Daniel, when the haughty king he freed From ire, that spurr'd him on to deeds unjust And violent; so look'd Beatrice then. "Well I discern," she thus her words address'd, "How contrary desires each way constrain thee, So that thy anxious thought is in itself Bound up and stifled, nor breathes freely forth. Thou arguest; if the good intent remain; What reason that another's violence Should stint the measure of my fair desert? "Cause too thou findst for doubt, in that it seems, That spirits to the stars, as Plato deem'd, Return. These are the questions which thy will Urge equally; and therefore I the first Of that will treat which hath the more of gall. Of seraphim he who is most ensky'd, Moses and Samuel, and either John, Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self, Have not in any other heav'n their seats, Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st; Nor more or fewer years exist; but all Make the first circle beauteous, diversely Partaking of sweet life, as more or less Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them. Here were they shown thee, not that fate assigns This for their sphere, but for a sign to thee Of that celestial furthest from the height. Thus needs, that ye may apprehend, we speak: Since from things sensible alone ye learn That, which digested rightly after turns To intellectual. For no other cause The scripture, condescending graciously To your perception, hands and feet to God Attributes, nor so means: and holy church Doth represent with human countenance Gabriel, and Michael, and him who made Tobias whole. Unlike what here thou seest, The judgment of Timaeus, who affirms Each soul restor'd to its particular star, Believing it to have been taken thence, When nature gave it to inform her mold: Since to appearance his intention is E'en what his words declare: or else to shun Derision, haply thus he hath disguis'd His true opinion. If his meaning be, That to the influencing of these orbs revert The honour and the blame in human acts, Perchance he doth not wholly miss the truth. This principle, not understood aright, Erewhile perverted well nigh all the world; So that it fell to fabled names of Jove, And Mercury, and Mars. That other doubt, Which moves thee, is less harmful; for it brings No peril of removing thee from me. "That, to the eye of man, our justice seems Unjust, is argument for faith, and not For heretic declension. To the end This truth may stand more clearly in your view, I will content thee even to thy wish "If violence be, when that which suffers, nought Consents to that which forceth, not for this These spirits stood exculpate. For the will, That will not, still survives unquench'd, and doth As nature doth in fire, tho' violence Wrest it a thousand times; for, if it yield Or more or less, so far it follows force. And thus did these, whom they had power to seek The hallow'd place again. In them, had will Been perfect, such as once upon the bars Held Laurence firm, or wrought in Scaevola To his own hand remorseless, to the path, Whence they were drawn, their steps had hasten'd back, When liberty return'd: but in too few Resolve so steadfast dwells. And by these words If duly weigh'd, that argument is void, Which oft might have perplex'd thee still. But now Another question thwarts thee, which to solve Might try thy patience without better aid. I have, no doubt, instill'd into thy mind, That blessed spirit may not lie; since near The source of primal truth it dwells for aye: And thou might'st after of Piccarda learn That Constance held affection to the veil; So that she seems to contradict me here. Not seldom, brother, it hath chanc'd for men To do what they had gladly left undone, Yet to shun peril they have done amiss: E'en as Alcmaeon, at his father's suit Slew his own mother, so made pitiless Not to lose pity. On this point bethink thee, That force and will are blended in such wise As not to make the' offence excusable. Absolute will agrees not to the wrong, That inasmuch as there is fear of woe From non-compliance, it agrees. Of will Thus absolute Piccarda spake, and I Of th' other; so that both have truly said." Such was the flow of that pure rill, that well'd From forth the fountain of all truth; and such The rest, that to my wond'ring thoughts I found. "O thou of primal love the prime delight! Goddess!" I straight reply'd, "whose lively words Still shed new heat and vigour through my soul! Affection fails me to requite thy grace With equal sum of gratitude: be his To recompense, who sees and can reward thee. Well I discern, that by that truth alone Enlighten'd, beyond which no truth may roam, Our mind can satisfy her thirst to know: Therein she resteth, e'en as in his lair The wild beast, soon as she hath reach'd that bound, And she hath power to reach it; else desire Were given to no end. And thence doth doubt Spring, like a shoot, around the stock of truth; And it is nature which from height to height On to the summit prompts us. This invites, This doth assure me, lady, rev'rently To ask thee of other truth, that yet Is dark to me. I fain would know, if man By other works well done may so supply The failure of his vows, that in your scale They lack not weight." I spake; and on me straight Beatrice look'd with eyes that shot forth sparks Of love celestial in such copious stream, That, virtue sinking in me overpower'd, I turn'd, and downward bent confus'd my sight. CANTO V "If beyond earthly wont, the flame of love Illume me, so that I o'ercome thy power Of vision, marvel not: but learn the cause In that perfection of the sight, which soon As apprehending, hasteneth on to reach The good it apprehends. I well discern, How in thine intellect already shines The light eternal, which to view alone Ne'er fails to kindle love; and if aught else Your love seduces, 't is but that it shows Some ill-mark'd vestige of that primal beam. "This would'st thou know, if failure of the vow By other service may be so supplied, As from self-question to assure the soul." Thus she her words, not heedless of my wish, Began; and thus, as one who breaks not off Discourse, continued in her saintly strain. "Supreme of gifts, which God creating gave Of his free bounty, sign most evident Of goodness, and in his account most priz'd, Was liberty of will, the boon wherewith All intellectual creatures, and them sole He hath endow'd. Hence now thou mayst infer Of what high worth the vow, which so is fram'd That when man offers, God well-pleas'd accepts; For in the compact between God and him, This treasure, such as I describe it to thee, He makes the victim, and of his own act. What compensation therefore may he find? If that, whereof thou hast oblation made, By using well thou think'st to consecrate, Thou would'st of theft do charitable deed. Thus I resolve thee of the greater point. "But forasmuch as holy church, herein Dispensing, seems to contradict the truth I have discover'd to thee, yet behooves Thou rest a little longer at the board, Ere the crude aliment, which thou hast taken, Digested fitly to nutrition turn. Open thy mind to what I now unfold, And give it inward keeping. Knowledge comes Of learning well retain'd, unfruitful else. "This sacrifice in essence of two things Consisteth; one is that, whereof 't is made, The covenant the other. For the last, It ne'er is cancell'd if not kept: and hence I spake erewhile so strictly of its force. For this it was enjoin'd the Israelites, Though leave were giv'n them, as thou know'st, to change The offering, still to offer. Th' other part, The matter and the substance of the vow, May well be such, to that without offence It may for other substance be exchang'd. But at his own discretion none may shift The burden on his shoulders, unreleas'd By either key, the yellow and the white. Nor deem of any change, as less than vain, If the last bond be not within the new Included, as the quatre in the six. No satisfaction therefore can be paid For what so precious in the balance weighs, That all in counterpoise must kick the beam. Take then no vow at random: ta'en, with faith Preserve it; yet not bent, as Jephthah once, Blindly to execute a rash resolve, Whom better it had suited to exclaim, 'I have done ill,' than to redeem his pledge By doing worse or, not unlike to him In folly, that great leader of the Greeks: Whence, on the alter, Iphigenia mourn'd Her virgin beauty, and hath since made mourn Both wise and simple, even all, who hear Of so fell sacrifice. Be ye more staid, O Christians, not, like feather, by each wind Removable: nor think to cleanse ourselves In every water. Either testament, The old and new, is yours: and for your guide The shepherd of the church let this suffice To save you. When by evil lust entic'd, Remember ye be men, not senseless beasts; Nor let the Jew, who dwelleth in your streets, Hold you in mock'ry. Be not, as the lamb, That, fickle wanton, leaves its mother's milk, To dally with itself in idle play." Such were the words that Beatrice spake: These ended, to that region, where the world Is liveliest, full of fond desire she turn'd. Though mainly prompt new question to propose, Her silence and chang'd look did keep me dumb. And as the arrow, ere the cord is still, Leapeth unto its mark; so on we sped Into the second realm. There I beheld The dame, so joyous enter, that the orb Grew brighter at her smiles; and, if the star Were mov'd to gladness, what then was my cheer, Whom nature hath made apt for every change! As in a quiet and clear lake the fish, If aught approach them from without, do draw Towards it, deeming it their food; so drew Full more than thousand splendours towards us, And in each one was heard: "Lo! one arriv'd To multiply our loves!" and as each came The shadow, streaming forth effulgence new, Witness'd augmented joy. Here, reader! think, If thou didst miss the sequel of my tale, To know the rest how sorely thou wouldst crave; And thou shalt see what vehement desire Possess'd me, as soon as these had met my view, To know their state. "O born in happy hour! Thou to whom grace vouchsafes, or ere thy close Of fleshly warfare, to behold the thrones Of that eternal triumph, know to us The light communicated, which through heaven Expatiates without bound. Therefore, if aught Thou of our beams wouldst borrow for thine aid, Spare not; and of our radiance take thy fill." Thus of those piteous spirits one bespake me; And Beatrice next: "Say on; and trust As unto gods!"--"How in the light supreme Thou harbour'st, and from thence the virtue bring'st, That, sparkling in thine eyes, denotes thy joy, I mark; but, who thou art, am still to seek; Or wherefore, worthy spirit! for thy lot This sphere assign'd, that oft from mortal ken Is veil'd by others' beams." I said, and turn'd Toward the lustre, that with greeting, kind Erewhile had hail'd me. Forthwith brighter far Than erst, it wax'd: and, as himself the sun Hides through excess of light, when his warm gaze Hath on the mantle of thick vapours prey'd; Within its proper ray the saintly shape Was, through increase of gladness, thus conceal'd; And, shrouded so in splendour answer'd me, E'en as the tenour of my song declares. CANTO VI "After that Constantine the eagle turn'd Against the motions of the heav'n, that roll'd Consenting with its course, when he of yore, Lavinia's spouse, was leader of the flight, A hundred years twice told and more, his seat At Europe's extreme point, the bird of Jove Held, near the mountains, whence he issued first. There, under shadow of his sacred plumes Swaying the world, till through successive hands To mine he came devolv'd. Caesar I was, And am Justinian; destin'd by the will Of that prime love, whose influence I feel, From vain excess to clear th' encumber'd laws. Or ere that work engag'd me, I did hold Christ's nature merely human, with such faith Contented. But the blessed Agapete, Who was chief shepherd, he with warning voice To the true faith recall'd me. I believ'd His words: and what he taught, now plainly see, As thou in every contradiction seest The true and false oppos'd. Soon as my feet Were to the church reclaim'd, to my great task, By inspiration of God's grace impell'd, I gave me wholly, and consign'd mine arms To Belisarius, with whom heaven's right hand Was link'd in such conjointment, 't was a sign That I should rest. To thy first question thus I shape mine answer, which were ended here, But that its tendency doth prompt perforce To some addition; that thou well, mayst mark What reason on each side they have to plead, By whom that holiest banner is withstood, Both who pretend its power and who oppose. "Beginning from that hour, when Pallas died To give it rule, behold the valorous deeds Have made it worthy reverence. Not unknown To thee, how for three hundred years and more It dwelt in Alba, up to those fell lists Where for its sake were met the rival three; Nor aught unknown to thee, which it achiev'd Down to the Sabines' wrong to Lucrece' woe, With its sev'n kings conqu'ring the nation round; Nor all it wrought, by Roman worthies home 'Gainst Brennus and th' Epirot prince, and hosts Of single chiefs, or states in league combin'd Of social warfare; hence Torquatus stern, And Quintius nam'd of his neglected locks, The Decii, and the Fabii hence acquir'd Their fame, which I with duteous zeal embalm. By it the pride of Arab hordes was quell'd, When they led on by Hannibal o'erpass'd The Alpine rocks, whence glide thy currents, Po! Beneath its guidance, in their prime of days Scipio and Pompey triumph'd; and that hill, Under whose summit thou didst see the light, Rued its stern bearing. After, near the hour, When heav'n was minded that o'er all the world His own deep calm should brood, to Caesar's hand Did Rome consign it; and what then it wrought From Var unto the Rhine, saw Isere's flood, Saw Loire and Seine, and every vale, that fills The torrent Rhone. What after that it wrought, When from Ravenna it came forth, and leap'd The Rubicon, was of so bold a flight, That tongue nor pen may follow it. Tow'rds Spain It wheel'd its bands, then tow'rd Dyrrachium smote, And on Pharsalia with so fierce a plunge, E'en the warm Nile was conscious to the pang; Its native shores Antandros, and the streams Of Simois revisited, and there Where Hector lies; then ill for Ptolemy His pennons shook again; lightning thence fell On Juba; and the next upon your west, At sound of the Pompeian trump, return'd. "What following and in its next bearer's gripe It wrought, is now by Cassius and Brutus Bark'd off in hell, and by Perugia's sons And Modena's was mourn'd. Hence weepeth still Sad Cleopatra, who, pursued by it, Took from the adder black and sudden death. With him it ran e'en to the Red Sea coast; With him compos'd the world to such a peace, That of his temple Janus barr'd the door. "But all the mighty standard yet had wrought, And was appointed to perform thereafter, Throughout the mortal kingdom which it sway'd, Falls in appearance dwindled and obscur'd, If one with steady eye and perfect thought On the third Caesar look; for to his hands, The living Justice, in whose breath I move, Committed glory, e'en into his hands, To execute the vengeance of its wrath. "Hear now and wonder at what next I tell. After with Titus it was sent to wreak Vengeance for vengeance of the ancient sin, And, when the Lombard tooth, with fangs impure, Did gore the bosom of the holy church, Under its wings victorious, Charlemagne Sped to her rescue. Judge then for thyself Of those, whom I erewhile accus'd to thee, What they are, and how grievous their offending, Who are the cause of all your ills. The one Against the universal ensign rears The yellow lilies, and with partial aim That to himself the other arrogates: So that 't is hard to see which more offends. Be yours, ye Ghibellines, to veil your arts Beneath another standard: ill is this Follow'd of him, who severs it and justice: And let not with his Guelphs the new-crown'd Charles Assail it, but those talons hold in dread, Which from a lion of more lofty port Have rent the easing. Many a time ere now The sons have for the sire's transgression wail'd; Nor let him trust the fond belief, that heav'n Will truck its armour for his lilied shield. "This little star is furnish'd with good spirits, Whose mortal lives were busied to that end, That honour and renown might wait on them: And, when desires thus err in their intention, True love must needs ascend with slacker beam. But it is part of our delight, to measure Our wages with the merit; and admire The close proportion. Hence doth heav'nly justice Temper so evenly affection in us, It ne'er can warp to any wrongfulness. Of diverse voices is sweet music made: So in our life the different degrees Render sweet harmony among these wheels. "Within the pearl, that now encloseth us, Shines Romeo's light, whose goodly deed and fair Met ill acceptance. But the Provencals, That were his foes, have little cause for mirth. Ill shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong Of other's worth. Four daughters were there born To Raymond Berenger, and every one Became a queen; and this for him did Romeo, Though of mean state and from a foreign land. Yet envious tongues incited him to ask A reckoning of that just one, who return'd Twelve fold to him for ten. Aged and poor He parted thence: and if the world did know The heart he had, begging his life by morsels, 'T would deem the praise, it yields him, scantly dealt." CANTO VII "Hosanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright With fourfold lustre to its orb again, Revolving; and the rest unto their dance With it mov'd also; and like swiftest sparks, In sudden distance from my sight were veil'd. Me doubt possess'd, and "Speak," it whisper'd me, "Speak, speak unto thy lady, that she quench Thy thirst with drops of sweetness." Yet blank awe, Which lords it o'er me, even at the sound Of Beatrice's name, did bow me down As one in slumber held. Not long that mood Beatrice suffer'd: she, with such a smile, As might have made one blest amid the flames, Beaming upon me, thus her words began: "Thou in thy thought art pond'ring (as I deem), And what I deem is truth how just revenge Could be with justice punish'd: from which doubt I soon will free thee; so thou mark my words; For they of weighty matter shall possess thee. "That man, who was unborn, himself condemn'd, And, in himself, all, who since him have liv'd, His offspring: whence, below, the human kind Lay sick in grievous error many an age; Until it pleas'd the Word of God to come Amongst them down, to his own person joining The nature, from its Maker far estrang'd, By the mere act of his eternal love. Contemplate here the wonder I unfold. The nature with its Maker thus conjoin'd, Created first was blameless, pure and good; But through itself alone was driven forth From Paradise, because it had eschew'd The way of truth and life, to evil turn'd. Ne'er then was penalty so just as that Inflicted by the cross, if thou regard The nature in assumption doom'd: ne'er wrong So great, in reference to him, who took Such nature on him, and endur'd the doom. God therefore and the Jews one sentence pleased: So different effects flow'd from one act, And heav'n was open'd, though the earth did quake. Count it not hard henceforth, when thou dost hear That a just vengeance was by righteous court Justly reveng'd. But yet I see thy mind By thought on thought arising sore perplex'd, And with how vehement desire it asks Solution of the maze. What I have heard, Is plain, thou sayst: but wherefore God this way For our redemption chose, eludes my search. "Brother! no eye of man not perfected, Nor fully ripen'd in the flame of love, May fathom this decree. It is a mark, In sooth, much aim'd at, and but little kenn'd: And I will therefore show thee why such way Was worthiest. The celestial love, that spume All envying in its bounty, in itself With such effulgence blazeth, as sends forth All beauteous things eternal. What distils Immediate thence, no end of being knows, Bearing its seal immutably impress'd. Whatever thence immediate falls, is free, Free wholly, uncontrollable by power Of each thing new: by such conformity More grateful to its author, whose bright beams, Though all partake their shining, yet in those Are liveliest, which resemble him the most. These tokens of pre-eminence on man Largely bestow'd, if any of them fail, He needs must forfeit his nobility, No longer stainless. Sin alone is that, Which doth disfranchise him, and make unlike To the chief good; for that its light in him Is darken'd. And to dignity thus lost Is no return; unless, where guilt makes void, He for ill pleasure pay with equal pain. Your nature, which entirely in its seed Trangress'd, from these distinctions fell, no less Than from its state in Paradise; nor means Found of recovery (search all methods out As strickly as thou may) save one of these, The only fords were left through which to wade, Either that God had of his courtesy Releas'd him merely, or else man himself For his own folly by himself aton'd. "Fix now thine eye, intently as thou canst, On th' everlasting counsel, and explore, Instructed by my words, the dread abyss. "Man in himself had ever lack'd the means Of satisfaction, for he could not stoop Obeying, in humility so low, As high he, disobeying, thought to soar: And for this reason he had vainly tried Out of his own sufficiency to pay The rigid satisfaction. Then behooved That God should by his own ways lead him back Unto the life, from whence he fell, restor'd: By both his ways, I mean, or one alone. But since the deed is ever priz'd the more, The more the doer's good intent appears, Goodness celestial, whose broad signature Is on the universe, of all its ways To raise ye up, was fain to leave out none, Nor aught so vast or so magnificent, Either for him who gave or who receiv'd Between the last night and the primal day, Was or can be. For God more bounty show'd. Giving himself to make man capable Of his return to life, than had the terms Been mere and unconditional release. And for his justice, every method else Were all too scant, had not the Son of God Humbled himself to put on mortal flesh. "Now, to fulfil each wish of thine, remains I somewhat further to thy view unfold. That thou mayst see as clearly as myself. "I see, thou sayst, the air, the fire I see, The earth and water, and all things of them Compounded, to corruption turn, and soon Dissolve. Yet these were also things create, Because, if what were told me, had been true They from corruption had been therefore free. "The angels, O my brother! and this clime Wherein thou art, impassible and pure, I call created, as indeed they are In their whole being. But the elements, Which thou hast nam'd, and what of them is made, Are by created virtue' inform'd: create Their substance, and create the' informing virtue In these bright stars, that round them circling move The soul of every brute and of each plant, The ray and motion of the sacred lights, With complex potency attract and turn. But this our life the' eternal good inspires Immediate, and enamours of itself; So that our wishes rest for ever here. "And hence thou mayst by inference conclude Our resurrection certain, if thy mind Consider how the human flesh was fram'd, When both our parents at the first were made." CANTO VIII The world was in its day of peril dark Wont to believe the dotage of fond love From the fair Cyprian deity, who rolls In her third epicycle, shed on men By stream of potent radiance: therefore they Of elder time, in their old error blind, Not her alone with sacrifice ador'd And invocation, but like honours paid To Cupid and Dione, deem'd of them Her mother, and her son, him whom they feign'd To sit in Dido's bosom: and from her, Whom I have sung preluding, borrow'd they The appellation of that star, which views, Now obvious and now averse, the sun. I was not ware that I was wafted up Into its orb; but the new loveliness That grac'd my lady, gave me ample proof That we had entered there. And as in flame A sparkle is distinct, or voice in voice Discern'd, when one its even tenour keeps, The other comes and goes; so in that light I other luminaries saw, that cours'd In circling motion, rapid more or less, As their eternal phases each impels. Never was blast from vapour charged with cold, Whether invisible to eye or no, Descended with such speed, it had not seem'd To linger in dull tardiness, compar'd To those celestial lights, that tow'rds us came, Leaving the circuit of their joyous ring, Conducted by the lofty seraphim. And after them, who in the van appear'd, Such an hosanna sounded, as hath left Desire, ne'er since extinct in me, to hear Renew'd the strain. Then parting from the rest One near us drew, and sole began: "We all Are ready at thy pleasure, well dispos'd To do thee gentle service. We are they, To whom thou in the world erewhile didst Sing 'O ye! whose intellectual ministry Moves the third heaven!' and in one orb we roll, One motion, one impulse, with those who rule Princedoms in heaven; yet are of love so full, That to please thee 't will be as sweet to rest." After mine eyes had with meek reverence Sought the celestial guide, and were by her Assur'd, they turn'd again unto the light Who had so largely promis'd, and with voice That bare the lively pressure of my zeal, "Tell who ye are," I cried. Forthwith it grew In size and splendour, through augmented joy; And thus it answer'd: "A short date below The world possess'd me. Had the time been more, Much evil, that will come, had never chanc'd. My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine Around, and shroud me, as an animal In its own silk unswath'd. Thou lov'dst me well, And had'st good cause; for had my sojourning Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee Had put forth more than blossoms. The left bank, That Rhone, when he hath mix'd with Sorga, laves. "In me its lord expected, and that horn Of fair Ausonia, with its boroughs old, Bari, and Croton, and Gaeta pil'd, From where the Trento disembogues his waves, With Verde mingled, to the salt sea-flood. Already on my temples beam'd the crown, Which gave me sov'reignty over the land By Danube wash'd, whenas he strays beyond The limits of his German shores. The realm, Where, on the gulf by stormy Eurus lash'd, Betwixt Pelorus and Pachynian heights, The beautiful Trinacria lies in gloom (Not through Typhaeus, but the vap'ry cloud Bituminous upsteam'd), THAT too did look To have its scepter wielded by a race Of monarchs, sprung through me from Charles and Rodolph; had not ill lording which doth spirit up The people ever, in Palermo rais'd The shout of 'death,' re-echo'd loud and long. Had but my brother's foresight kenn'd as much, He had been warier that the greedy want Of Catalonia might not work his bale. And truly need there is, that he forecast, Or other for him, lest more freight be laid On his already over-laden bark. Nature in him, from bounty fall'n to thrift, Would ask the guard of braver arms, than such As only care to have their coffers fill'd." "My liege, it doth enhance the joy thy words Infuse into me, mighty as it is, To think my gladness manifest to thee, As to myself, who own it, when thou lookst Into the source and limit of all good, There, where thou markest that which thou dost speak, Thence priz'd of me the more. Glad thou hast made me. Now make intelligent, clearing the doubt Thy speech hath raised in me; for much I muse, How bitter can spring up, when sweet is sown." I thus inquiring; he forthwith replied: "If I have power to show one truth, soon that Shall face thee, which thy questioning declares Behind thee now conceal'd. The Good, that guides And blessed makes this realm, which thou dost mount, Ordains its providence to be the virtue In these great bodies: nor th' all perfect Mind Upholds their nature merely, but in them Their energy to save: for nought, that lies Within the range of that unerring bow, But is as level with the destin'd aim, As ever mark to arrow's point oppos'd. Were it not thus, these heavens, thou dost visit, Would their effect so work, it would not be Art, but destruction; and this may not chance, If th' intellectual powers, that move these stars, Fail not, or who, first faulty made them fail. Wilt thou this truth more clearly evidenc'd?" To whom I thus: "It is enough: no fear, I see, lest nature in her part should tire." He straight rejoin'd: "Say, were it worse for man, If he liv'd not in fellowship on earth?" "Yea," answer'd I; "nor here a reason needs." "And may that be, if different estates Grow not of different duties in your life? Consult your teacher, and he tells you 'no."' Thus did he come, deducing to this point, And then concluded: "For this cause behooves, The roots, from whence your operations come, Must differ. Therefore one is Solon born; Another, Xerxes; and Melchisidec A third; and he a fourth, whose airy voyage Cost him his son. In her circuitous course, Nature, that is the seal to mortal wax, Doth well her art, but no distinctions owns 'Twixt one or other household. Hence befalls That Esau is so wide of Jacob: hence Quirinus of so base a father springs, He dates from Mars his lineage. Were it not That providence celestial overrul'd, Nature, in generation, must the path Trac'd by the generator, still pursue Unswervingly. Thus place I in thy sight That, which was late behind thee. But, in sign Of more affection for thee, 't is my will Thou wear this corollary. Nature ever Finding discordant fortune, like all seed Out of its proper climate, thrives but ill. And were the world below content to mark And work on the foundation nature lays, It would not lack supply of excellence. But ye perversely to religion strain Him, who was born to gird on him the sword, And of the fluent phrasemen make your king; Therefore your steps have wander'd from the paths." CANTO IX After solution of my doubt, thy Charles, O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake That must befall his seed: but, "Tell it not," Said he, "and let the destin'd years come round." Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed Of sorrow well-deserv'd shall quit your wrongs. And now the visage of that saintly light Was to the sun, that fills it, turn'd again, As to the good, whose plenitude of bliss Sufficeth all. O ye misguided souls! Infatuate, who from such a good estrange Your hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity, Alas for you!--And lo! toward me, next, Another of those splendent forms approach'd, That, by its outward bright'ning, testified The will it had to pleasure me. The eyes Of Beatrice, resting, as before, Firmly upon me, manifested forth Approval of my wish. "And O," I cried, "Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform'd; And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughts I can reflect on thee." Thereat the light, That yet was new to me, from the recess, Where it before was singing, thus began, As one who joys in kindness: "In that part Of the deprav'd Italian land, which lies Between Rialto, and the fountain-springs Of Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise, But to no lofty eminence, a hill, From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend, That sorely sheet the region. From one root I and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza: And here I glitter, for that by its light This star o'ercame me. Yet I naught repine, Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot, Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive. "This jewel, that is next me in our heaven, Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left, And not to perish, ere these hundred years Five times absolve their round. Consider thou, If to excel be worthy man's endeavour, When such life may attend the first. Yet they Care not for this, the crowd that now are girt By Adice and Tagliamento, still Impenitent, tho' scourg'd. The hour is near, When for their stubbornness at Padua's marsh The water shall be chang'd, that laves Vicena And where Cagnano meets with Sile, one Lords it, and bears his head aloft, for whom The web is now a-warping. Feltro too Shall sorrow for its godless shepherd's fault, Of so deep stain, that never, for the like, Was Malta's bar unclos'd. Too large should be The skillet, that would hold Ferrara's blood, And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it, The which this priest, in show of party-zeal, Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suit The country's custom. We descry above, Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to us Reflected shine the judgments of our God: Whence these our sayings we avouch for good." She ended, and appear'd on other thoughts Intent, re-ent'ring on the wheel she late Had left. That other joyance meanwhile wax'd A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing, Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun, For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes Of gladness, as here laughter: and below, As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. "God seeth all: and in him is thy sight," Said I, "blest Spirit! Therefore will of his Cannot to thee be dark. Why then delays Thy voice to satisfy my wish untold, That voice which joins the inexpressive song, Pastime of heav'n, the which those ardours sing, That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread? I would not wait thy asking, wert thou known To me, as thoroughly I to thee am known." He forthwith answ'ring, thus his words began: "The valley' of waters, widest next to that Which doth the earth engarland, shapes its course, Between discordant shores, against the sun Inward so far, it makes meridian there, Where was before th' horizon. Of that vale Dwelt I upon the shore, 'twixt Ebro's stream And Macra's, that divides with passage brief Genoan bounds from Tuscan. East and west Are nearly one to Begga and my land, Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm. Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco: And I did bear impression of this heav'n, That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flame Glow'd Belus' daughter, injuring alike Sichaeus and Creusa, than did I, Long as it suited the unripen'd down That fledg'd my cheek: nor she of Rhodope, That was beguiled of Demophoon; Nor Jove's son, when the charms of Iole Were shrin'd within his heart. And yet there hides No sorrowful repentance here, but mirth, Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind), But for the virtue, whose o'erruling sway And providence have wrought thus quaintly. Here The skill is look'd into, that fashioneth With such effectual working, and the good Discern'd, accruing to this upper world From that below. But fully to content Thy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth, Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst, Who of this light is denizen, that here Beside me sparkles, as the sun-beam doth On the clear wave. Know then, the soul of Rahab Is in that gladsome harbour, to our tribe United, and the foremost rank assign'd. He to that heav'n, at which the shadow ends Of your sublunar world, was taken up, First, in Christ's triumph, of all souls redeem'd: For well behoov'd, that, in some part of heav'n, She should remain a trophy, to declare The mighty contest won with either palm; For that she favour'd first the high exploit Of Joshua on the holy land, whereof The Pope recks little now. Thy city, plant Of him, that on his Maker turn'd the back, And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung, Engenders and expands the cursed flower, That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs, Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this, The gospel and great teachers laid aside, The decretals, as their stuft margins show, Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals, Intent on these, ne'er journey but in thought To Nazareth, where Gabriel op'd his wings. Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican, And other most selected parts of Rome, That were the grave of Peter's soldiery, Shall be deliver'd from the adult'rous bond." CANTO X Looking into his first-born with the love, Which breathes from both eternal, the first Might Ineffable, whence eye or mind Can roam, hath in such order all dispos'd, As none may see and fail to enjoy. Raise, then, O reader! to the lofty wheels, with me, Thy ken directed to the point, whereat One motion strikes on th' other. There begin Thy wonder of the mighty Architect, Who loves his work so inwardly, his eye Doth ever watch it. See, how thence oblique Brancheth the circle, where the planets roll To pour their wished influence on the world; Whose path not bending thus, in heav'n above Much virtue would be lost, and here on earth, All power well nigh extinct: or, from direct Were its departure distant more or less, I' th' universal order, great defect Must, both in heav'n and here beneath, ensue. Now rest thee, reader! on thy bench, and muse Anticipative of the feast to come; So shall delight make thee not feel thy toil. Lo! I have set before thee, for thyself Feed now: the matter I indite, henceforth Demands entire my thought. Join'd with the part, Which late we told of, the great minister Of nature, that upon the world imprints The virtue of the heaven, and doles out Time for us with his beam, went circling on Along the spires, where each hour sooner comes; And I was with him, weetless of ascent, As one, who till arriv'd, weets not his coming. For Beatrice, she who passeth on So suddenly from good to better, time Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs Have been her brightness! What she was i' th' sun (Where I had enter'd), not through change of hue, But light transparent--did I summon up Genius, art, practice--I might not so speak, It should be e'er imagin'd: yet believ'd It may be, and the sight be justly crav'd. And if our fantasy fail of such height, What marvel, since no eye above the sun Hath ever travel'd? Such are they dwell here, Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire, Who of his spirit and of his offspring shows; And holds them still enraptur'd with the view. And thus to me Beatrice: "Thank, oh thank, The Sun of angels, him, who by his grace To this perceptible hath lifted thee." Never was heart in such devotion bound, And with complacency so absolute Dispos'd to render up itself to God, As mine was at those words: and so entire The love for Him, that held me, it eclips'd Beatrice in oblivion. Naught displeas'd Was she, but smil'd thereat so joyously, That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake And scatter'd my collected mind abroad. Then saw I a bright band, in liveliness Surpassing, who themselves did make the crown, And us their centre: yet more sweet in voice, Than in their visage beaming. Cinctur'd thus, Sometime Latona's daughter we behold, When the impregnate air retains the thread, That weaves her zone. In the celestial court, Whence I return, are many jewels found, So dear and beautiful, they cannot brook Transporting from that realm: and of these lights Such was the song. Who doth not prune his wing To soar up thither, let him look from thence For tidings from the dumb. When, singing thus, Those burning suns that circled round us thrice, As nearest stars around the fixed pole, Then seem'd they like to ladies, from the dance Not ceasing, but suspense, in silent pause, List'ning, till they have caught the strain anew: Suspended so they stood: and, from within, Thus heard I one, who spake: "Since with its beam The grace, whence true love lighteth first his flame, That after doth increase by loving, shines So multiplied in thee, it leads thee up Along this ladder, down whose hallow'd steps None e'er descend, and mount them not again, Who from his phial should refuse thee wine To slake thy thirst, no less constrained were, Than water flowing not unto the sea. Thou fain wouldst hear, what plants are these, that bloom In the bright garland, which, admiring, girds This fair dame round, who strengthens thee for heav'n. I then was of the lambs, that Dominic Leads, for his saintly flock, along the way, Where well they thrive, not sworn with vanity. He, nearest on my right hand, brother was, And master to me: Albert of Cologne Is this: and of Aquinum, Thomas I. If thou of all the rest wouldst be assur'd, Let thine eye, waiting on the words I speak, In circuit journey round the blessed wreath. That next resplendence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who to either forum lent Such help, as favour wins in Paradise. The other, nearest, who adorns our quire, Was Peter, he that with the widow gave To holy church his treasure. The fifth light, Goodliest of all, is by such love inspired, That all your world craves tidings of its doom: Within, there is the lofty light, endow'd With sapience so profound, if truth be truth, That with a ken of such wide amplitude No second hath arisen. Next behold That taper's radiance, to whose view was shown, Clearliest, the nature and the ministry Angelical, while yet in flesh it dwelt. In the other little light serenely smiles That pleader for the Christian temples, he Who did provide Augustin of his lore. Now, if thy mind's eye pass from light to light, Upon my praises following, of the eighth Thy thirst is next. The saintly soul, that shows The world's deceitfulness, to all who hear him, Is, with the sight of all the good, that is, Blest there. The limbs, whence it was driven, lie Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And exile came it here. Lo! further on, Where flames the arduous Spirit of Isidore, Of Bede, and Richard, more than man, erewhile, In deep discernment. Lastly this, from whom Thy look on me reverteth, was the beam Of one, whose spirit, on high musings bent, Rebuk'd the ling'ring tardiness of death. It is the eternal light of Sigebert, Who 'scap'd not envy, when of truth he argued, Reading in the straw-litter'd street." Forthwith, As clock, that calleth up the spouse of God To win her bridegroom's love at matin's hour, Each part of other fitly drawn and urg'd, Sends out a tinkling sound, of note so sweet, Affection springs in well-disposed breast; Thus saw I move the glorious wheel, thus heard Voice answ'ring voice, so musical and soft, It can be known but where day endless shines. CANTO XI O fond anxiety of mortal men! How vain and inconclusive arguments Are those, which make thee beat thy wings below For statues one, and one for aphorisms Was hunting; this the priesthood follow'd, that By force or sophistry aspir'd to rule; To rob another, and another sought By civil business wealth; one moiling lay Tangled in net of sensual delight, And one to witless indolence resign'd; What time from all these empty things escap'd, With Beatrice, I thus gloriously Was rais'd aloft, and made the guest of heav'n. They of the circle to that point, each one. Where erst it was, had turn'd; and steady glow'd, As candle in his socket. Then within The lustre, that erewhile bespake me, smiling With merer gladness, heard I thus begin: "E'en as his beam illumes me, so I look Into the eternal light, and clearly mark Thy thoughts, from whence they rise. Thou art in doubt, And wouldst, that I should bolt my words afresh In such plain open phrase, as may be smooth To thy perception, where I told thee late That 'well they thrive;' and that 'no second such Hath risen,' which no small distinction needs. "The providence, that governeth the world, In depth of counsel by created ken Unfathomable, to the end that she, Who with loud cries was 'spous'd in precious blood, Might keep her footing towards her well-belov'd, Safe in herself and constant unto him, Hath two ordain'd, who should on either hand In chief escort her: one seraphic all In fervency; for wisdom upon earth, The other splendour of cherubic light. I but of one will tell: he tells of both, Who one commendeth which of them so'er Be taken: for their deeds were to one end. "Between Tupino, and the wave, that falls From blest Ubaldo's chosen hill, there hangs Rich slope of mountain high, whence heat and cold Are wafted through Perugia's eastern gate: And Norcera with Gualdo, in its rear Mourn for their heavy yoke. Upon that side, Where it doth break its steepness most, arose A sun upon the world, as duly this From Ganges doth: therefore let none, who speak Of that place, say Ascesi; for its name Were lamely so deliver'd; but the East, To call things rightly, be it henceforth styl'd. He was not yet much distant from his rising, When his good influence 'gan to bless the earth. A dame to whom none openeth pleasure's gate More than to death, was, 'gainst his father's will, His stripling choice: and he did make her his, Before the Spiritual court, by nuptial bonds, And in his father's sight: from day to day, Then lov'd her more devoutly. She, bereav'd Of her first husband, slighted and obscure, Thousand and hundred years and more, remain'd Without a single suitor, till he came. Nor aught avail'd, that, with Amyclas, she Was found unmov'd at rumour of his voice, Who shook the world: nor aught her constant boldness Whereby with Christ she mounted on the cross, When Mary stay'd beneath. But not to deal Thus closely with thee longer, take at large The rovers' titles--Poverty and Francis. Their concord and glad looks, wonder and love, And sweet regard gave birth to holy thoughts, So much, that venerable Bernard first Did bare his feet, and, in pursuit of peace So heavenly, ran, yet deem'd his footing slow. O hidden riches! O prolific good! Egidius bares him next, and next Sylvester, And follow both the bridegroom; so the bride Can please them. Thenceforth goes he on his way, The father and the master, with his spouse, And with that family, whom now the cord Girt humbly: nor did abjectness of heart Weigh down his eyelids, for that he was son Of Pietro Bernardone, and by men In wond'rous sort despis'd. But royally His hard intention he to Innocent Set forth, and from him first receiv'd the seal On his religion. Then, when numerous flock'd The tribe of lowly ones, that trac'd HIS steps, Whose marvellous life deservedly were sung In heights empyreal, through Honorius' hand A second crown, to deck their Guardian's virtues, Was by the eternal Spirit inwreath'd: and when He had, through thirst of martyrdom, stood up In the proud Soldan's presence, and there preach'd Christ and his followers; but found the race Unripen'd for conversion: back once more He hasted (not to intermit his toil), And reap'd Ausonian lands. On the hard rock, 'Twixt Arno and the Tyber, he from Christ Took the last Signet, which his limbs two years Did carry. Then the season come, that he, Who to such good had destin'd him, was pleas'd T' advance him to the meed, which he had earn'd By his self-humbling, to his brotherhood, As their just heritage, he gave in charge His dearest lady, and enjoin'd their love And faith to her: and, from her bosom, will'd His goodly spirit should move forth, returning To its appointed kingdom, nor would have His body laid upon another bier. "Think now of one, who were a fit colleague, To keep the bark of Peter in deep sea Helm'd to right point; and such our Patriarch was. Therefore who follow him, as he enjoins, Thou mayst be certain, take good lading in. But hunger of new viands tempts his flock, So that they needs into strange pastures wide Must spread them: and the more remote from him The stragglers wander, so much mole they come Home to the sheep-fold, destitute of milk. There are of them, in truth, who fear their harm, And to the shepherd cleave; but these so few, A little stuff may furnish out their cloaks. "Now, if my words be clear, if thou have ta'en Good heed, if that, which I have told, recall To mind, thy wish may be in part fulfill'd: For thou wilt see the point from whence they split, Nor miss of the reproof, which that implies, 'That well they thrive not sworn with vanity."' CANTO XII Soon as its final word the blessed flame Had rais'd for utterance, straight the holy mill Began to wheel, nor yet had once revolv'd, Or ere another, circling, compass'd it, Motion to motion, song to song, conjoining, Song, that as much our muses doth excel, Our Sirens with their tuneful pipes, as ray Of primal splendour doth its faint reflex. As when, if Juno bid her handmaid forth, Two arches parallel, and trick'd alike, Span the thin cloud, the outer taking birth From that within (in manner of that voice Whom love did melt away, as sun the mist), And they who gaze, presageful call to mind The compact, made with Noah, of the world No more to be o'erflow'd; about us thus Of sempiternal roses, bending, wreath'd Those garlands twain, and to the innermost E'en thus th' external answered. When the footing, And other great festivity, of song, And radiance, light with light accordant, each Jocund and blythe, had at their pleasure still'd (E'en as the eyes by quick volition mov'd, Are shut and rais'd together), from the heart Of one amongst the new lights mov'd a voice, That made me seem like needle to the star, In turning to its whereabout, and thus Began: "The love, that makes me beautiful, Prompts me to tell of th' other guide, for whom Such good of mine is spoken. Where one is, The other worthily should also be; That as their warfare was alike, alike Should be their glory. Slow, and full of doubt, And with thin ranks, after its banner mov'd The army of Christ (which it so clearly cost To reappoint), when its imperial Head, Who reigneth ever, for the drooping host Did make provision, thorough grace alone, And not through its deserving. As thou heard'st, Two champions to the succour of his spouse He sent, who by their deeds and words might join Again his scatter'd people. In that clime, Where springs the pleasant west-wind to unfold The fresh leaves, with which Europe sees herself New-garmented; nor from those billows far, Beyond whose chiding, after weary course, The sun doth sometimes hide him, safe abides The happy Callaroga, under guard Of the great shield, wherein the lion lies Subjected and supreme. And there was born The loving million of the Christian faith, The hollow'd wrestler, gentle to his own, And to his enemies terrible. So replete His soul with lively virtue, that when first Created, even in the mother's womb, It prophesied. When, at the sacred font, The spousals were complete 'twixt faith and him, Where pledge of mutual safety was exchang'd, The dame, who was his surety, in her sleep Beheld the wondrous fruit, that was from him And from his heirs to issue. And that such He might be construed, as indeed he was, She was inspir'd to name him of his owner, Whose he was wholly, and so call'd him Dominic. And I speak of him, as the labourer, Whom Christ in his own garden chose to be His help-mate. Messenger he seem'd, and friend Fast-knit to Christ; and the first love he show'd, Was after the first counsel that Christ gave. Many a time his nurse, at entering found That he had ris'n in silence, and was prostrate, As who should say, "My errand was for this." O happy father! Felix rightly nam'd! O favour'd mother! rightly nam'd Joanna! If that do mean, as men interpret it. Not for the world's sake, for which now they pore Upon Ostiense and Taddeo's page, But for the real manna, soon he grew Mighty in learning, and did set himself To go about the vineyard, that soon turns To wan and wither'd, if not tended well: And from the see (whose bounty to the just And needy is gone by, not through its fault, But his who fills it basely, he besought, No dispensation for commuted wrong, Nor the first vacant fortune, nor the tenth), That to God's paupers rightly appertain, But, 'gainst an erring and degenerate world, Licence to fight, in favour of that seed, From which the twice twelve cions gird thee round. Then, with sage doctrine and good will to help, Forth on his great apostleship he far'd, Like torrent bursting from a lofty vein; And, dashing 'gainst the stocks of heresy, Smote fiercest, where resistance was most stout. Thence many rivulets have since been turn'd, Over the garden Catholic to lead Their living waters, and have fed its plants. "If such one wheel of that two-yoked car, Wherein the holy church defended her, And rode triumphant through the civil broil. Thou canst not doubt its fellow's excellence, Which Thomas, ere my coming, hath declar'd So courteously unto thee. But the track, Which its smooth fellies made, is now deserted: That mouldy mother is where late were lees. His family, that wont to trace his path, Turn backward, and invert their steps; erelong To rue the gathering in of their ill crop, When the rejected tares in vain shall ask Admittance to the barn. I question not But he, who search'd our volume, leaf by leaf, Might still find page with this inscription on't, 'I am as I was wont.' Yet such were not From Acquasparta nor Casale, whence Of those, who come to meddle with the text, One stretches and another cramps its rule. Bonaventura's life in me behold, From Bagnororegio, one, who in discharge Of my great offices still laid aside All sinister aim. Illuminato here, And Agostino join me: two they were, Among the first of those barefooted meek ones, Who sought God's friendship in the cord: with them Hugues of Saint Victor, Pietro Mangiadore, And he of Spain in his twelve volumes shining, Nathan the prophet, Metropolitan Chrysostom, and Anselmo, and, who deign'd To put his hand to the first art, Donatus. Raban is here: and at my side there shines Calabria's abbot, Joachim, endow'd With soul prophetic. The bright courtesy Of friar Thomas, and his goodly lore, Have mov'd me to the blazon of a peer So worthy, and with me have mov'd this throng." CANTO XIII Let him, who would conceive what now I saw, Imagine (and retain the image firm, As mountain rock, the whilst he hears me speak), Of stars fifteen, from midst the ethereal host Selected, that, with lively ray serene, O'ercome the massiest air: thereto imagine The wain, that, in the bosom of our sky, Spins ever on its axle night and day, With the bright summit of that horn which swells Due from the pole, round which the first wheel rolls, T' have rang'd themselves in fashion of two signs In heav'n, such as Ariadne made, When death's chill seized her; and that one of them Did compass in the other's beam; and both In such sort whirl around, that each should tend With opposite motion and, conceiving thus, Of that true constellation, and the dance Twofold, that circled me, he shall attain As 't were the shadow; for things there as much Surpass our usage, as the swiftest heav'n Is swifter than the Chiana. There was sung No Bacchus, and no Io Paean, but Three Persons in the Godhead, and in one Substance that nature and the human join'd. The song fulfill'd its measure; and to us Those saintly lights attended, happier made At each new minist'ring. Then silence brake, Amid th' accordant sons of Deity, That luminary, in which the wondrous life Of the meek man of God was told to me; And thus it spake: "One ear o' th' harvest thresh'd, And its grain safely stor'd, sweet charity Invites me with the other to like toil. "Thou know'st, that in the bosom, whence the rib Was ta'en to fashion that fair cheek, whose taste All the world pays for, and in that, which pierc'd By the keen lance, both after and before Such satisfaction offer'd, as outweighs Each evil in the scale, whate'er of light To human nature is allow'd, must all Have by his virtue been infus'd, who form'd Both one and other: and thou thence admir'st In that I told thee, of beatitudes A second, there is none, to his enclos'd In the fifth radiance. Open now thine eyes To what I answer thee; and thou shalt see Thy deeming and my saying meet in truth, As centre in the round. That which dies not, And that which can die, are but each the beam Of that idea, which our Soverign Sire Engendereth loving; for that lively light, Which passeth from his brightness; not disjoin'd From him, nor from his love triune with them, Doth, through his bounty, congregate itself, Mirror'd, as 't were in new existences, Itself unalterable and ever one. "Descending hence unto the lowest powers, Its energy so sinks, at last it makes But brief contingencies: for so I name Things generated, which the heav'nly orbs Moving, with seed or without seed, produce. Their wax, and that which molds it, differ much: And thence with lustre, more or less, it shows Th' ideal stamp impress: so that one tree According to his kind, hath better fruit, And worse: and, at your birth, ye, mortal men, Are in your talents various. Were the wax Molded with nice exactness, and the heav'n In its disposing influence supreme, The lustre of the seal should be complete: But nature renders it imperfect ever, Resembling thus the artist in her work, Whose faultering hand is faithless to his skill. Howe'er, if love itself dispose, and mark The primal virtue, kindling with bright view, There all perfection is vouchsafed; and such The clay was made, accomplish'd with each gift, That life can teem with; such the burden fill'd The virgin's bosom: so that I commend Thy judgment, that the human nature ne'er Was or can be, such as in them it was. "Did I advance no further than this point, 'How then had he no peer?' thou might'st reply. But, that what now appears not, may appear Right plainly, ponder, who he was, and what (When he was bidden 'Ask' ), the motive sway'd To his requesting. I have spoken thus, That thou mayst see, he was a king, who ask'd For wisdom, to the end he might be king Sufficient: not the number to search out Of the celestial movers; or to know, If necessary with contingent e'er Have made necessity; or whether that Be granted, that first motion is; or if Of the mid circle can, by art, be made Triangle with each corner, blunt or sharp. "Whence, noting that, which I have said, and this, Thou kingly prudence and that ken mayst learn, At which the dart of my intention aims. And, marking clearly, that I told thee, 'Risen,' Thou shalt discern it only hath respect To kings, of whom are many, and the good Are rare. With this distinction take my words; And they may well consist with that which thou Of the first human father dost believe, And of our well-beloved. And let this Henceforth be led unto thy feet, to make Thee slow in motion, as a weary man, Both to the 'yea' and to the 'nay' thou seest not. For he among the fools is down full low, Whose affirmation, or denial, is Without distinction, in each case alike Since it befalls, that in most instances Current opinion leads to false: and then Affection bends the judgment to her ply. "Much more than vainly doth he loose from shore, Since he returns not such as he set forth, Who fishes for the truth and wanteth skill. And open proofs of this unto the world Have been afforded in Parmenides, Melissus, Bryso, and the crowd beside, Who journey'd on, and knew not whither: so did Sabellius, Arius, and the other fools, Who, like to scymitars, reflected back The scripture-image, by distortion marr'd. "Let not the people be too swift to judge, As one who reckons on the blades in field, Or ere the crop be ripe. For I have seen The thorn frown rudely all the winter long And after bear the rose upon its top; And bark, that all the way across the sea Ran straight and speedy, perish at the last, E'en in the haven's mouth seeing one steal, Another brine, his offering to the priest, Let not Dame Birtha and Sir Martin thence Into heav'n's counsels deem that they can pry: For one of these may rise, the other fall." CANTO XIV From centre to the circle, and so back From circle to the centre, water moves In the round chalice, even as the blow Impels it, inwardly, or from without. Such was the image glanc'd into my mind, As the great spirit of Aquinum ceas'd; And Beatrice after him her words Resum'd alternate: "Need there is (tho' yet He tells it to you not in words, nor e'en In thought) that he should fathom to its depth Another mystery. Tell him, if the light, Wherewith your substance blooms, shall stay with you Eternally, as now: and, if it doth, How, when ye shall regain your visible forms, The sight may without harm endure the change, That also tell." As those, who in a ring Tread the light measure, in their fitful mirth Raise loud the voice, and spring with gladder bound; Thus, at the hearing of that pious suit, The saintly circles in their tourneying And wond'rous note attested new delight. Whoso laments, that we must doff this garb Of frail mortality, thenceforth to live Immortally above, he hath not seen The sweet refreshing, of that heav'nly shower. Him, who lives ever, and for ever reigns In mystic union of the Three in One, Unbounded, bounding all, each spirit thrice Sang, with such melody, as but to hear For highest merit were an ample meed. And from the lesser orb the goodliest light, With gentle voice and mild, such as perhaps The angel's once to Mary, thus replied: "Long as the joy of Paradise shall last, Our love shall shine around that raiment, bright, As fervent; fervent, as in vision blest; And that as far in blessedness exceeding, As it hath grave beyond its virtue great. Our shape, regarmented with glorious weeds Of saintly flesh, must, being thus entire, Show yet more gracious. Therefore shall increase, Whate'er of light, gratuitous, imparts The Supreme Good; light, ministering aid, The better disclose his glory: whence The vision needs increasing, much increase The fervour, which it kindles; and that too The ray, that comes from it. But as the greed Which gives out flame, yet it its whiteness shines More lively than that, and so preserves Its proper semblance; thus this circling sphere Of splendour, shall to view less radiant seem, Than shall our fleshly robe, which yonder earth Now covers. Nor will such excess of light O'erpower us, in corporeal organs made Firm, and susceptible of all delight." So ready and so cordial an "Amen," Followed from either choir, as plainly spoke Desire of their dead bodies; yet perchance Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear, Mothers and sires, and those whom best they lov'd, Ere they were made imperishable flame. And lo! forthwith there rose up round about A lustre over that already there, Of equal clearness, like the brightening up Of the horizon. As at an evening hour Of twilight, new appearances through heav'n Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried; So there new substances, methought began To rise in view; and round the other twain Enwheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. O gentle glitter of eternal beam! With what a such whiteness did it flow, O'erpowering vision in me! But so fair, So passing lovely, Beatrice show'd, Mind cannot follow it, nor words express Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regain'd Power to look up, and I beheld myself, Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss Translated: for the star, with warmer smile Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. With all the heart, and with that tongue which speaks The same in all, an holocaust I made To God, befitting the new grace vouchsaf'd. And from my bosom had not yet upsteam'd The fuming of that incense, when I knew The rite accepted. With such mighty sheen And mantling crimson, in two listed rays The splendours shot before me, that I cried, "God of Sabaoth! that does prank them thus!" As leads the galaxy from pole to pole, Distinguish'd into greater lights and less, Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell; So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars, Those rays describ'd the venerable sign, That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. Here memory mocks the toil of genius. Christ Beam'd on that cross; and pattern fails me now. But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ Will pardon me for that I leave untold, When in the flecker'd dawning he shall spy The glitterance of Christ. From horn to horn, And 'tween the summit and the base did move Lights, scintillating, as they met and pass'd. Thus oft are seen, with ever-changeful glance, Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow, The atomies of bodies, long or short, To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line Checkers the shadow, interpos'd by art Against the noontide heat. And as the chime Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and help With many strings, a pleasant dining makes To him, who heareth not distinct the note; So from the lights, which there appear'd to me, Gather'd along the cross a melody, That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment Possess'd me. Yet I mark'd it was a hymn Of lofty praises; for there came to me "Arise and conquer," as to one who hears And comprehends not. Me such ecstasy O'ercame, that never till that hour was thing That held me in so sweet imprisonment. Perhaps my saying over bold appears, Accounting less the pleasure of those eyes, Whereon to look fulfilleth all desire. But he, who is aware those living seals Of every beauty work with quicker force, The higher they are ris'n; and that there I had not turn'd me to them; he may well Excuse me that, whereof in my excuse I do accuse me, and may own my truth; That holy pleasure here not yet reveal'd, Which grows in transport as we mount aloof. 
8797	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. PARADISE Part 2 CANTO XV True love, that ever shows itself as clear In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, Silenced that lyre harmonious, and still'd The sacred chords, that are by heav'n's right hand Unwound and tighten'd, flow to righteous prayers Should they not hearken, who, to give me will For praying, in accordance thus were mute? He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief, Who, for the love of thing that lasteth not, Despoils himself forever of that love. As oft along the still and pure serene, At nightfall, glides a sudden trail of fire, Attracting with involuntary heed The eye to follow it, erewhile at rest, And seems some star that shifted place in heav'n, Only that, whence it kindles, none is lost, And it is soon extinct; thus from the horn, That on the dexter of the cross extends, Down to its foot, one luminary ran From mid the cluster shone there; yet no gem Dropp'd from its foil; and through the beamy list Like flame in alabaster, glow'd its course. So forward stretch'd him (if of credence aught Our greater muse may claim) the pious ghost Of old Anchises, in the' Elysian bower, When he perceiv'd his son. "O thou, my blood! O most exceeding grace divine! to whom, As now to thee, hath twice the heav'nly gate Been e'er unclos'd?" so spake the light; whence I Turn'd me toward him; then unto my dame My sight directed, and on either side Amazement waited me; for in her eyes Was lighted such a smile, I thought that mine Had div'd unto the bottom of my grace And of my bliss in Paradise. Forthwith To hearing and to sight grateful alike, The spirit to his proem added things I understood not, so profound he spake; Yet not of choice but through necessity Mysterious; for his high conception scar'd Beyond the mark of mortals. When the flight Of holy transport had so spent its rage, That nearer to the level of our thought The speech descended, the first sounds I heard Were, "Best he thou, Triunal Deity! That hast such favour in my seed vouchsaf'd!" Then follow'd: "No unpleasant thirst, tho' long, Which took me reading in the sacred book, Whose leaves or white or dusky never change, Thou hast allay'd, my son, within this light, From whence my voice thou hear'st; more thanks to her. Who for such lofty mounting has with plumes Begirt thee. Thou dost deem thy thoughts to me From him transmitted, who is first of all, E'en as all numbers ray from unity; And therefore dost not ask me who I am, Or why to thee more joyous I appear, Than any other in this gladsome throng. The truth is as thou deem'st; for in this hue Both less and greater in that mirror look, In which thy thoughts, or ere thou think'st, are shown. But, that the love, which keeps me wakeful ever, Urging with sacred thirst of sweet desire, May be contended fully, let thy voice, Fearless, and frank and jocund, utter forth Thy will distinctly, utter forth the wish, Whereto my ready answer stands decreed." I turn'd me to Beatrice; and she heard Ere I had spoken, smiling, an assent, That to my will gave wings; and I began "To each among your tribe, what time ye kenn'd The nature, in whom naught unequal dwells, Wisdom and love were in one measure dealt; For that they are so equal in the sun, From whence ye drew your radiance and your heat, As makes all likeness scant. But will and means, In mortals, for the cause ye well discern, With unlike wings are fledge. A mortal I Experience inequality like this, And therefore give no thanks, but in the heart, For thy paternal greeting. This howe'er I pray thee, living topaz! that ingemm'st This precious jewel, let me hear thy name." "I am thy root, O leaf! whom to expect Even, hath pleas'd me:" thus the prompt reply Prefacing, next it added; "he, of whom Thy kindred appellation comes, and who, These hundred years and more, on its first ledge Hath circuited the mountain, was my son And thy great grandsire. Well befits, his long Endurance should be shorten'd by thy deeds. "Florence, within her ancient limit-mark, Which calls her still to matin prayers and noon, Was chaste and sober, and abode in peace. She had no armlets and no head-tires then, No purfled dames, no zone, that caught the eye More than the person did. Time was not yet, When at his daughter's birth the sire grew pale. For fear the age and dowry should exceed On each side just proportion. House was none Void of its family; nor yet had come Hardanapalus, to exhibit feats Of chamber prowess. Montemalo yet O'er our suburban turret rose; as much To be surpass in fall, as in its rising. I saw Bellincione Berti walk abroad In leathern girdle and a clasp of bone; And, with no artful colouring on her cheeks, His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw Of Nerli and of Vecchio well content With unrob'd jerkin; and their good dames handling The spindle and the flax; O happy they! Each sure of burial in her native land, And none left desolate a-bed for France! One wak'd to tend the cradle, hushing it With sounds that lull'd the parent's infancy: Another, with her maidens, drawing off The tresses from the distaff, lectur'd them Old tales of Troy and Fesole and Rome. A Salterello and Cianghella we Had held as strange a marvel, as ye would A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. "In such compos'd and seemly fellowship, Such faithful and such fair equality, In so sweet household, Mary at my birth Bestow'd me, call'd on with loud cries; and there In your old baptistery, I was made Christian at once and Cacciaguida; as were My brethren, Eliseo and Moronto. "From Valdipado came to me my spouse, And hence thy surname grew. I follow'd then The Emperor Conrad; and his knighthood he Did gird on me; in such good part he took My valiant service. After him I went To testify against that evil law, Whose people, by the shepherd's fault, possess Your right, usurping. There, by that foul crew Was I releas'd from the deceitful world, Whose base affection many a spirit soils, And from the martyrdom came to this peace." CANTO XVI O slight respect of man's nobility! I never shall account it marvelous, That our infirm affection here below Thou mov'st to boasting, when I could not choose, E'en in that region of unwarp'd desire, In heav'n itself, but make my vaunt in thee! Yet cloak thou art soon shorten'd, for that time, Unless thou be eked out from day to day, Goes round thee with his shears. Resuming then With greeting such, as Rome, was first to bear, But since hath disaccustom'd I began; And Beatrice, that a little space Was sever'd, smil'd reminding me of her, Whose cough embolden'd (as the story holds) To first offence the doubting Guenever. "You are my sire," said I, "you give me heart Freely to speak my thought: above myself You raise me. Through so many streams with joy My soul is fill'd, that gladness wells from it; So that it bears the mighty tide, and bursts not Say then, my honour'd stem! what ancestors Where those you sprang from, and what years were mark'd In your first childhood? Tell me of the fold, That hath Saint John for guardian, what was then Its state, and who in it were highest seated?" As embers, at the breathing of the wind, Their flame enliven, so that light I saw Shine at my blandishments; and, as it grew More fair to look on, so with voice more sweet, Yet not in this our modern phrase, forthwith It answer'd: "From the day, when it was said 'Hail Virgin!' to the throes, by which my mother, Who now is sainted, lighten'd her of me Whom she was heavy with, this fire had come, Five hundred fifty times and thrice, its beams To reilumine underneath the foot Of its own lion. They, of whom I sprang, And I, had there our birth-place, where the last Partition of our city first is reach'd By him, that runs her annual game. Thus much Suffice of my forefathers: who they were, And whence they hither came, more honourable It is to pass in silence than to tell. All those, who in that time were there from Mars Until the Baptist, fit to carry arms, Were but the fifth of them this day alive. But then the citizen's blood, that now is mix'd From Campi and Certaldo and Fighine, Ran purely through the last mechanic's veins. O how much better were it, that these people Were neighbours to you, and that at Galluzzo And at Trespiano, ye should have your bound'ry, Than to have them within, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's hind, and Signa's, him, That hath his eye already keen for bart'ring! Had not the people, which of all the world Degenerates most, been stepdame unto Caesar, But, as a mother, gracious to her son; Such one, as hath become a Florentine, And trades and traffics, had been turn'd adrift To Simifonte, where his grandsire ply'd The beggar's craft. The Conti were possess'd Of Montemurlo still: the Cerchi still Were in Acone's parish; nor had haply From Valdigrieve past the Buondelmonte. The city's malady hath ever source In the confusion of its persons, as The body's, in variety of food: And the blind bull falls with a steeper plunge, Than the blind lamb; and oftentimes one sword Doth more and better execution, Than five. Mark Luni, Urbisaglia mark, How they are gone, and after them how go Chiusi and Sinigaglia; and 't will seem No longer new or strange to thee to hear, That families fail, when cities have their end. All things, that appertain t' ye, like yourselves, Are mortal: but mortality in some Ye mark not, they endure so long, and you Pass by so suddenly. And as the moon Doth, by the rolling of her heav'nly sphere, Hide and reveal the strand unceasingly; So fortune deals with Florence. Hence admire not At what of them I tell thee, whose renown Time covers, the first Florentines. I saw The Ughi, Catilini and Filippi, The Alberichi, Greci and Ormanni, Now in their wane, illustrious citizens: And great as ancient, of Sannella him, With him of Arca saw, and Soldanieri And Ardinghi, and Bostichi. At the poop, That now is laden with new felony, So cumb'rous it may speedily sink the bark, The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprung The County Guido, and whoso hath since His title from the fam'd Bellincione ta'en. Fair governance was yet an art well priz'd By him of Pressa: Galigaio show'd The gilded hilt and pommel, in his house. The column, cloth'd with verrey, still was seen Unshaken: the Sacchetti still were great, Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci, With them who blush to hear the bushel nam'd. Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunk Was in its strength: and to the curule chairs Sizii and Arigucci yet were drawn. How mighty them I saw, whom since their pride Hath undone! and in all her goodly deeds Florence was by the bullets of bright gold O'erflourish'd. Such the sires of those, who now, As surely as your church is vacant, flock Into her consistory, and at leisure There stall them and grow fat. The o'erweening brood, That plays the dragon after him that flees, But unto such, as turn and show the tooth, Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb, Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem'd, That Ubertino of Donati grudg'd His father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe. Already Caponsacco had descended Into the mart from Fesole: and Giuda And Infangato were good citizens. A thing incredible I tell, tho' true: The gateway, named from those of Pera, led Into the narrow circuit of your walls. Each one, who bears the sightly quarterings Of the great Baron (he whose name and worth The festival of Thomas still revives) His knighthood and his privilege retain'd; Albeit one, who borders them With gold, This day is mingled with the common herd. In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt, And Importuni: well for its repose Had it still lack'd of newer neighbourhood. The house, from whence your tears have had their spring, Through the just anger that hath murder'd ye And put a period to your gladsome days, Was honour'd, it, and those consorted with it. O Buondelmonte! what ill counseling Prevail'd on thee to break the plighted bond Many, who now are weeping, would rejoice, Had God to Ema giv'n thee, the first time Thou near our city cam'st. But so was doom'd: On that maim'd stone set up to guard the bridge, At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell. With these and others like to them, I saw Florence in such assur'd tranquility, She had no cause at which to grieve: with these Saw her so glorious and so just, that ne'er The lily from the lance had hung reverse, Or through division been with vermeil dyed." CANTO XVII Such as the youth, who came to Clymene To certify himself of that reproach, Which had been fasten'd on him, (he whose end Still makes the fathers chary to their sons), E'en such was I; nor unobserv'd was such Of Beatrice, and that saintly lamp, Who had erewhile for me his station mov'd; When thus by lady: "Give thy wish free vent, That it may issue, bearing true report Of the mind's impress; not that aught thy words May to our knowledge add, but to the end, That thou mayst use thyself to own thy thirst And men may mingle for thee when they hear." "O plant! from whence I spring! rever'd and lov'd! Who soar'st so high a pitch, thou seest as clear, As earthly thought determines two obtuse In one triangle not contain'd, so clear Dost see contingencies, ere in themselves Existent, looking at the point whereto All times are present, I, the whilst I scal'd With Virgil the soul purifying mount, And visited the nether world of woe, Touching my future destiny have heard Words grievous, though I feel me on all sides Well squar'd to fortune's blows. Therefore my will Were satisfied to know the lot awaits me, The arrow, seen beforehand, slacks its flight." So said I to the brightness, which erewhile To me had spoken, and my will declar'd, As Beatrice will'd, explicitly. Nor with oracular response obscure, Such, as or ere the Lamb of God was slain, Beguil'd the credulous nations; but, in terms Precise and unambiguous lore, replied The spirit of paternal love, enshrin'd, Yet in his smile apparent; and thus spake: "Contingency, unfolded not to view Upon the tablet of your mortal mold, Is all depictur'd in the' eternal sight; But hence deriveth not necessity, More then the tall ship, hurried down the flood, Doth from the vision, that reflects the scene. From thence, as to the ear sweet harmony From organ comes, so comes before mine eye The time prepar'd for thee. Such as driv'n out From Athens, by his cruel stepdame's wiles, Hippolytus departed, such must thou Depart from Florence. This they wish, and this Contrive, and will ere long effectuate, there, Where gainful merchandize is made of Christ, Throughout the livelong day. The common cry, Will, as 't is ever wont, affix the blame Unto the party injur'd: but the truth Shall, in the vengeance it dispenseth, find A faithful witness. Thou shall leave each thing Belov'd most dearly: this is the first shaft Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove How salt the savour is of other's bread, How hard the passage to descend and climb By other's stairs, But that shall gall thee most Will be the worthless and vile company, With whom thou must be thrown into these straits. For all ungrateful, impious all and mad, Shall turn 'gainst thee: but in a little while Theirs and not thine shall be the crimson'd brow Their course shall so evince their brutishness T' have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee. "First refuge thou must find, first place of rest, In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears Upon the ladder perch'd the sacred bird. He shall behold thee with such kind regard, That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that Which falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall Forerun the asking. With him shalt thou see That mortal, who was at his birth impress So strongly from this star, that of his deeds The nations shall take note. His unripe age Yet holds him from observance; for these wheels Only nine years have compass him about. But, ere the Gascon practice on great Harry, Sparkles of virtue shall shoot forth in him, In equal scorn of labours and of gold. His bounty shall be spread abroad so widely, As not to let the tongues e'en of his foes Be idle in its praise. Look thou to him And his beneficence: for he shall cause Reversal of their lot to many people, Rich men and beggars interchanging fortunes. And thou shalt bear this written in thy soul Of him, but tell it not;" and things he told Incredible to those who witness them; Then added: "So interpret thou, my son, What hath been told thee.--Lo! the ambushment That a few circling seasons hide for thee! Yet envy not thy neighbours: time extends Thy span beyond their treason's chastisement." Soon, as the saintly spirit, by his silence, Had shown the web, which I had streteh'd for him Upon the warp, was woven, I began, As one, who in perplexity desires Counsel of other, wise, benign and friendly: "My father! well I mark how time spurs on Toward me, ready to inflict the blow, Which falls most heavily on him, who most Abandoned himself. Therefore 't is good I should forecast, that driven from the place Most dear to me, I may not lose myself All others by my song. Down through the world Of infinite mourning, and along the mount From whose fair height my lady's eyes did lift me, And after through this heav'n from light to light, Have I learnt that, which if I tell again, It may with many woefully disrelish; And, if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear my life may perish among those, To whom these days shall be of ancient date." The brightness, where enclos'd the treasure smil'd, Which I had found there, first shone glisteningly, Like to a golden mirror in the sun; Next answer'd: "Conscience, dimm'd or by its own Or other's shame, will feel thy saying sharp. Thou, notwithstanding, all deceit remov'd, See the whole vision be made manifest. And let them wince who have their withers wrung. What though, when tasted first, thy voice shall prove Unwelcome, on digestion it will turn To vital nourishment. The cry thou raisest, Shall, as the wind doth, smite the proudest summits; Which is of honour no light argument, For this there only have been shown to thee, Throughout these orbs, the mountain, and the deep, Spirits, whom fame hath note of. For the mind Of him, who hears, is loth to acquiesce And fix its faith, unless the instance brought Be palpable, and proof apparent urge." CANTO XVIII CANTO XVIII Now in his word, sole, ruminating, joy'd That blessed spirit; and I fed on mine, Tempting the sweet with bitter: she meanwhile, Who led me unto God, admonish'd: "Muse On other thoughts: bethink thee, that near Him I dwell, who recompenseth every wrong." At the sweet sounds of comfort straight I turn'd; And, in the saintly eyes what love was seen, I leave in silence here: nor through distrust Of my words only, but that to such bliss The mind remounts not without aid. Thus much Yet may I speak; that, as I gaz'd on her, Affection found no room for other wish. While the everlasting pleasure, that did full On Beatrice shine, with second view From her fair countenance my gladden'd soul Contented; vanquishing me with a beam Of her soft smile, she spake: "Turn thee, and list. These eyes are not thy only Paradise." As here we sometimes in the looks may see Th' affection mark'd, when that its sway hath ta'en The spirit wholly; thus the hallow'd light, To whom I turn'd, flashing, bewray'd its will To talk yet further with me, and began: "On this fifth lodgment of the tree, whose life Is from its top, whose fruit is ever fair And leaf unwith'ring, blessed spirits abide, That were below, ere they arriv'd in heav'n, So mighty in renown, as every muse Might grace her triumph with them. On the horns Look therefore of the cross: he, whom I name, Shall there enact, as doth in summer cloud Its nimble fire." Along the cross I saw, At the repeated name of Joshua, A splendour gliding; nor, the word was said, Ere it was done: then, at the naming saw Of the great Maccabee, another move With whirling speed; and gladness was the scourge Unto that top. The next for Charlemagne And for the peer Orlando, two my gaze Pursued, intently, as the eye pursues A falcon flying. Last, along the cross, William, and Renard, and Duke Godfrey drew My ken, and Robert Guiscard. And the soul, Who spake with me among the other lights Did move away, and mix; and with the choir Of heav'nly songsters prov'd his tuneful skill. To Beatrice on my right l bent, Looking for intimation or by word Or act, what next behoov'd; and did descry Such mere effulgence in her eyes, such joy, It past all former wont. And, as by sense Of new delight, the man, who perseveres In good deeds doth perceive from day to day His virtue growing; I e'en thus perceiv'd Of my ascent, together with the heav'n The circuit widen'd, noting the increase Of beauty in that wonder. Like the change In a brief moment on some maiden's cheek, Which from its fairness doth discharge the weight Of pudency, that stain'd it; such in her, And to mine eyes so sudden was the change, Through silvery whiteness of that temperate star, Whose sixth orb now enfolded us. I saw, Within that Jovial cresset, the clear sparks Of love, that reign'd there, fashion to my view Our language. And as birds, from river banks Arisen, now in round, now lengthen'd troop, Array them in their flight, greeting, as seems, Their new-found pastures; so, within the lights, The saintly creatures flying, sang, and made Now D. now I. now L. figur'd I' th' air. First, singing, to their notes they mov'd, then one Becoming of these signs, a little while Did rest them, and were mute. O nymph divine Of Pegasean race! whose souls, which thou Inspir'st, mak'st glorious and long-liv'd, as they Cities and realms by thee! thou with thyself Inform me; that I may set forth the shapes, As fancy doth present them. Be thy power Display'd in this brief song. The characters, Vocal and consonant, were five-fold seven. In order each, as they appear'd, I mark'd. Diligite Justitiam, the first, Both verb and noun all blazon'd; and the extreme Qui judicatis terram. In the M. Of the fifth word they held their station, Making the star seem silver streak'd with gold. And on the summit of the M. I saw Descending other lights, that rested there, Singing, methinks, their bliss and primal good. Then, as at shaking of a lighted brand, Sparkles innumerable on all sides Rise scatter'd, source of augury to th' unwise; Thus more than thousand twinkling lustres hence Seem'd reascending, and a higher pitch Some mounting, and some less; e'en as the sun, Which kindleth them, decreed. And when each one Had settled in his place, the head and neck Then saw I of an eagle, lively Grav'd in that streaky fire. Who painteth there, Hath none to guide him; of himself he guides; And every line and texture of the nest Doth own from him the virtue, fashions it. The other bright beatitude, that seem'd Erewhile, with lilied crowning, well content To over-canopy the M. mov'd forth, Following gently the impress of the bird. Sweet star! what glorious and thick-studded gems Declar'd to me our justice on the earth To be the effluence of that heav'n, which thou, Thyself a costly jewel, dost inlay! Therefore I pray the Sovran Mind, from whom Thy motion and thy virtue are begun, That he would look from whence the fog doth rise, To vitiate thy beam: so that once more He may put forth his hand 'gainst such, as drive Their traffic in that sanctuary, whose walls With miracles and martyrdoms were built. Ye host of heaven! whose glory I survey! O beg ye grace for those, that are on earth All after ill example gone astray. War once had for its instrument the sword: But now 't is made, taking the bread away Which the good Father locks from none. --And thou, That writes but to cancel, think, that they, Who for the vineyard, which thou wastest, died, Peter and Paul live yet, and mark thy doings. Thou hast good cause to cry, "My heart so cleaves To him, that liv'd in solitude remote, And from the wilds was dragg'd to martyrdom, I wist not of the fisherman nor Paul." CANTO XIX Before my sight appear'd, with open wings, The beauteous image, in fruition sweet Gladdening the thronged spirits. Each did seem A little ruby, whereon so intense The sun-beam glow'd that to mine eyes it came In clear refraction. And that, which next Befalls me to portray, voice hath not utter'd, Nor hath ink written, nor in fantasy Was e'er conceiv'd. For I beheld and heard The beak discourse; and, what intention form'd Of many, singly as of one express, Beginning: "For that I was just and piteous, l am exalted to this height of glory, The which no wish exceeds: and there on earth Have I my memory left, e'en by the bad Commended, while they leave its course untrod." Thus is one heat from many embers felt, As in that image many were the loves, And one the voice, that issued from them all. Whence I address them: "O perennial flowers Of gladness everlasting! that exhale In single breath your odours manifold! Breathe now; and let the hunger be appeas'd, That with great craving long hath held my soul, Finding no food on earth. This well I know, That if there be in heav'n a realm, that shows In faithful mirror the celestial Justice, Yours without veil reflects it. Ye discern The heed, wherewith I do prepare myself To hearken; ye the doubt that urges me With such inveterate craving." Straight I saw, Like to a falcon issuing from the hood, That rears his head, and claps him with his wings, His beauty and his eagerness bewraying. So saw I move that stately sign, with praise Of grace divine inwoven and high song Of inexpressive joy. "He," it began, "Who turn'd his compass on the world's extreme, And in that space so variously hath wrought, Both openly, and in secret, in such wise Could not through all the universe display Impression of his glory, that the Word Of his omniscience should not still remain In infinite excess. In proof whereof, He first through pride supplanted, who was sum Of each created being, waited not For light celestial, and abortive fell. Whence needs each lesser nature is but scant Receptacle unto that Good, which knows No limit, measur'd by itself alone. Therefore your sight, of th' omnipresent Mind A single beam, its origin must own Surpassing far its utmost potency. The ken, your world is gifted with, descends In th' everlasting Justice as low down, As eye doth in the sea; which though it mark The bottom from the shore, in the wide main Discerns it not; and ne'ertheless it is, But hidden through its deepness. Light is none, Save that which cometh from the pure serene Of ne'er disturbed ether: for the rest, 'Tis darkness all, or shadow of the flesh, Or else its poison. Here confess reveal'd That covert, which hath hidden from thy search The living justice, of the which thou mad'st Such frequent question; for thou saidst--'A man Is born on Indus' banks, and none is there Who speaks of Christ, nor who doth read nor write, And all his inclinations and his acts, As far as human reason sees, are good, And he offendeth not in word or deed. But unbaptiz'd he dies, and void of faith. Where is the justice that condemns him? where His blame, if he believeth not?'--What then, And who art thou, that on the stool wouldst sit To judge at distance of a thousand miles With the short-sighted vision of a span? To him, who subtilizes thus with me, There would assuredly be room for doubt Even to wonder, did not the safe word Of scripture hold supreme authority. "O animals of clay! O spirits gross I The primal will, that in itself is good, Hath from itself, the chief Good, ne'er been mov'd. Justice consists in consonance with it, Derivable by no created good, Whose very cause depends upon its beam." As on her nest the stork, that turns about Unto her young, whom lately she hath fed, While they with upward eyes do look on her; So lifted I my gaze; and bending so The ever-blessed image wav'd its wings, Lab'ring with such deep counsel. Wheeling round It warbled, and did say: "As are my notes To thee, who understand'st them not, such is Th' eternal judgment unto mortal ken." Then still abiding in that ensign rang'd, Wherewith the Romans over-awed the world, Those burning splendours of the Holy Spirit Took up the strain; and thus it spake again: "None ever hath ascended to this realm, Who hath not a believer been in Christ, Either before or after the blest limbs Were nail'd upon the wood. But lo! of those Who call 'Christ, Christ,' there shall be many found, In judgment, further off from him by far, Than such, to whom his name was never known. Christians like these the Ethiop shall condemn: When that the two assemblages shall part; One rich eternally, the other poor. "What may the Persians say unto your kings, When they shall see that volume, in the which All their dispraise is written, spread to view? There amidst Albert's works shall that be read, Which will give speedy motion to the pen, When Prague shall mourn her desolated realm. There shall be read the woe, that he doth work With his adulterate money on the Seine, Who by the tusk will perish: there be read The thirsting pride, that maketh fool alike The English and Scot, impatient of their bound. There shall be seen the Spaniard's luxury, The delicate living there of the Bohemian, Who still to worth has been a willing stranger. The halter of Jerusalem shall see A unit for his virtue, for his vices No less a mark than million. He, who guards The isle of fire by old Anchises honour'd Shall find his avarice there and cowardice; And better to denote his littleness, The writing must be letters maim'd, that speak Much in a narrow space. All there shall know His uncle and his brother's filthy doings, Who so renown'd a nation and two crowns Have bastardized. And they, of Portugal And Norway, there shall be expos'd with him Of Ratza, who hath counterfeited ill The coin of Venice. O blest Hungary! If thou no longer patiently abid'st Thy ill-entreating! and, O blest Navarre! If with thy mountainous girdle thou wouldst arm thee In earnest of that day, e'en now are heard Wailings and groans in Famagosta's streets And Nicosia's, grudging at their beast, Who keepeth even footing with the rest." CANTO XX When, disappearing, from our hemisphere, The world's enlightener vanishes, and day On all sides wasteth, suddenly the sky, Erewhile irradiate only with his beam, Is yet again unfolded, putting forth Innumerable lights wherein one shines. Of such vicissitude in heaven I thought, As the great sign, that marshaleth the world And the world's leaders, in the blessed beak Was silent; for that all those living lights, Waxing in splendour, burst forth into songs, Such as from memory glide and fall away. Sweet love! that dost apparel thee in smiles, How lustrous was thy semblance in those sparkles, Which merely are from holy thoughts inspir'd! After the precious and bright beaming stones, That did ingem the sixth light, ceas'd the chiming Of their angelic bells; methought I heard The murmuring of a river, that doth fall From rock to rock transpicuous, making known The richness of his spring-head: and as sound Of cistern, at the fret-board, or of pipe, Is, at the wind-hole, modulate and tun'd; Thus up the neck, as it were hollow, rose That murmuring of the eagle, and forthwith Voice there assum'd, and thence along the beak Issued in form of words, such as my heart Did look for, on whose tables I inscrib'd them. "The part in me, that sees, and bears the sun,, In mortal eagles," it began, "must now Be noted steadfastly: for of the fires, That figure me, those, glittering in mine eye, Are chief of all the greatest. This, that shines Midmost for pupil, was the same, who sang The Holy Spirit's song, and bare about The ark from town to town; now doth he know The merit of his soul-impassion'd strains By their well-fitted guerdon. Of the five, That make the circle of the vision, he Who to the beak is nearest, comforted The widow for her son: now doth he know How dear he costeth not to follow Christ, Both from experience of this pleasant life, And of its opposite. He next, who follows In the circumference, for the over arch, By true repenting slack'd the pace of death: Now knoweth he, that the degrees of heav'n Alter not, when through pious prayer below Today's is made tomorrow's destiny. The other following, with the laws and me, To yield the shepherd room, pass'd o'er to Greece, From good intent producing evil fruit: Now knoweth he, how all the ill, deriv'd From his well doing, doth not helm him aught, Though it have brought destruction on the world. That, which thou seest in the under bow, Was William, whom that land bewails, which weeps For Charles and Frederick living: now he knows How well is lov'd in heav'n the righteous king, Which he betokens by his radiant seeming. Who in the erring world beneath would deem, That Trojan Ripheus in this round was set Fifth of the saintly splendours? now he knows Enough of that, which the world cannot see, The grace divine, albeit e'en his sight Reach not its utmost depth." Like to the lark, That warbling in the air expatiates long, Then, trilling out his last sweet melody, Drops satiate with the sweetness; such appear'd That image stampt by the' everlasting pleasure, Which fashions like itself all lovely things. I, though my doubting were as manifest, As is through glass the hue that mantles it, In silence waited not: for to my lips "What things are these?" involuntary rush'd, And forc'd a passage out: whereat I mark'd A sudden lightening and new revelry. The eye was kindled: and the blessed sign No more to keep me wond'ring and suspense, Replied: "I see that thou believ'st these things, Because I tell them, but discern'st not how; So that thy knowledge waits not on thy faith: As one who knows the name of thing by rote, But is a stranger to its properties, Till other's tongue reveal them. Fervent love And lively hope with violence assail The kingdom of the heavens, and overcome The will of the Most high; not in such sort As man prevails o'er man; but conquers it, Because 't is willing to be conquer'd, still, Though conquer'd, by its mercy conquering. "Those, in the eye who live the first and fifth, Cause thee to marvel, in that thou behold'st The region of the angels deck'd with them. They quitted not their bodies, as thou deem'st, Gentiles but Christians, in firm rooted faith, This of the feet in future to be pierc'd, That of feet nail'd already to the cross. One from the barrier of the dark abyss, Where never any with good will returns, Came back unto his bones. Of lively hope Such was the meed; of lively hope, that wing'd The prayers sent up to God for his release, And put power into them to bend his will. The glorious Spirit, of whom I speak to thee, A little while returning to the flesh, Believ'd in him, who had the means to help, And, in believing, nourish'd such a flame Of holy love, that at the second death He was made sharer in our gamesome mirth. The other, through the riches of that grace, Which from so deep a fountain doth distil, As never eye created saw its rising, Plac'd all his love below on just and right: Wherefore of grace God op'd in him the eye To the redemption of mankind to come; Wherein believing, he endur'd no more The filth of paganism, and for their ways Rebuk'd the stubborn nations. The three nymphs, Whom at the right wheel thou beheldst advancing, Were sponsors for him more than thousand years Before baptizing. O how far remov'd, Predestination! is thy root from such As see not the First cause entire: and ye, O mortal men! be wary how ye judge: For we, who see our Maker, know not yet The number of the chosen: and esteem Such scantiness of knowledge our delight: For all our good is in that primal good Concentrate, and God's will and ours are one." So, by that form divine, was giv'n to me Sweet medicine to clear and strengthen sight, And, as one handling skillfully the harp, Attendant on some skilful songster's voice Bids the chords vibrate, and therein the song Acquires more pleasure; so, the whilst it spake, It doth remember me, that I beheld The pair of blessed luminaries move. Like the accordant twinkling of two eyes, Their beamy circlets, dancing to the sounds. CANTO XXI Again mine eyes were fix'd on Beatrice, And with mine eyes my soul, that in her looks Found all contentment. Yet no smile she wore And, "Did I smile," quoth she, "thou wouldst be straight Like Semele when into ashes turn'd: For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs, My beauty, which the loftier it climbs, As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more, So shines, that, were no temp'ring interpos'd, Thy mortal puissance would from its rays Shrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt. Into the seventh splendour are we wafted, That underneath the burning lion's breast Beams, in this hour, commingled with his might, Thy mind be with thine eyes: and in them mirror'd The shape, which in this mirror shall be shown." Whoso can deem, how fondly I had fed My sight upon her blissful countenance, May know, when to new thoughts I chang'd, what joy To do the bidding of my heav'nly guide: In equal balance poising either weight. Within the crystal, which records the name, (As its remoter circle girds the world) Of that lov'd monarch, in whose happy reign No ill had power to harm, I saw rear'd up, In colour like to sun-illumin'd gold. A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain, So lofty was the summit; down whose steps I saw the splendours in such multitude Descending, ev'ry light in heav'n, methought, Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of day Bestirring them to dry their feathers chill, Some speed their way a-field, and homeward some, Returning, cross their flight, while some abide And wheel around their airy lodge; so seem'd That glitterance, wafted on alternate wing, As upon certain stair it met, and clash'd Its shining. And one ling'ring near us, wax'd So bright, that in my thought: said: "The love, Which this betokens me, admits no doubt." Unwillingly from question I refrain, To her, by whom my silence and my speech Are order'd, looking for a sign: whence she, Who in the sight of Him, that seeth all, Saw wherefore I was silent, prompted me T' indulge the fervent wish; and I began: "I am not worthy, of my own desert, That thou shouldst answer me; but for her sake, Who hath vouchsaf'd my asking, spirit blest! That in thy joy art shrouded! say the cause, Which bringeth thee so near: and wherefore, say, Doth the sweet symphony of Paradise Keep silence here, pervading with such sounds Of rapt devotion ev'ry lower sphere?" "Mortal art thou in hearing as in sight;" Was the reply: "and what forbade the smile Of Beatrice interrupts our song. Only to yield thee gladness of my voice, And of the light that vests me, I thus far Descend these hallow'd steps: not that more love Invites me; for lo! there aloft, as much Or more of love is witness'd in those flames: But such my lot by charity assign'd, That makes us ready servants, as thou seest, To execute the counsel of the Highest." "That in this court," said I, "O sacred lamp! Love no compulsion needs, but follows free Th' eternal Providence, I well discern: This harder find to deem, why of thy peers Thou only to this office wert foredoom'd." I had not ended, when, like rapid mill, Upon its centre whirl'd the light; and then The love, that did inhabit there, replied: "Splendour eternal, piercing through these folds, Its virtue to my vision knits, and thus Supported, lifts me so above myself, That on the sov'ran essence, which it wells from, I have the power to gaze: and hence the joy, Wherewith I sparkle, equaling with my blaze The keenness of my sight. But not the soul, That is in heav'n most lustrous, nor the seraph That hath his eyes most fix'd on God, shall solve What thou hast ask'd: for in th' abyss it lies Of th' everlasting statute sunk so low, That no created ken may fathom it. And, to the mortal world when thou return'st, Be this reported; that none henceforth dare Direct his footsteps to so dread a bourn. The mind, that here is radiant, on the earth Is wrapt in mist. Look then if she may do, Below, what passeth her ability, When she is ta'en to heav'n." By words like these Admonish'd, I the question urg'd no more; And of the spirit humbly sued alone T' instruct me of its state. "'Twixt either shore Of Italy, nor distant from thy land, A stony ridge ariseth, in such sort, The thunder doth not lift his voice so high, They call it Catria: at whose foot a cell Is sacred to the lonely Eremite, For worship set apart and holy rites." A third time thus it spake; then added: "There So firmly to God's service I adher'd, That with no costlier viands than the juice Of olives, easily I pass'd the heats Of summer and the winter frosts, content In heav'n-ward musings. Rich were the returns And fertile, which that cloister once was us'd To render to these heavens: now 't is fall'n Into a waste so empty, that ere long Detection must lay bare its vanity Pietro Damiano there was I yclept: Pietro the sinner, when before I dwelt Beside the Adriatic, in the house Of our blest Lady. Near upon my close Of mortal life, through much importuning I was constrain'd to wear the hat that still From bad to worse it shifted.--Cephas came; He came, who was the Holy Spirit's vessel, Barefoot and lean, eating their bread, as chanc'd, At the first table. Modern Shepherd's need Those who on either hand may prop and lead them, So burly are they grown: and from behind Others to hoist them. Down the palfrey's sides Spread their broad mantles, so as both the beasts Are cover'd with one skin. O patience! thou That lookst on this and doth endure so long." I at those accents saw the splendours down From step to step alight, and wheel, and wax, Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round this They came, and stay'd them; uttered them a shout So loud, it hath no likeness here: nor I Wist what it spake, so deaf'ning was the thunder. 
8795	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI PURGATORY Complete TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY PURGATORY Cantos 1 - 33 CANTO I O'er better waves to speed her rapid course The light bark of my genius lifts the sail, Well pleas'd to leave so cruel sea behind; And of that second region will I sing, In which the human spirit from sinful blot Is purg'd, and for ascent to Heaven prepares. Here, O ye hallow'd Nine! for in your train I follow, here the deadened strain revive; Nor let Calliope refuse to sound A somewhat higher song, of that loud tone, Which when the wretched birds of chattering note Had heard, they of forgiveness lost all hope. Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread O'er the serene aspect of the pure air, High up as the first circle, to mine eyes Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I 'scap'd Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom, That had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief. The radiant planet, that to love invites, Made all the orient laugh, and veil'd beneath The Pisces' light, that in his escort came. To the right hand I turn'd, and fix'd my mind On the' other pole attentive, where I saw Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays Seem'd joyous. O thou northern site, bereft Indeed, and widow'd, since of these depriv'd! As from this view I had desisted, straight Turning a little tow'rds the other pole, There from whence now the wain had disappear'd, I saw an old man standing by my side Alone, so worthy of rev'rence in his look, That ne'er from son to father more was ow'd. Low down his beard and mix'd with hoary white Descended, like his locks, which parting fell Upon his breast in double fold. The beams Of those four luminaries on his face So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear Deck'd it, that I beheld him as the sun. "Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream, Forth from th' eternal prison-house have fled?" He spoke and moved those venerable plumes. "Who hath conducted, or with lantern sure Lights you emerging from the depth of night, That makes the infernal valley ever black? Are the firm statutes of the dread abyss Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain'd, That thus, condemn'd, ye to my caves approach?" My guide, then laying hold on me, by words And intimations given with hand and head, Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay Due reverence; then thus to him replied. "Not of myself I come; a Dame from heaven Descending, had besought me in my charge To bring. But since thy will implies, that more Our true condition I unfold at large, Mine is not to deny thee thy request. This mortal ne'er hath seen the farthest gloom. But erring by his folly had approach'd So near, that little space was left to turn. Then, as before I told, I was dispatch'd To work his rescue, and no way remain'd Save this which I have ta'en. I have display'd Before him all the regions of the bad; And purpose now those spirits to display, That under thy command are purg'd from sin. How I have brought him would be long to say. From high descends the virtue, by whose aid I to thy sight and hearing him have led. Now may our coming please thee. In the search Of liberty he journeys: that how dear They know, who for her sake have life refus'd. Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds, That in the last great day will shine so bright. For us the' eternal edicts are unmov'd: He breathes, and I am free of Minos' power, Abiding in that circle where the eyes Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look Prays thee, O hallow'd spirit! to own her shine. Then by her love we' implore thee, let us pass Through thy sev'n regions; for which best thanks I for thy favour will to her return, If mention there below thou not disdain." "Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found," He then to him rejoin'd, "while I was there, That all she ask'd me I was fain to grant. Now that beyond the' accursed stream she dwells, She may no longer move me, by that law, Which was ordain'd me, when I issued thence. Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst, Moves and directs thee; then no flattery needs. Enough for me that in her name thou ask. Go therefore now: and with a slender reed See that thou duly gird him, and his face Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence. For not with eye, by any cloud obscur'd, Would it be seemly before him to come, Who stands the foremost minister in heaven. This islet all around, there far beneath, Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed Produces store of reeds. No other plant, Cover'd with leaves, or harden'd in its stalk, There lives, not bending to the water's sway. After, this way return not; but the sun Will show you, that now rises, where to take The mountain in its easiest ascent." He disappear'd; and I myself uprais'd Speechless, and to my guide retiring close, Toward him turn'd mine eyes. He thus began; "My son! observant thou my steps pursue. We must retreat to rearward, for that way The champain to its low extreme declines." The dawn had chas'd the matin hour of prime, Which deaf before it, so that from afar I spy'd the trembling of the ocean stream. We travers'd the deserted plain, as one Who, wander'd from his track, thinks every step Trodden in vain till he regain the path. When we had come, where yet the tender dew Strove with the sun, and in a place, where fresh The wind breath'd o'er it, while it slowly dried; Both hands extended on the watery grass My master plac'd, in graceful act and kind. Whence I of his intent before appriz'd, Stretch'd out to him my cheeks suffus'd with tears. There to my visage he anew restor'd That hue, which the dun shades of hell conceal'd. Then on the solitary shore arriv'd, That never sailing on its waters saw Man, that could after measure back his course, He girt me in such manner as had pleas'd Him who instructed, and O, strange to tell! As he selected every humble plant, Wherever one was pluck'd, another there Resembling, straightway in its place arose. CANTO II Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd, That covers, with the most exalted point Of its meridian circle, Salem's walls, And night, that opposite to him her orb Sounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropp'd When she reigns highest: so that where I was, Aurora's white and vermeil-tinctur'd cheek To orange turn'd as she in age increas'd. Meanwhile we linger'd by the water's brink, Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought Journey, while motionless the body rests. When lo! as near upon the hour of dawn, Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beam Glares down in west, over the ocean floor; So seem'd, what once again I hope to view, A light so swiftly coming through the sea, No winged course might equal its career. From which when for a space I had withdrawn Thine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide, Again I look'd and saw it grown in size And brightness: thou on either side appear'd Something, but what I knew not of bright hue, And by degrees from underneath it came Another. My preceptor silent yet Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern'd, Open'd the form of wings: then when he knew The pilot, cried aloud, "Down, down; bend low Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands: Now shalt thou see true Ministers indeed. "Lo how all human means he sets at naught! So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail Except his wings, between such distant shores. Lo how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd, Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes, That not like mortal hairs fall off or change!" As more and more toward us came, more bright Appear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down. He drove ashore in a small bark so swift And light, that in its course no wave it drank. The heav'nly steersman at the prow was seen, Visibly written blessed in his looks. Within a hundred spirits and more there sat. "In Exitu Israel de Aegypto;" All with one voice together sang, with what In the remainder of that hymn is writ. Then soon as with the sign of holy cross He bless'd them, they at once leap'd out on land, The swiftly as he came return'd. The crew, There left, appear'd astounded with the place, Gazing around as one who sees new sights. From every side the sun darted his beams, And with his arrowy radiance from mid heav'n Had chas'd the Capricorn, when that strange tribe Lifting their eyes towards us: "If ye know, Declare what path will Lead us to the mount." Them Virgil answer'd. "Ye suppose perchance Us well acquainted with this place: but here, We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst We came, before you but a little space, By other road so rough and hard, that now The' ascent will seem to us as play." The spirits, Who from my breathing had perceiv'd I liv'd, Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude Flock round a herald, sent with olive branch, To hear what news he brings, and in their haste Tread one another down, e'en so at sight Of me those happy spirits were fix'd, each one Forgetful of its errand, to depart, Where cleans'd from sin, it might be made all fair. Then one I saw darting before the rest With such fond ardour to embrace me, I To do the like was mov'd. O shadows vain Except in outward semblance! thrice my hands I clasp'd behind it, they as oft return'd Empty into my breast again. Surprise I needs must think was painted in my looks, For that the shadow smil'd and backward drew. To follow it I hasten'd, but with voice Of sweetness it enjoin'd me to desist. Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it, To talk with me, it would a little pause. It answered: "Thee as in my mortal frame I lov'd, so loos'd forth it I love thee still, And therefore pause; but why walkest thou here?" "Not without purpose once more to return, Thou find'st me, my Casella, where I am Journeying this way;" I said, "but how of thee Hath so much time been lost?" He answer'd straight: "No outrage hath been done to me, if he Who when and whom he chooses takes, me oft This passage hath denied, since of just will His will he makes. These three months past indeed, He, whose chose to enter, with free leave Hath taken; whence I wand'ring by the shore Where Tyber's wave grows salt, of him gain'd kind Admittance, at that river's mouth, tow'rd which His wings are pointed, for there always throng All such as not to Archeron descend." Then I: "If new laws have not quite destroy'd Memory and use of that sweet song of love, That while all my cares had power to 'swage; Please thee with it a little to console My spirit, that incumber'd with its frame, Travelling so far, of pain is overcome." "Love that discourses in my thoughts." He then Began in such soft accents, that within The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide And all who came with him, so well were pleas'd, That seem'd naught else might in their thoughts have room. Fast fix'd in mute attention to his notes We stood, when lo! that old man venerable Exclaiming, "How is this, ye tardy spirits? What negligence detains you loit'ring here? Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, That from your eyes the sight of God conceal." As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food Collected, blade or tares, without their pride Accustom'd, and in still and quiet sort, If aught alarm them, suddenly desert Their meal, assail'd by more important care; So I that new-come troop beheld, the song Deserting, hasten to the mountain's side, As one who goes yet where he tends knows not. Nor with less hurried step did we depart. CANTO III Them sudden flight had scatter'd over the plain, Turn'd tow'rds the mountain, whither reason's voice Drives us; I to my faithful company Adhering, left it not. For how of him Depriv'd, might I have sped, or who beside Would o'er the mountainous tract have led my steps He with the bitter pang of self-remorse Seem'd smitten. O clear conscience and upright How doth a little fling wound thee sore! Soon as his feet desisted (slack'ning pace), From haste, that mars all decency of act, My mind, that in itself before was wrapt, Its thoughts expanded, as with joy restor'd: And full against the steep ascent I set My face, where highest to heav'n its top o'erflows. The sun, that flar'd behind, with ruddy beam Before my form was broken; for in me His rays resistance met. I turn'd aside With fear of being left, when I beheld Only before myself the ground obscur'd. When thus my solace, turning him around, Bespake me kindly: "Why distrustest thou? Believ'st not I am with thee, thy sure guide? It now is evening there, where buried lies The body, in which I cast a shade, remov'd To Naples from Brundusium's wall. Nor thou Marvel, if before me no shadow fall, More than that in the sky element One ray obstructs not other. To endure Torments of heat and cold extreme, like frames That virtue hath dispos'd, which how it works Wills not to us should be reveal'd. Insane Who hopes, our reason may that space explore, Which holds three persons in one substance knit. Seek not the wherefore, race of human kind; Could ye have seen the whole, no need had been For Mary to bring forth. Moreover ye Have seen such men desiring fruitlessly; To whose desires repose would have been giv'n, That now but serve them for eternal grief. I speak of Plato, and the Stagyrite, And others many more." And then he bent Downwards his forehead, and in troubled mood Broke off his speech. Meanwhile we had arriv'd Far as the mountain's foot, and there the rock Found of so steep ascent, that nimblest steps To climb it had been vain. The most remote Most wild untrodden path, in all the tract 'Twixt Lerice and Turbia were to this A ladder easy' and open of access. "Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?" My master said and paus'd, "so that he may Ascend, who journeys without aid of wine?" And while with looks directed to the ground The meaning of the pathway he explor'd, And I gaz'd upward round the stony height, Of spirits, that toward us mov'd their steps, Yet moving seem'd not, they so slow approach'd. I thus my guide address'd: "Upraise thine eyes, Lo that way some, of whom thou may'st obtain Counsel, if of thyself thou find'st it not!" Straightway he look'd, and with free speech replied: "Let us tend thither: they but softly come. And thou be firm in hope, my son belov'd." Now was that people distant far in space A thousand paces behind ours, as much As at a throw the nervous arm could fling, When all drew backward on the messy crags Of the steep bank, and firmly stood unmov'd As one who walks in doubt might stand to look. "O spirits perfect! O already chosen!" Virgil to them began, "by that blest peace, Which, as I deem, is for you all prepar'd, Instruct us where the mountain low declines, So that attempt to mount it be not vain. For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves." As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose To ground, and what the foremost does, that do The others, gath'ring round her, if she stops, Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern; So saw I moving to advance the first, Who of that fortunate crew were at the head, Of modest mien and graceful in their gait. When they before me had beheld the light From my right side fall broken on the ground, So that the shadow reach'd the cave, they stopp'd And somewhat back retir'd: the same did all, Who follow'd, though unweeting of the cause. "Unask'd of you, yet freely I confess, This is a human body which ye see. That the sun's light is broken on the ground, Marvel not: but believe, that not without Virtue deriv'd from Heaven, we to climb Over this wall aspire." So them bespake My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin'd; "Turn, and before you there the entrance lies," Making a signal to us with bent hands. Then of them one began. "Whoe'er thou art, Who journey'st thus this way, thy visage turn, Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen." I tow'rds him turn'd, and with fix'd eye beheld. Comely, and fair, and gentle of aspect, He seem'd, but on one brow a gash was mark'd. When humbly I disclaim'd to have beheld Him ever: "Now behold!" he said, and show'd High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake. "I am Manfredi, grandson to the Queen Costanza: whence I pray thee, when return'd, To my fair daughter go, the parent glad Of Aragonia and Sicilia's pride; And of the truth inform her, if of me Aught else be told. When by two mortal blows My frame was shatter'd, I betook myself Weeping to him, who of free will forgives. My sins were horrible; but so wide arms Hath goodness infinite, that it receives All who turn to it. Had this text divine Been of Cosenza's shepherd better scann'd, Who then by Clement on my hunt was set, Yet at the bridge's head my bones had lain, Near Benevento, by the heavy mole Protected; but the rain now drenches them, And the wind drives, out of the kingdom's bounds, Far as the stream of Verde, where, with lights Extinguish'd, he remov'd them from their bed. Yet by their curse we are not so destroy'd, But that the eternal love may turn, while hope Retains her verdant blossoms. True it is, That such one as in contumacy dies Against the holy church, though he repent, Must wander thirty-fold for all the time In his presumption past; if such decree Be not by prayers of good men shorter made Look therefore if thou canst advance my bliss; Revealing to my good Costanza, how Thou hast beheld me, and beside the terms Laid on me of that interdict; for here By means of those below much profit comes." CANTO IV When by sensations of delight or pain, That any of our faculties hath seiz'd, Entire the soul collects herself, it seems She is intent upon that power alone, And thus the error is disprov'd which holds The soul not singly lighted in the breast. And therefore when as aught is heard or seen, That firmly keeps the soul toward it turn'd, Time passes, and a man perceives it not. For that, whereby he hearken, is one power, Another that, which the whole spirit hash; This is as it were bound, while that is free. This found I true by proof, hearing that spirit And wond'ring; for full fifty steps aloft The sun had measur'd unobserv'd of me, When we arriv'd where all with one accord The spirits shouted, "Here is what ye ask." A larger aperture ofttimes is stopp'd With forked stake of thorn by villager, When the ripe grape imbrowns, than was the path, By which my guide, and I behind him close, Ascended solitary, when that troop Departing left us. On Sanleo's road Who journeys, or to Noli low descends, Or mounts Bismantua's height, must use his feet; But here a man had need to fly, I mean With the swift wing and plumes of high desire, Conducted by his aid, who gave me hope, And with light furnish'd to direct my way. We through the broken rock ascended, close Pent on each side, while underneath the ground Ask'd help of hands and feet. When we arriv'd Near on the highest ridge of the steep bank, Where the plain level open'd I exclaim'd, "O master! say which way can we proceed?" He answer'd, "Let no step of thine recede. Behind me gain the mountain, till to us Some practis'd guide appear." That eminence Was lofty that no eye might reach its point, And the side proudly rising, more than line From the mid quadrant to the centre drawn. I wearied thus began: "Parent belov'd! Turn, and behold how I remain alone, If thou stay not."--" My son!" He straight reply'd, "Thus far put forth thy strength;" and to a track Pointed, that, on this side projecting, round Circles the hill. His words so spurr'd me on, That I behind him clamb'ring, forc'd myself, Till my feet press'd the circuit plain beneath. There both together seated, turn'd we round To eastward, whence was our ascent: and oft Many beside have with delight look'd back. First on the nether shores I turn'd my eyes, Then rais'd them to the sun, and wond'ring mark'd That from the left it smote us. Soon perceiv'd That Poet sage now at the car of light Amaz'd I stood, where 'twixt us and the north Its course it enter'd. Whence he thus to me: "Were Leda's offspring now in company Of that broad mirror, that high up and low Imparts his light beneath, thou might'st behold The ruddy zodiac nearer to the bears Wheel, if its ancient course it not forsook. How that may be if thou would'st think; within Pond'ring, imagine Sion with this mount Plac'd on the earth, so that to both be one Horizon, and two hemispheres apart, Where lies the path that Phaeton ill knew To guide his erring chariot: thou wilt see How of necessity by this on one He passes, while by that on the' other side, If with clear view shine intellect attend." "Of truth, kind teacher!" I exclaim'd, "so clear Aught saw I never, as I now discern Where seem'd my ken to fail, that the mid orb Of the supernal motion (which in terms Of art is called the Equator, and remains Ever between the sun and winter) for the cause Thou hast assign'd, from hence toward the north Departs, when those who in the Hebrew land Inhabit, see it tow'rds the warmer part. But if it please thee, I would gladly know, How far we have to journey: for the hill Mounts higher, than this sight of mine can mount." He thus to me: "Such is this steep ascent, That it is ever difficult at first, But, more a man proceeds, less evil grows. When pleasant it shall seem to thee, so much That upward going shall be easy to thee. As in a vessel to go down the tide, Then of this path thou wilt have reach'd the end. There hope to rest thee from thy toil. No more I answer, and thus far for certain know." As he his words had spoken, near to us A voice there sounded: "Yet ye first perchance May to repose you by constraint be led." At sound thereof each turn'd, and on the left A huge stone we beheld, of which nor I Nor he before was ware. Thither we drew, find there were some, who in the shady place Behind the rock were standing, as a man Thru' idleness might stand. Among them one, Who seem'd to me much wearied, sat him down, And with his arms did fold his knees about, Holding his face between them downward bent. "Sweet Sir!" I cry'd, "behold that man, who shows Himself more idle, than if laziness Were sister to him." Straight he turn'd to us, And, o'er the thigh lifting his face, observ'd, Then in these accents spake: "Up then, proceed Thou valiant one." Straight who it was I knew; Nor could the pain I felt (for want of breath Still somewhat urg'd me) hinder my approach. And when I came to him, he scarce his head Uplifted, saying "Well hast thou discern'd, How from the left the sun his chariot leads." His lazy acts and broken words my lips To laughter somewhat mov'd; when I began: "Belacqua, now for thee I grieve no more. But tell, why thou art seated upright there? Waitest thou escort to conduct thee hence? Or blame I only shine accustom'd ways?" Then he: "My brother, of what use to mount, When to my suffering would not let me pass The bird of God, who at the portal sits? Behooves so long that heav'n first bear me round Without its limits, as in life it bore, Because I to the end repentant Sighs Delay'd, if prayer do not aid me first, That riseth up from heart which lives in grace. What other kind avails, not heard in heaven?"' Before me now the Poet up the mount Ascending, cried: "Haste thee, for see the sun Has touch'd the point meridian, and the night Now covers with her foot Marocco's shore." CANTO V Now had I left those spirits, and pursued The steps of my Conductor, when beheld Pointing the finger at me one exclaim'd: "See how it seems as if the light not shone From the left hand of him beneath, and he, As living, seems to be led on." Mine eyes I at that sound reverting, saw them gaze Through wonder first at me, and then at me And the light broken underneath, by turns. "Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?" my guide Exclaim'd, "that thou hast slack'd thy pace? or how Imports it thee, what thing is whisper'd here? Come after me, and to their babblings leave The crowd. Be as a tower, that, firmly set, Shakes not its top for any blast that blows! He, in whose bosom thought on thought shoots out, Still of his aim is wide, in that the one Sicklies and wastes to nought the other's strength." What other could I answer save "I come?" I said it, somewhat with that colour ting'd Which ofttimes pardon meriteth for man. Meanwhile traverse along the hill there came, A little way before us, some who sang The "Miserere" in responsive Strains. When they perceiv'd that through my body I Gave way not for the rays to pass, their song Straight to a long and hoarse exclaim they chang'd; And two of them, in guise of messengers, Ran on to meet us, and inquiring ask'd: "Of your condition we would gladly learn." To them my guide. "Ye may return, and bear Tidings to them who sent you, that his frame Is real flesh. If, as I deem, to view His shade they paus'd, enough is answer'd them. Him let them honour, they may prize him well." Ne'er saw I fiery vapours with such speed Cut through the serene air at fall of night, Nor August's clouds athwart the setting sun, That upward these did not in shorter space Return; and, there arriving, with the rest Wheel back on us, as with loose rein a troop. "Many," exclaim'd the bard, "are these, who throng Around us: to petition thee they come. Go therefore on, and listen as thou go'st." "O spirit! who go'st on to blessedness With the same limbs, that clad thee at thy birth." Shouting they came, "a little rest thy step. Look if thou any one amongst our tribe Hast e'er beheld, that tidings of him there Thou mayst report. Ah, wherefore go'st thou on? Ah wherefore tarriest thou not? We all By violence died, and to our latest hour Were sinners, but then warn'd by light from heav'n, So that, repenting and forgiving, we Did issue out of life at peace with God, Who with desire to see him fills our heart." Then I: "The visages of all I scan Yet none of ye remember. But if aught, That I can do, may please you, gentle spirits! Speak; and I will perform it, by that peace, Which on the steps of guide so excellent Following from world to world intent I seek." In answer he began: "None here distrusts Thy kindness, though not promis'd with an oath; So as the will fail not for want of power. Whence I, who sole before the others speak, Entreat thee, if thou ever see that land, Which lies between Romagna and the realm Of Charles, that of thy courtesy thou pray Those who inhabit Fano, that for me Their adorations duly be put up, By which I may purge off my grievous sins. From thence I came. But the deep passages, Whence issued out the blood wherein I dwelt, Upon my bosom in Antenor's land Were made, where to be more secure I thought. The author of the deed was Este's prince, Who, more than right could warrant, with his wrath Pursued me. Had I towards Mira fled, When overta'en at Oriaco, still Might I have breath'd. But to the marsh I sped, And in the mire and rushes tangled there Fell, and beheld my life-blood float the plain." Then said another: "Ah! so may the wish, That takes thee o'er the mountain, be fulfill'd, As thou shalt graciously give aid to mine. Of Montefeltro I; Buonconte I: Giovanna nor none else have care for me, Sorrowing with these I therefore go." I thus: "From Campaldino's field what force or chance Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?" "Oh!" answer'd he, "at Casentino's foot A stream there courseth, nam'd Archiano, sprung In Apennine above the Hermit's seat. E'en where its name is cancel'd, there came I, Pierc'd in the heart, fleeing away on foot, And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech Fail'd me, and finishing with Mary's name I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain'd. I will report the truth; which thou again Tell to the living. Me God's angel took, Whilst he of hell exclaim'd: "O thou from heav'n! Say wherefore hast thou robb'd me? Thou of him Th' eternal portion bear'st with thee away For one poor tear that he deprives me of. But of the other, other rule I make." "Thou knowest how in the atmosphere collects That vapour dank, returning into water, Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it. That evil will, which in his intellect Still follows evil, came, and rais'd the wind And smoky mist, by virtue of the power Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon As day was spent, he cover'd o'er with cloud From Pratomagno to the mountain range, And stretch'd the sky above, so that the air Impregnate chang'd to water. Fell the rain, And to the fosses came all that the land Contain'd not; and, as mightiest streams are wont, To the great river with such headlong sweep Rush'd, that nought stay'd its course. My stiffen'd frame Laid at his mouth the fell Archiano found, And dash'd it into Arno, from my breast Loos'ning the cross, that of myself I made When overcome with pain. He hurl'd me on, Along the banks and bottom of his course; Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt." "Ah! when thou to the world shalt be return'd, And rested after thy long road," so spake Next the third spirit; "then remember me. I once was Pia. Sienna gave me life, Maremma took it from me. That he knows, Who me with jewell'd ring had first espous'd." CANTO VI When from their game of dice men separate, He, who hath lost, remains in sadness fix'd, Revolving in his mind, what luckless throws He cast: but meanwhile all the company Go with the other; one before him runs, And one behind his mantle twitches, one Fast by his side bids him remember him. He stops not; and each one, to whom his hand Is stretch'd, well knows he bids him stand aside; And thus he from the press defends himself. E'en such was I in that close-crowding throng; And turning so my face around to all, And promising, I 'scap'd from it with pains. Here of Arezzo him I saw, who fell By Ghino's cruel arm; and him beside, Who in his chase was swallow'd by the stream. Here Frederic Novello, with his hand Stretch'd forth, entreated; and of Pisa he, Who put the good Marzuco to such proof Of constancy. Count Orso I beheld; And from its frame a soul dismiss'd for spite And envy, as it said, but for no crime: I speak of Peter de la Brosse; and here, While she yet lives, that Lady of Brabant Let her beware; lest for so false a deed She herd with worse than these. When I was freed From all those spirits, who pray'd for others' prayers To hasten on their state of blessedness; Straight I began: "O thou, my luminary! It seems expressly in thy text denied, That heaven's supreme decree can never bend To supplication; yet with this design Do these entreat. Can then their hope be vain, Or is thy saying not to me reveal'd?" He thus to me: "Both what I write is plain, And these deceiv'd not in their hope, if well Thy mind consider, that the sacred height Of judgment doth not stoop, because love's flame In a short moment all fulfils, which he Who sojourns here, in right should satisfy. Besides, when I this point concluded thus, By praying no defect could be supplied; Because the pray'r had none access to God. Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not Contented unless she assure thee so, Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light. I know not if thou take me right; I mean Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above, Upon this mountain's crown, fair seat of joy." Then I: "Sir! let us mend our speed; for now I tire not as before; and lo! the hill Stretches its shadow far." He answer'd thus: "Our progress with this day shall be as much As we may now dispatch; but otherwise Than thou supposest is the truth. For there Thou canst not be, ere thou once more behold Him back returning, who behind the steep Is now so hidden, that as erst his beam Thou dost not break. But lo! a spirit there Stands solitary, and toward us looks: It will instruct us in the speediest way." We soon approach'd it. O thou Lombard spirit! How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood, Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes! It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass, Eyeing us as a lion on his watch. But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc'd, Requesting it to show the best ascent. It answer to his question none return'd, But of our country and our kind of life Demanded. When my courteous guide began, "Mantua," the solitary shadow quick Rose towards us from the place in which it stood, And cry'd, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman Sordello." Each the other then embrac'd. Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief, Vessel without a pilot in loud storm, Lady no longer of fair provinces, But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit, Ev'n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones In thee abide not without war; and one Malicious gnaws another, ay of those Whom the same wall and the same moat contains, Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide; Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark If any part of the sweet peace enjoy. What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress'd? Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame. Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live, And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit, If well thou marked'st that which God commands. Look how that beast to felness hath relaps'd From having lost correction of the spur, Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand, O German Albert! who abandon'st her, That is grown savage and unmanageable, When thou should'st clasp her flanks with forked heels. Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood! And be it strange and manifest to all! Such as may strike thy successor with dread! For that thy sire and thou have suffer'd thus, Through greediness of yonder realms detain'd, The garden of the empire to run waste. Come see the Capulets and Montagues, The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man Who car'st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these With dire suspicion rack'd. Come, cruel one! Come and behold the' oppression of the nobles, And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see. What safety Santafiore can supply. Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee, Desolate widow! day and night with moans: "My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?" Come and behold what love among thy people: And if no pity touches thee for us, Come and blush for thine own report. For me, If it be lawful, O Almighty Power, Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified! Are thy just eyes turn'd elsewhere? or is this A preparation in the wond'rous depth Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end, Entirely from our reach of thought cut off? So are the' Italian cities all o'erthrong'd With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made Of every petty factious villager. My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov'd At this digression, which affects not thee: Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. Many have justice in their heart, that long Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow, Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine Have it on their lip's edge. Many refuse To bear the common burdens: readier thine Answer uneall'd, and cry, "Behold I stoop!" Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now, Thou wealthy! thou at peace! thou wisdom-fraught! Facts best witness if I speak the truth. Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old Enacted laws, for civil arts renown'd, Made little progress in improving life Tow'rds thee, who usest such nice subtlety, That to the middle of November scarce Reaches the thread thou in October weav'st. How many times, within thy memory, Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices Have been by thee renew'd, and people chang'd! If thou remember'st well and can'st see clear, Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch, Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain. CANTO VII After their courteous greetings joyfully Sev'n times exchang'd, Sordello backward drew Exclaiming, "Who are ye?" "Before this mount By spirits worthy of ascent to God Was sought, my bones had by Octavius' care Been buried. I am Virgil, for no sin Depriv'd of heav'n, except for lack of faith." So answer'd him in few my gentle guide. As one, who aught before him suddenly Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries "It is yet is not," wav'ring in belief; Such he appear'd; then downward bent his eyes, And drawing near with reverential step, Caught him, where of mean estate might clasp His lord. "Glory of Latium!" he exclaim'd, "In whom our tongue its utmost power display'd! Boast of my honor'd birth-place! what desert Of mine, what favour rather undeserv'd, Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice Am worthy, say if from below thou com'st And from what cloister's pale?"--"Through every orb Of that sad region," he reply'd, "thus far Am I arriv'd, by heav'nly influence led And with such aid I come. There is a place There underneath, not made by torments sad, But by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs. "There I with little innocents abide, Who by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt From human taint. There I with those abide, Who the three holy virtues put not on, But understood the rest, and without blame Follow'd them all. But if thou know'st and canst, Direct us, how we soonest may arrive, Where Purgatory its true beginning takes." He answer'd thus: "We have no certain place Assign'd us: upwards I may go or round, Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide. But thou beholdest now how day declines: And upwards to proceed by night, our power Excels: therefore it may be well to choose A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right Some spirits sit apart retir'd. If thou Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps: And thou wilt know them, not without delight." "How chances this?" was answer'd; "who so wish'd To ascend by night, would he be thence debarr'd By other, or through his own weakness fail?" The good Sordello then, along the ground Trailing his finger, spoke: "Only this line Thou shalt not overpass, soon as the sun Hath disappear'd; not that aught else impedes Thy going upwards, save the shades of night. These with the wont of power perplex the will. With them thou haply mightst return beneath, Or to and fro around the mountain's side Wander, while day is in the horizon shut." My master straight, as wond'ring at his speech, Exclaim'd: "Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst, That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight." A little space we were remov'd from thence, When I perceiv'd the mountain hollow'd out. Ev'n as large valleys hollow'd out on earth, "That way," the' escorting spirit cried, "we go, Where in a bosom the high bank recedes: And thou await renewal of the day." Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked path Led us traverse into the ridge's side, Where more than half the sloping edge expires. Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin'd, And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers Plac'd in that fair recess, in color all Had been surpass'd, as great surpasses less. Nor nature only there lavish'd her hues, But of the sweetness of a thousand smells A rare and undistinguish'd fragrance made. "Salve Regina," on the grass and flowers Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit Who not beyond the valley could be seen. "Before the west'ring sun sink to his bed," Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn'd, "'Mid those desires not that I lead ye on. For from this eminence ye shall discern Better the acts and visages of all, Than in the nether vale among them mix'd. He, who sits high above the rest, and seems To have neglected that he should have done, And to the others' song moves not his lip, The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal'd The wounds whereof fair Italy hath died, So that by others she revives but slowly, He, who with kindly visage comforts him, Sway'd in that country, where the water springs, That Moldaw's river to the Elbe, and Elbe Rolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name: Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worth Than Winceslaus his son, a bearded man, Pamper'd with rank luxuriousness and ease. And that one with the nose depress, who close In counsel seems with him of gentle look, Flying expir'd, with'ring the lily's flower. Look there how he doth knock against his breast! The other ye behold, who for his cheek Makes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs. They are the father and the father-in-law Of Gallia's bane: his vicious life they know And foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus. "He, so robust of limb, who measure keeps In song, with him of feature prominent, With ev'ry virtue bore his girdle brac'd. And if that stripling who behinds him sits, King after him had liv'd, his virtue then From vessel to like vessel had been pour'd; Which may not of the other heirs be said. By James and Frederick his realms are held; Neither the better heritage obtains. Rarely into the branches of the tree Doth human worth mount up; and so ordains He who bestows it, that as his free gift It may be call'd. To Charles my words apply No less than to his brother in the song; Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess. So much that plant degenerates from its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza still boasts of her valorous spouse. "Behold the king of simple life and plain, Harry of England, sitting there alone: He through his branches better issue spreads. "That one, who on the ground beneath the rest Sits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft, Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose cause The deed of Alexandria and his war Makes Conferrat and Canavese weep." CANTO VIII Now was the hour that wakens fond desire In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart, Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, And pilgrim newly on his road with love Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far, That seems to mourn for the expiring day: When I, no longer taking heed to hear Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark One risen from its seat, which with its hand Audience implor'd. Both palms it join'd and rais'd, Fixing its steadfast gaze towards the east, As telling God, "I care for naught beside." "Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, That all my sense in ravishment was lost. And the rest after, softly and devout, Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze Directed to the bright supernal wheels. Here, reader! for the truth makes thine eyes keen: For of so subtle texture is this veil, That thou with ease mayst pass it through unmark'd. I saw that gentle band silently next Look up, as if in expectation held, Pale and in lowly guise; and from on high I saw forth issuing descend beneath Two angels with two flame-illumin'd swords, Broken and mutilated at their points. Green as the tender leaves but newly born, Their vesture was, the which by wings as green Beaten, they drew behind them, fann'd in air. A little over us one took his stand, The other lighted on the' Opposing hill, So that the troop were in the midst contain'd. Well I descried the whiteness on their heads; But in their visages the dazzled eye Was lost, as faculty that by too much Is overpower'd. "From Mary's bosom both Are come," exclaim'd Sordello, "as a guard Over the vale, ganst him, who hither tends, The serpent." Whence, not knowing by which path He came, I turn'd me round, and closely press'd, All frozen, to my leader's trusted side. Sordello paus'd not: "To the valley now (For it is time) let us descend; and hold Converse with those great shadows: haply much Their sight may please ye." Only three steps down Methinks I measur'd, ere I was beneath, And noted one who look'd as with desire To know me. Time was now that air arrow dim; Yet not so dim, that 'twixt his eyes and mine It clear'd not up what was conceal'd before. Mutually tow'rds each other we advanc'd. Nino, thou courteous judge! what joy I felt, When I perceiv'd thou wert not with the bad! No salutation kind on either part Was left unsaid. He then inquir'd: "How long Since thou arrived'st at the mountain's foot, Over the distant waves?"--"O!" answer'd I, "Through the sad seats of woe this morn I came, And still in my first life, thus journeying on, The other strive to gain." Soon as they heard My words, he and Sordello backward drew, As suddenly amaz'd. To Virgil one, The other to a spirit turn'd, who near Was seated, crying: "Conrad! up with speed: Come, see what of his grace high God hath will'd." Then turning round to me: "By that rare mark Of honour which thou ow'st to him, who hides So deeply his first cause, it hath no ford, When thou shalt be beyond the vast of waves. Tell my Giovanna, that for me she call There, where reply to innocence is made. Her mother, I believe, loves me no more; Since she has chang'd the white and wimpled folds, Which she is doom'd once more with grief to wish. By her it easily may be perceiv'd, How long in women lasts the flame of love, If sight and touch do not relume it oft. For her so fair a burial will not make The viper which calls Milan to the field, As had been made by shrill Gallura's bird." He spoke, and in his visage took the stamp Of that right seal, which with due temperature Glows in the bosom. My insatiate eyes Meanwhile to heav'n had travel'd, even there Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel Nearest the axle; when my guide inquir'd: "What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?" I answer'd: "The three torches, with which here The pole is all on fire." He then to me: "The four resplendent stars, thou saw'st this morn Are there beneath, and these ris'n in their stead." While yet he spoke. Sordello to himself Drew him, and cry'd: "Lo there our enemy!" And with his hand pointed that way to look. Along the side, where barrier none arose Around the little vale, a serpent lay, Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food. Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake Came on, reverting oft his lifted head; And, as a beast that smoothes its polish'd coat, Licking his hack. I saw not, nor can tell, How those celestial falcons from their seat Mov'd, but in motion each one well descried, Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes. The serpent fled; and to their stations back The angels up return'd with equal flight. The Spirit (who to Nino, when he call'd, Had come), from viewing me with fixed ken, Through all that conflict, loosen'd not his sight. "So may the lamp, which leads thee up on high, Find, in thy destin'd lot, of wax so much, As may suffice thee to the enamel's height." It thus began: "If any certain news Of Valdimagra and the neighbour part Thou know'st, tell me, who once was mighty there They call'd me Conrad Malaspina, not That old one, but from him I sprang. The love I bore my people is now here refin'd." "In your dominions," I answer'd, "ne'er was I. But through all Europe where do those men dwell, To whom their glory is not manifest? The fame, that honours your illustrious house, Proclaims the nobles and proclaims the land; So that he knows it who was never there. I swear to you, so may my upward route Prosper! your honour'd nation not impairs The value of her coffer and her sword. Nature and use give her such privilege, That while the world is twisted from his course By a bad head, she only walks aright, And has the evil way in scorn." He then: "Now pass thee on: sev'n times the tired sun Revisits not the couch, which with four feet The forked Aries covers, ere that kind Opinion shall be nail'd into thy brain With stronger nails than other's speech can drive, If the sure course of judgment be not stay'd." CANTO IX Now the fair consort of Tithonus old, Arisen from her mate's beloved arms, Look'd palely o'er the eastern cliff: her brow, Lucent with jewels, glitter'd, set in sign Of that chill animal, who with his train Smites fearful nations: and where then we were, Two steps of her ascent the night had past, And now the third was closing up its wing, When I, who had so much of Adam with me, Sank down upon the grass, o'ercome with sleep, There where all five were seated. In that hour, When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay, Rememb'ring haply ancient grief, renews, And with our minds more wand'rers from the flesh, And less by thought restrain'd are, as 't were, full Of holy divination in their dreams, Then in a vision did I seem to view A golden-feather'd eagle in the sky, With open wings, and hov'ring for descent, And I was in that place, methought, from whence Young Ganymede, from his associates 'reft, Was snatch'd aloft to the high consistory. "Perhaps," thought I within me, "here alone He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains To pounce upon the prey." Therewith, it seem'd, A little wheeling in his airy tour Terrible as the lightning rush'd he down, And snatch'd me upward even to the fire. There both, I thought, the eagle and myself Did burn; and so intense th' imagin'd flames, That needs my sleep was broken off. As erst Achilles shook himself, and round him roll'd His waken'd eyeballs wond'ring where he was, Whenas his mother had from Chiron fled To Scyros, with him sleeping in her arms; E'en thus I shook me, soon as from my face The slumber parted, turning deadly pale, Like one ice-struck with dread. Solo at my side My comfort stood: and the bright sun was now More than two hours aloft: and to the sea My looks were turn'd. "Fear not," my master cried, "Assur'd we are at happy point. Thy strength Shrink not, but rise dilated. Thou art come To Purgatory now. Lo! there the cliff That circling bounds it! Lo! the entrance there, Where it doth seem disparted! re the dawn Usher'd the daylight, when thy wearied soul Slept in thee, o'er the flowery vale beneath A lady came, and thus bespake me: "I Am Lucia. Suffer me to take this man, Who slumbers. Easier so his way shall speed." Sordello and the other gentle shapes Tarrying, she bare thee up: and, as day shone, This summit reach'd: and I pursued her steps. Here did she place thee. First her lovely eyes That open entrance show'd me; then at once She vanish'd with thy sleep. Like one, whose doubts Are chas'd by certainty, and terror turn'd To comfort on discovery of the truth, Such was the change in me: and as my guide Beheld me fearless, up along the cliff He mov'd, and I behind him, towards the height. Reader! thou markest how my theme doth rise, Nor wonder therefore, if more artfully I prop the structure! nearer now we drew, Arriv'd' whence in that part, where first a breach As of a wall appear'd, I could descry A portal, and three steps beneath, that led For inlet there, of different colour each, And one who watch'd, but spake not yet a word. As more and more mine eye did stretch its view, I mark'd him seated on the highest step, In visage such, as past my power to bear. Grasp'd in his hand a naked sword, glanc'd back The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain My sight directed. "Speak from whence ye stand:" He cried: "What would ye? Where is your escort? Take heed your coming upward harm ye not." "A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things," Replied the' instructor, "told us, even now, "Pass that way: here the gate is." --"And may she Befriending prosper your ascent," resum'd The courteous keeper of the gate: "Come then Before our steps." We straightway thither came. The lowest stair was marble white so smooth And polish'd, that therein my mirror'd form Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block, Crack'd lengthwise and across. The third, that lay Massy above, seem'd porphyry, that flam'd Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein. On this God's angel either foot sustain'd, Upon the threshold seated, which appear'd A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps My leader cheerily drew me. "Ask," said he, "With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt." Piously at his holy feet devolv'd I cast me, praying him for pity's sake That he would open to me: but first fell Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times The letter, that denotes the inward stain, He on my forehead with the blunted point Of his drawn sword inscrib'd. And "Look," he cried, "When enter'd, that thou wash these scars away." Ashes, or earth ta'en dry out of the ground, Were of one colour with the robe he wore. From underneath that vestment forth he drew Two keys of metal twain: the one was gold, Its fellow silver. With the pallid first, And next the burnish'd, he so ply'd the gate, As to content me well. "Whenever one Faileth of these, that in the keyhole straight It turn not, to this alley then expect Access in vain." Such were the words he spake. "One is more precious: but the other needs Skill and sagacity, large share of each, Ere its good task to disengage the knot Be worthily perform'd. From Peter these I hold, of him instructed, that I err Rather in opening than in keeping fast; So but the suppliant at my feet implore." Then of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door, Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear: He forth again departs who looks behind." As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels turn'd, sonorous metal strong, Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily Roar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss To leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd, List'ning the thunder, that first issued forth; And "We praise thee, O God," methought I heard In accents blended with sweet melody. The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear, Come swelling, now float indistinct away. CANTO X When we had passed the threshold of the gate (Which the soul's ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path), I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn'd, For that offence what plea might have avail'd? We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. "Here some little art Behooves us," said my leader, "that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path." Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb The moon once more o'erhangs her wat'ry couch, Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free We came and open, where the mount above One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil, And both, uncertain of the way, we stood, Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink Borders upon vacuity, to foot Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space Had measur'd thrice the stature of a man: And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight, To leftward now and now to right dispatch'd, That cornice equal in extent appear'd. Not yet our feet had on that summit mov'd, When I discover'd that the bank around, Whose proud uprising all ascent denied, Was marble white, and so exactly wrought With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone Had Polycletus, but e'en nature's self Been sham'd. The angel who came down to earth With tidings of the peace so many years Wept for in vain, that op'd the heavenly gates From their long interdict, before us seem'd, In a sweet act, so sculptur'd to the life, He look'd no silent image. One had sworn He had said, "Hail!" for she was imag'd there, By whom the key did open to God's love, And in her act as sensibly impress That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord," As figure seal'd on wax. "Fix not thy mind On one place only," said the guide belov'd, Who had me near him on that part where lies The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn'd And mark'd, behind the virgin mother's form, Upon that side, where he, that mov'd me, stood, Another story graven on the rock. I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near, That it might stand more aptly for my view. There in the self-same marble were engrav'd The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark, That from unbidden office awes mankind. Before it came much people; and the whole Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, "Nay," Another, "Yes, they sing." Like doubt arose Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl'd fume Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil. Preceding the blest vessel, onward came With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, Sweet Israel's harper: in that hap he seem'd Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite, At a great palace, from the lattice forth Look'd Michol, like a lady full of scorn And sorrow. To behold the tablet next, Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone, I mov'd me. There was storied on the rock The' exalted glory of the Roman prince, Whose mighty worth mov'd Gregory to earn His mighty conquest, Trajan th' Emperor. A widow at his bridle stood, attir'd In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd Full throng of knights, and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind. The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: "Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart My son is murder'd." He replying seem'd; "Wait now till I return." And she, as one Made hasty by her grief; "O sire, if thou Dost not return?"--"Where I am, who then is, May right thee."--"What to thee is other's good, If thou neglect thy own?"--"Now comfort thee," At length he answers. "It beseemeth well My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence: So justice wills; and pity bids me stay." He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc'd That visible speaking, new to us and strange The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz'd Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake, When "Lo," the poet whisper'd, "where this way (But slack their pace), a multitude advance. These to the lofty steps shall guide us on." Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights Their lov'd allurement, were not slow to turn. Reader! would not that amaz'd thou miss Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God Decrees our debts be cancel'd. Ponder not The form of suff'ring. Think on what succeeds, Think that at worst beyond the mighty doom It cannot pass. "Instructor," I began, "What I see hither tending, bears no trace Of human semblance, nor of aught beside That my foil'd sight can guess." He answering thus: "So courb'd to earth, beneath their heavy teems Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first Struggled as thine. But look intently thither, An disentangle with thy lab'ring view, What underneath those stones approacheth: now, E'en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each." Christians and proud! poor and wretched ones! That feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust Upon unstaid perverseness! now ye not That we are worms, yet made at last to form The winged insect, imp'd with angel plumes That to heaven's justice unobstructed soars? Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg'd souls? Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, Like the untimely embryon of a worm! As, to support incumbent floor or roof, For corbel is a figure sometimes seen, That crumples up its knees unto its breast, With the feign'd posture stirring ruth unfeign'd In the beholder's fancy; so I saw These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise. Each, as his back was laden, came indeed Or more or less contract; but it appear'd As he, who show'd most patience in his look, Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more." CANTO XI "O thou Almighty Father, who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd, But that with love intenser there thou view'st Thy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name: Join each created being to extol Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving thither tend in vain. As of their will the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count. 'Gainst the old adversary prove thou not Our virtue easily subdu'd; but free From his incitements and defeat his wiles. This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves, since that were needless now, But for their sakes who after us remain." Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring, Those spirits went beneath a weight like that We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset, But with unequal anguish, wearied all, Round the first circuit, purging as they go, The world's gross darkness off: In our behalf If there vows still be offer'd, what can here For them be vow'd and done by such, whose wills Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems That we should help them wash away the stains They carried hence, that so made pure and light, They may spring upward to the starry spheres. "Ah! so may mercy-temper'd justice rid Your burdens speedily, that ye have power To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand Toward the ladder leads the shortest way. And if there be more passages than one, Instruct us of that easiest to ascend; For this man who comes with me, and bears yet The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him, Despite his better will but slowly mounts." From whom the answer came unto these words, Which my guide spake, appear'd not; but 'twas said: "Along the bank to rightward come with us, And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil Of living man to climb: and were it not That I am hinder'd by the rock, wherewith This arrogant neck is tam'd, whence needs I stoop My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives, Whose name thou speak'st not him I fain would view. To mark if e'er I knew himnd to crave His pity for the fardel that I bear. I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn A mighty one: Aldobranlesco's name My sire's, I know not if ye e'er have heard. My old blood and forefathers' gallant deeds Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot The common mother, and to such excess, Wax'd in my scorn of all men, that I fell, Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna's sons, Each child in Campagnatico, can tell. I am Omberto; not me only pride Hath injur'd, but my kindred all involv'd In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains Under this weight to groan, till I appease God's angry justice, since I did it not Amongst the living, here amongst the dead." List'ning I bent my visage down: and one (Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight That urg'd him, saw me, knew me straight, and call'd, Holding his eyes With difficulty fix'd Intent upon me, stooping as I went Companion of their way. "O!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer's skill?" "Brother!" said he, "with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves. His all the honour now; mine borrow'd light. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv'd, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid. Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn'd me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp'd E'en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! imbue thought To lord it over painting's field; and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclips'd. Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch'd The letter'd prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel'd from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar'd, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven's slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam'd: There was he sov'reign, when destruction caught The madd'ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth." I thus to him: "True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay What tumours rankle there. But who is he Of whom thou spak'st but now?"--"This," he replied, "Is Provenzano. He is here, because He reach'd, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone, Thus goeth never-resting, since he died. Such is th' acquittance render'd back of him, Who, beyond measure, dar'd on earth." I then: "If soul that to the verge of life delays Repentance, linger in that lower space, Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend, How chanc'd admittance was vouchsaf'd to him?" "When at his glory's topmost height," said he, "Respect of dignity all cast aside, Freely He fix'd him on Sienna's plain, A suitor to redeem his suff'ring friend, Who languish'd in the prison-house of Charles, Nor for his sake refus'd through every vein To tremble. More I will not say; and dark, I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon Shall help thee to a comment on the text. This is the work, that from these limits freed him." CANTO XII With equal pace as oxen in the yoke, I with that laden spirit journey'd on Long as the mild instructor suffer'd me; But when he bade me quit him, and proceed (For "here," said he, "behooves with sail and oars Each man, as best he may, push on his bark"), Upright, as one dispos'd for speed, I rais'd My body, still in thought submissive bow'd. I now my leader's track not loth pursued; And each had shown how light we far'd along When thus he warn'd me: "Bend thine eyesight down: For thou to ease the way shall find it good To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet." As in memorial of the buried, drawn Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur'd form Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak'd, Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel), So saw I there, but with more curious skill Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space From forth the mountain stretches. On one part Him I beheld, above all creatures erst Created noblest, light'ning fall from heaven: On th' other side with bolt celestial pierc'd Briareus: cumb'ring earth he lay through dint Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire, Arm'd still, and gazing on the giant's limbs Strewn o'er th' ethereal field. Nimrod I saw: At foot of the stupendous work he stood, As if bewilder'd, looking on the crowd Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain. O Niobe! in what a trance of woe Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, Sev'n sons on either side thee slain! Saul! How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour Ne'er visited with rain from heav'n or dew! O fond Arachne! thee I also saw Half spider now in anguish crawling up Th' unfinish'd web thou weaved'st to thy bane! O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote With none to chase him in his chariot whirl'd. Was shown beside upon the solid floor How dear Alcmaeon forc'd his mother rate That ornament in evil hour receiv'd: How in the temple on Sennacherib fell His sons, and how a corpse they left him there. Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried: "Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!" Was shown how routed in the battle fled Th' Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark'd In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall'n, How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there! What master of the pencil or the style Had trac'd the shades and lines, that might have made The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead, The living seem'd alive; with clearer view His eye beheld not who beheld the truth, Than mine what I did tread on, while I went Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks, Lest they descry the evil of your path! I noted not (so busied was my thought) How much we now had circled of the mount, And of his course yet more the sun had spent, When he, who with still wakeful caution went, Admonish'd: "Raise thou up thy head: for know Time is not now for slow suspense. Behold That way an angel hasting towards us! Lo! Where duly the sixth handmaid doth return From service on the day. Wear thou in look And gesture seemly grace of reverent awe, That gladly he may forward us aloft. Consider that this day ne'er dawns again." Time's loss he had so often warn'd me 'gainst, I could not miss the scope at which he aim'd. The goodly shape approach'd us, snowy white In vesture, and with visage casting streams Of tremulous lustre like the matin star. His arms he open'd, then his wings; and spake: "Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now Th' ascent is without difficulty gain'd." A scanty few are they, who when they hear Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind So slight to baffle ye? He led us on Where the rock parted; here against my front Did beat his wings, then promis'd I should fare In safety on my way. As to ascend That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands (O'er Rubaconte, looking lordly down On the well-guided city,) up the right Th' impetuous rise is broken by the steps Carv'd in that old and simple age, when still The registry and label rested safe; Thus is th' acclivity reliev'd, which here Precipitous from the other circuit falls: But on each hand the tall cliff presses close. As ent'ring there we turn'd, voices, in strain Ineffable, sang: "Blessed are the poor In spirit." Ah how far unlike to these The straits of hell; here songs to usher us, There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs: And lighter to myself by far I seem'd Than on the plain before, whence thus I spake: "Say, master, of what heavy thing have I Been lighten'd, that scarce aught the sense of toil Affects me journeying?" He in few replied: "When sin's broad characters, that yet remain Upon thy temples, though well nigh effac'd, Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out, Then shall thy feet by heartiness of will Be so o'ercome, they not alone shall feel No sense of labour, but delight much more Shall wait them urg'd along their upward way." Then like to one, upon whose head is plac'd Somewhat he deems not of but from the becks Of others as they pass him by; his hand Lends therefore help to' assure him, searches, finds, And well performs such office as the eye Wants power to execute: so stretching forth The fingers of my right hand, did I find Six only of the letters, which his sword Who bare the keys had trac'd upon my brow. The leader, as he mark'd mine action, smil'd. CANTO XIII We reach'd the summit of the scale, and stood Upon the second buttress of that mount Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there, Like to the former, girdles round the hill; Save that its arch with sweep less ample bends. Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth The rampart and the path, reflecting nought But the rock's sullen hue. "If here we wait For some to question," said the bard, "I fear Our choice may haply meet too long delay." Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes He fastn'd, made his right the central point From whence to move, and turn'd the left aside. "O pleasant light, my confidence and hope, Conduct us thou," he cried, "on this new way, Where now I venture, leading to the bourn We seek. The universal world to thee Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide." Far, as is measur'd for a mile on earth, In brief space had we journey'd; such prompt will Impell'd; and towards us flying, now were heard Spirits invisible, who courteously Unto love's table bade the welcome guest. The voice, that firstlew by, call'd forth aloud, "They have no wine;" so on behind us past, Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost In the faint distance, when another came Crying, "I am Orestes," and alike Wing'd its fleet way. "Oh father!" I exclaim'd, "What tongues are these?" and as I question'd, lo! A third exclaiming, "Love ye those have wrong'd you." "This circuit," said my teacher, "knots the scourge For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn By charity's correcting hand. The curb Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear (If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass, Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes Intently through the air, and thou shalt see A multitude before thee seated, each Along the shelving grot." Then more than erst I op'd my eyes, before me view'd, and saw Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; And when we pass'd a little forth, I heard A crying, "Blessed Mary! pray for us, Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!" I do not think there walks on earth this day Man so remorseless, that he hath not yearn'd With pity at the sight that next I saw. Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now I stood so near them, that their semblances Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile Their cov'ring seem'd; and on his shoulder one Did stay another, leaning, and all lean'd Against the cliff. E'en thus the blind and poor, Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, Stand, each his head upon his fellow's sunk, So most to stir compassion, not by sound Of words alone, but that, which moves not less, The sight of mis'ry. And as never beam Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, E'en so was heav'n a niggard unto these Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all, A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, As for the taming of a haggard hawk. It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look On others, yet myself the while unseen. To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, Nor waited for my questioning, but said: "Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words." On that part of the cornice, whence no rim Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; On the' other side me were the spirits, their cheeks Bathing devout with penitential tears, That through the dread impalement forc'd a way. I turn'd me to them, and "O shades!" said I, "Assur'd that to your eyes unveil'd shall shine The lofty light, sole object of your wish, So may heaven's grace clear whatsoe'er of foam Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth The stream of mind roll limpid from its source, As ye declare (for so shall ye impart A boon I dearly prize) if any soul Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance That soul may profit, if I learn so much." "My brother, we are each one citizens Of one true city. Any thou wouldst say, Who lived a stranger in Italia's land." So heard I answering, as appeal'd, a voice That onward came some space from whence I stood. A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark'd Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was rais'd As in one reft of sight. "Spirit," said I, "Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be That which didst answer to me,) or by place Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee." "I was," it answer'd, "of Sienna: here I cleanse away with these the evil life, Soliciting with tears that He, who is, Vouchsafe him to us. Though Sapia nam'd In sapience I excell'd not, gladder far Of others' hurt, than of the good befell me. That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. When now my years slop'd waning down the arch, It so bechanc'd, my fellow citizens Near Colle met their enemies in the field, And I pray'd God to grant what He had will'd. There were they vanquish'd, and betook themselves Unto the bitter passages of flight. I mark'd the hunt, and waxing out of bounds In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, And like the merlin cheated by a gleam, Cried, "It is over. Heav'n! fear thee not." Upon my verge of life I wish'd for peace With God; nor repentance had supplied What I did lack of duty, were it not The hermit Piero, touch'd with charity, In his devout orisons thought on me. "But who art thou that question'st of our state, Who go'st to my belief, with lids unclos'd, And breathest in thy talk?"--"Mine eyes," said I, "May yet be here ta'en from me; but not long; For they have not offended grievously With envious glances. But the woe beneath Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. That nether load already weighs me down." She thus: "Who then amongst us here aloft Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?" "He," answer'd I, "who standeth mute beside me. I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit, If thou desire I yonder yet should move For thee my mortal feet."--"Oh!" she replied, "This is so strange a thing, it is great sign That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer Sometime assist me: and by that I crave, Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet E'er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold With that vain multitude, who set their hope On Telamone's haven, there to fail Confounded, more shall when the fancied stream They sought of Dian call'd: but they who lead Their navies, more than ruin'd hopes shall mourn." CANTO XIV "Say who is he around our mountain winds, Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight, That opes his eyes and covers them at will?" "I know not who he is, but know thus much He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him, For thou art nearer to him, and take heed Accost him gently, so that he may speak." Thus on the right two Spirits bending each Toward the other, talk'd of me, then both Addressing me, their faces backward lean'd, And thus the one began: "O soul, who yet Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky! For charity, we pray thee' comfort us, Recounting whence thou com'st, and who thou art: For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been." "There stretches through the midst of Tuscany," I straight began: "a brooklet, whose well-head Springs up in Falterona, with his race Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles Hath measur'd. From his banks bring, I this frame. To tell you who I am were words misspent: For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip." "If well I do incorp'rate with my thought The meaning of thy speech," said he, who first Addrest me, "thou dost speak of Arno's wave." To whom the other: "Why hath he conceal'd The title of that river, as a man Doth of some horrible thing?" The spirit, who Thereof was question'd, did acquit him thus: "I know not: but 'tis fitting well the name Should perish of that vale; for from the source Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep Maim'd of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass Beyond that limit,) even to the point Whereunto ocean is restor'd, what heaven Drains from th' exhaustless store for all earth's streams, Throughout the space is virtue worried down, As 'twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe, Or through disastrous influence on the place, Or else distortion of misguided wills, That custom goads to evil: whence in those, The dwellers in that miserable vale, Nature is so transform'd, it seems as they Had shar'd of Circe's feeding. 'Midst brute swine, Worthier of acorns than of other food Created for man's use, he shapeth first His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down, By how much more the curst and luckless foss Swells out to largeness, e'en so much it finds Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets A race of foxes, so replete with craft, They do not fear that skill can master it. Nor will I cease because my words are heard By other ears than thine. It shall be well For this man, if he keep in memory What from no erring Spirit I reveal. Lo! behold thy grandson, that becomes A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread: Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale, Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms. Many of life he reaves, himself of worth And goodly estimation. Smear'd with gore Mark how he issues from the rueful wood, Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years It spreads not to prime lustihood again." As one, who tidings hears of woe to come, Changes his looks perturb'd, from whate'er part The peril grasp him, so beheld I change That spirit, who had turn'd to listen, struck With sadness, soon as he had caught the word. His visage and the other's speech did raise Desire in me to know the names of both, whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd. The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum'd: "Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine. But since God's will is that so largely shine His grace in thee, I will be liberal too. Guido of Duca know then that I am. Envy so parch'd my blood, that had I seen A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark'd A livid paleness overspread my cheek. Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow'd. O man, why place thy heart where there doth need Exclusion of participants in good? This is Rinieri's spirit, this the boast And honour of the house of Calboli, Where of his worth no heritage remains. Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript ('twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,) Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss; But in those limits such a growth has sprung Of rank and venom'd roots, as long would mock Slow culture's toil. Where is good Liziohere Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna? O bastard slips of old Romagna's line! When in Bologna the low artisan, And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts, A gentle cyon from ignoble stem. Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep, When I recall to mind those once lov'd names, Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop, With Traversaro's house and Anastagio's, (Each race disherited) and beside these, The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease, That witch'd us into love and courtesy; Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts. O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still, Since forth of thee thy family hath gone, And many, hating evil, join'd their steps? Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease, Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill, And Conio worse, who care to propagate A race of Counties from such blood as theirs. Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then When from amongst you tries your demon child. Not so, howe'er, that henceforth there remain True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin! Thou sprung of Fantolini's line! thy name Is safe, since none is look'd for after thee To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock. But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take Far more delight in weeping than in words. Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart." We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them, Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'd Like vollied light'ning, when it rives the air, Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever finds Will slay me," then fled from us, as the bolt Lanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud. When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing, Behold the other with a crash as loud As the quick-following thunder: "Mark in me Aglauros turn'd to rock." I at the sound Retreating drew more closely to my guide. Now in mute stillness rested all the air: And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit. But your old enemy so baits his hook, He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n calls And round about you wheeling courts your gaze With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye Turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all." CANTO XV As much as 'twixt the third hour's close and dawn, Appeareth of heav'n's sphere, that ever whirls As restless as an infant in his play, So much appear'd remaining to the sun Of his slope journey towards the western goal. Evening was there, and here the noon of night; and full upon our forehead smote the beams. For round the mountain, circling, so our path Had led us, that toward the sun-set now Direct we journey'd: when I felt a weight Of more exceeding splendour, than before, Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze Possess'd me, and both hands against my brow Lifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen, That of its gorgeous superflux of light Clipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray, Striking On water or the surface clear Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part, Ascending at a glance, e'en as it fell, (And so much differs from the stone, that falls Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown); Thus with refracted light before me seemed The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste My sight recoil'd. "What is this, sire belov'd! 'Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?" Cried I, "and which towards us moving seems?" "Marvel not, if the family of heav'n," He answer'd, "yet with dazzling radiance dim Thy sense it is a messenger who comes, Inviting man's ascent. Such sights ere long, Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight, As thy perception is by nature wrought Up to their pitch." The blessed angel, soon As we had reach'd him, hail'd us with glad voice: "Here enter on a ladder far less steep Than ye have yet encounter'd." We forthwith Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet, "Blessed the merciful," and "happy thou! That conquer'st." Lonely each, my guide and I Pursued our upward way; and as we went, Some profit from his words I hop'd to win, And thus of him inquiring, fram'd my speech: "What meant Romagna's spirit, when he spake Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar'd?" He straight replied: "No wonder, since he knows, What sorrow waits on his own worst defect, If he chide others, that they less may mourn. Because ye point your wishes at a mark, Where, by communion of possessors, part Is lessen'd, envy bloweth up the sighs of men. No fear of that might touch ye, if the love Of higher sphere exalted your desire. For there, by how much more they call it ours, So much propriety of each in good Increases more, and heighten'd charity Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame." "Now lack I satisfaction more," said I, "Than if thou hadst been silent at the first, And doubt more gathers on my lab'ring thought. How can it chance, that good distributed, The many, that possess it, makes more rich, Than if 't were shar'd by few?" He answering thus: "Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth, Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed To love, as beam to lucid body darts, Giving as much of ardour as it finds. The sempiternal effluence streams abroad Spreading, wherever charity extends. So that the more aspirants to that bliss Are multiplied, more good is there to love, And more is lov'd; as mirrors, that reflect, Each unto other, propagated light. If these my words avail not to allay Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see, Who of this want, and of all else thou hast, Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou That from thy temples may be soon eras'd, E'en as the two already, those five scars, That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal," "Thou," I had said, "content'st me," when I saw The other round was gain'd, and wond'ring eyes Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem'd By an ecstatic vision wrapt away; And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd Of many persons; and at th' entrance stood A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express A mother's love, who said, "Child! why hast thou Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I Sorrowing have sought thee;" and so held her peace, And straight the vision fled. A female next Appear'd before me, down whose visage cours'd Those waters, that grief forces out from one By deep resentment stung, who seem'd to say: "If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed Over this city, nam'd with such debate Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles, Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace Hath clasp'd our daughter; "and to fuel, meseem'd, Benign and meek, with visage undisturb'd, Her sovran spake: "How shall we those requite, Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn The man that loves us?" After that I saw A multitude, in fury burning, slay With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain "Destroy, destroy:" and him I saw, who bow'd Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav'n, Praying forgiveness of th' Almighty Sire, Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes, With looks, that With compassion to their aim. Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight Returning, sought again the things, whose truth Depends not on her shaping, I observ'd How she had rov'd to no unreal scenes Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov'd, As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep, Exclaim'd: "What ails thee, that thou canst not hold Thy footing firm, but more than half a league Hast travel'd with clos'd eyes and tott'ring gait, Like to a man by wine or sleep o'ercharg'd?" "Beloved father! so thou deign," said I, "To listen, I will tell thee what appear'd Before me, when so fail'd my sinking steps." He thus: "Not if thy Countenance were mask'd With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine How small soe'er, elude me. What thou saw'st Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart To the waters of peace, that flow diffus'd From their eternal fountain. I not ask'd, What ails theeor such cause as he doth, who Looks only with that eye which sees no more, When spiritless the body lies; but ask'd, To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads The slow and loit'ring need; that they be found Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns." So on we journey'd through the evening sky Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes With level view could stretch against the bright Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees Gath'ring, a fog made tow'rds us, dark as night. There was no room for 'scaping; and that mist Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air. CANTO XVI Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, Of every planes 'reft, and pall'd in clouds, Did never spread before the sight a veil In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense So palpable and gross. Ent'ring its shade, Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids; Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, Offering me his shoulder for a stay. As the blind man behind his leader walks, Lest he should err, or stumble unawares On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy, I journey'd through that bitter air and foul, Still list'ning to my escort's warning voice, "Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heard Voices, and each one seem'd to pray for peace, And for compassion, to the Lamb of God That taketh sins away. Their prelude still Was "Agnus Dei," and through all the choir, One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem'd The concord of their song. "Are these I hear Spirits, O master?" I exclaim'd; and he: "Thou aim'st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath." "Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave? And speak'st of us, as thou thyself e'en yet Dividest time by calends?" So one voice Bespake me; whence my master said: "Reply; And ask, if upward hence the passage lead." "O being! who dost make thee pure, to stand Beautiful once more in thy Maker's sight! Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder." Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake: "Long as 't is lawful for me, shall my steps Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead Shall keep us join'd." I then forthwith began "Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend To higher regions, and am hither come Through the fearful agony of hell. And, if so largely God hath doled his grace, That, clean beside all modern precedent, He wills me to behold his kingly state, From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death Had loos'd thee; but instruct me: and instruct If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words The way directing as a safe escort." "I was of Lombardy, and Marco call'd: Not inexperienc'd of the world, that worth I still affected, from which all have turn'd The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right Unto the summit:" and, replying thus, He added, "I beseech thee pray for me, When thou shalt come aloft." And I to him: "Accept my faith for pledge I will perform What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains, That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not, Singly before it urg'd me, doubled now By thine opinion, when I couple that With one elsewhere declar'd, each strength'ning other. The world indeed is even so forlorn Of all good as thou speak'st it and so swarms With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point The cause out to me, that myself may see, And unto others show it: for in heaven One places it, and one on earth below." Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh, "Brother!" he thus began, "the world is blind; And thou in truth com'st from it. Ye, who live, Do so each cause refer to heav'n above, E'en as its motion of necessity Drew with it all that moves. If this were so, Free choice in you were none; nor justice would There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill. Your movements have their primal bent from heaven; Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues? Light have ye still to follow evil or good, And of the will free power, which, if it stand Firm and unwearied in Heav'n's first assay, Conquers at last, so it be cherish'd well, Triumphant over all. To mightier force, To better nature subject, ye abide Free, not constrain'd by that, which forms in you The reasoning mind uninfluenc'd of the stars. If then the present race of mankind err, Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there. Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy. "Forth from his plastic hand, who charm'd beholds Her image ere she yet exist, the soul Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods, As artless and as ignorant of aught, Save that her Maker being one who dwells With gladness ever, willingly she turns To whate'er yields her joy. Of some slight good The flavour soon she tastes; and, snar'd by that, With fondness she pursues it, if no guide Recall, no rein direct her wand'ring course. Hence it behov'd, the law should be a curb; A sovereign hence behov'd, whose piercing view Might mark at least the fortress and main tower Of the true city. Laws indeed there are: But who is he observes them? None; not he, Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock, Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof. Therefore the multitude, who see their guide Strike at the very good they covet most, Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause Is not corrupted nature in yourselves, But ill-conducting, that hath turn'd the world To evil. Rome, that turn'd it unto good, Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams Cast light on either way, the world's and God's. One since hath quench'd the other; and the sword Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin'd Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw'd By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark The blade: each herb is judg'd of by its seed. That land, through which Adice and the Po Their waters roll, was once the residence Of courtesy and velour, ere the day, That frown'd on Frederick; now secure may pass Those limits, whosoe'er hath left, for shame, To talk with good men, or come near their haunts. Three aged ones are still found there, in whom The old time chides the new: these deem it long Ere God restore them to a better world: The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam'd In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard. On this at last conclude. The church of Rome, Mixing two governments that ill assort, Hath miss'd her footing, fall'n into the mire, And there herself and burden much defil'd." "O Marco!" I replied, shine arguments Convince me: and the cause I now discern Why of the heritage no portion came To Levi's offspring. But resolve me this Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst Is left a sample of the perish'd race, And for rebuke to this untoward age?" "Either thy words," said he, "deceive; or else Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan, Appear'st not to have heard of good Gherado; The sole addition that, by which I know him; Unless I borrow'd from his daughter Gaia Another name to grace him. God be with you. I bear you company no more. Behold The dawn with white ray glimm'ring through the mist. I must away--the angel comes--ere he Appear." He said, and would not hear me more. CANTO XVII Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er Hast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud, Through which thou saw'st no better, than the mole Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene'er The wat'ry vapours dense began to melt Into thin air, how faintly the sun's sphere Seem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thought May image, how at first I re-beheld The sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung. Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd The parting beams from off the nether shores. O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark Though round about us thousand trumpets clang! What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light Kindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd, Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse By will divine. Portray'd before me came The traces of her dire impiety, Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that most Delights itself in song: and here my mind Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place To aught that ask'd admittance from without. Next shower'd into my fantasy a shape As of one crucified, whose visage spake Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died; And round him Ahasuerus the great king, Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just, Blameless in word and deed. As of itself That unsubstantial coinage of the brain Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails That fed it; in my vision straight uprose A damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen! O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire Driv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose Lavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself. Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears Mourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end." E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly New radiance strike upon the closed lids, The broken slumber quivering ere it dies; Thus from before me sunk that imagery Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck The light, outshining far our earthly beam. As round I turn'd me to survey what place I had arriv'd at, "Here ye mount," exclaim'd A voice, that other purpose left me none, Save will so eager to behold who spake, I could not choose but gaze. As 'fore the sun, That weighs our vision down, and veils his form In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'd Unequal. "This is Spirit from above, Who marshals us our upward way, unsought; And in his own light shrouds him. As a man Doth for himself, so now is done for us. For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'd For blunt denial, ere the suit be made. Refuse we not to lend a ready foot At such inviting: haste we to ascend, Before it darken: for we may not then, Till morn again return." So spake my guide; And to one ladder both address'd our steps; And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'd Near me as 'twere the waving of a wing, That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed they The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath." Now to such height above our heads were rais'd The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night, That many a star on all sides through the gloom Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?" So with myself I commun'd; for I felt My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space, If aught should meet mine ear in that new round, Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire! Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd. If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause." He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'er Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils. Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill. But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand, Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay. "Creator, nor created being, ne'er, My son," he thus began, "was without love, Or natural, or the free spirit's growth. Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still Is without error; but the other swerves, If on ill object bent, or through excess Of vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeks The primal blessings, or with measure due Th' inferior, no delight, that flows from it, Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil, Or with more ardour than behooves, or less. Pursue the good, the thing created then Works 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer That love is germin of each virtue in ye, And of each act no less, that merits pain. Now since it may not be, but love intend The welfare mainly of the thing it loves, All from self-hatred are secure; and since No being can be thought t' exist apart And independent of the first, a bar Of equal force restrains from hating that. "Grant the distinction just; and it remains The' evil must be another's, which is lov'd. Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay. There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,) Preeminence himself, and coverts hence For his own greatness that another fall. There is who so much fears the loss of power, Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount Above him), and so sickens at the thought, He loves their opposite: and there is he, Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs Must doat on other's evil. Here beneath This threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sort Be now instructed, that which follows good But with disorder'd and irregular course. "All indistinctly apprehend a bliss On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold Or seek it with a love remiss and lax, This cornice after just repenting lays Its penal torment on ye. Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness: It is not true fruition, not that blest Essence, of every good the branch and root. The love too lavishly bestow'd on this, Along three circles over us, is mourn'd. Account of that division tripartite Expect not, fitter for thine own research." CANTO XVIII The teacher ended, and his high discourse Concluding, earnest in my looks inquir'd If I appear'd content; and I, whom still Unsated thirst to hear him urg'd, was mute, Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said: "Perchance my too much questioning offends" But he, true father, mark'd the secret wish By diffidence restrain'd, and speaking, gave Me boldness thus to speak: 'Master, my Sight Gathers so lively virtue from thy beams, That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen. Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heart Holds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t' unfold That love, from which as from their source thou bring'st All good deeds and their opposite.'" He then: "To what I now disclose be thy clear ken Directed, and thou plainly shalt behold How much those blind have err'd, who make themselves The guides of men. The soul, created apt To love, moves versatile which way soe'er Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak'd By pleasure into act. Of substance true Your apprehension forms its counterfeit, And in you the ideal shape presenting Attracts the soul's regard. If she, thus drawn, incline toward it, love is that inclining, And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye. Then as the fire points up, and mounting seeks His birth-place and his lasting seat, e'en thus Enters the captive soul into desire, Which is a spiritual motion, that ne'er rests Before enjoyment of the thing it loves. Enough to show thee, how the truth from those Is hidden, who aver all love a thing Praise-worthy in itself: although perhaps Its substance seem still good. Yet if the wax Be good, it follows not th' impression must." "What love is," I return'd, "thy words, O guide! And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thence New doubts have sprung. For from without if love Be offer'd to us, and the spirit knows No other footing, tend she right or wrong, Is no desert of hers." He answering thus: "What reason here discovers I have power To show thee: that which lies beyond, expect From Beatrice, faith not reason's task. Spirit, substantial form, with matter join'd Not in confusion mix'd, hath in itself Specific virtue of that union born, Which is not felt except it work, nor prov'd But through effect, as vegetable life By the green leaf. From whence his intellect Deduced its primal notices of things, Man therefore knows not, or his appetites Their first affections; such in you, as zeal In bees to gather honey; at the first, Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise. But o'er each lower faculty supreme, That as she list are summon'd to her bar, Ye have that virtue in you, whose just voice Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep The threshold of assent. Here is the source, Whence cause of merit in you is deriv'd, E'en as the affections good or ill she takes, Or severs, winnow'd as the chaff. Those men Who reas'ning went to depth profoundest, mark'd That innate freedom, and were thence induc'd To leave their moral teaching to the world. Grant then, that from necessity arise All love that glows within you; to dismiss Or harbour it, the pow'r is in yourselves. Remember, Beatrice, in her style, Denominates free choice by eminence The noble virtue, if in talk with thee She touch upon that theme." The moon, well nigh To midnight hour belated, made the stars Appear to wink and fade; and her broad disk Seem'd like a crag on fire, as up the vault That course she journey'd, which the sun then warms, When they of Rome behold him at his set. Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle. And now the weight, that hung upon my thought, Was lighten'd by the aid of that clear spirit, Who raiseth Andes above Mantua's name. I therefore, when my questions had obtain'd Solution plain and ample, stood as one Musing in dreary slumber; but not long Slumber'd; for suddenly a multitude, The steep already turning, from behind, Rush'd on. With fury and like random rout, As echoing on their shores at midnight heard Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes If Bacchus' help were needed; so came these Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, By eagerness impell'd of holy love. Soon they o'ertook us; with such swiftness mov'd The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head Cried weeping; "Blessed Mary sought with haste The hilly region. Caesar to subdue Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting, And flew to Spain."--"Oh tarry not: away;" The others shouted; "let not time be lost Through slackness of affection. Hearty zeal To serve reanimates celestial grace." "O ye, in whom intenser fervency Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail'd, Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part Of good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives, (Credit my tale, though strange) desires t' ascend, So morning rise to light us. Therefore say Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?" So spake my guide, to whom a shade return'd: "Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft. We may not linger: such resistless will Speeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us then Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I Was abbot of San Zeno, when the hand Of Barbarossa grasp'd Imperial sway, That name, ne'er utter'd without tears in Milan. And there is he, hath one foot in his grave, Who for that monastery ere long shall weep, Ruing his power misus'd: for that his son, Of body ill compact, and worse in mind, And born in evil, he hath set in place Of its true pastor." Whether more he spake, Or here was mute, I know not: he had sped E'en now so far beyond us. Yet thus much I heard, and in rememb'rance treasur'd it. He then, who never fail'd me at my need, Cried, "Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse Chiding their sin!" In rear of all the troop These shouted: "First they died, to whom the sea Open'd, or ever Jordan saw his heirs: And they, who with Aeneas to the end Endur'd not suffering, for their portion chose Life without glory." Soon as they had fled Past reach of sight, new thought within me rose By others follow'd fast, and each unlike Its fellow: till led on from thought to thought, And pleasur'd with the fleeting train, mine eye Was clos'd, and meditation chang'd to dream. CANTO XIX It was the hour, when of diurnal heat No reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon, O'erpower'd by earth, or planetary sway Of Saturn; and the geomancer sees His Greater Fortune up the east ascend, Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone; When 'fore me in my dream a woman's shape There came, with lips that stammer'd, eyes aslant, Distorted feet, hands maim'd, and colour pale. I look'd upon her; and as sunshine cheers Limbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my look Unloos'd her tongue, next in brief space her form Decrepit rais'd erect, and faded face With love's own hue illum'd. Recov'ring speech She forthwith warbling such a strain began, That I, how loth soe'er, could scarce have held Attention from the song. "I," thus she sang, "I am the Siren, she, whom mariners On the wide sea are wilder'd when they hear: Such fulness of delight the list'ner feels. I from his course Ulysses by my lay Enchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me once Parts seldom; so I charm him, and his heart Contented knows no void." Or ere her mouth Was clos'd, to shame her at her side appear'd A dame of semblance holy. With stern voice She utter'd; "Say, O Virgil, who is this?" Which hearing, he approach'd, with eyes still bent Toward that goodly presence: th' other seiz'd her, And, her robes tearing, open'd her before, And show'd the belly to me, whence a smell, Exhaling loathsome, wak'd me. Round I turn'd Mine eyes, and thus the teacher: "At the least Three times my voice hath call'd thee. Rise, begone. Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass." I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high, Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount; And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smote The early ray. I follow'd, stooping low My forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought, Who bends him to the likeness of an arch, That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard, "Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild, As never met the ear on mortal strand. With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up, Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along, Where each side of the solid masonry The sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes, And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn, Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. "What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?" Began my leader; while th' angelic shape A little over us his station took. "New vision," I replied, "hath rais'd in me Surmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereon My soul intent allows no other thought Or room or entrance."--"Hast thou seen," said he, "That old enchantress, her, whose wiles alone The spirits o'er us weep for? Hast thou seen How man may free him of her bonds? Enough. Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais'd ken Fix on the lure, which heav'n's eternal King Whirls in the rolling spheres." As on his feet The falcon first looks down, then to the sky Turns, and forth stretches eager for the food, That woos him thither; so the call I heard, So onward, far as the dividing rock Gave way, I journey'd, till the plain was reach'd. On the fifth circle when I stood at large, A race appear'd before me, on the ground All downward lying prone and weeping sore. "My soul hath cleaved to the dust," I heard With sighs so deep, they well nigh choak'd the words. "O ye elect of God, whose penal woes Both hope and justice mitigate, direct Tow'rds the steep rising our uncertain way." "If ye approach secure from this our doom, Prostration--and would urge your course with speed, See that ye still to rightward keep the brink." So them the bard besought; and such the words, Beyond us some short space, in answer came. I noted what remain'd yet hidden from them: Thence to my liege's eyes mine eyes I bent, And he, forthwith interpreting their suit, Beckon'd his glad assent. Free then to act, As pleas'd me, I drew near, and took my stand O`er that shade, whose words I late had mark'd. And, "Spirit!" I said, "in whom repentant tears Mature that blessed hour, when thou with God Shalt find acceptance, for a while suspend For me that mightier care. Say who thou wast, Why thus ye grovel on your bellies prone, And if in aught ye wish my service there, Whence living I am come." He answering spake "The cause why Heav'n our back toward his cope Reverses, shalt thou know: but me know first The successor of Peter, and the name And title of my lineage from that stream, That' twixt Chiaveri and Siestri draws His limpid waters through the lowly glen. A month and little more by proof I learnt, With what a weight that robe of sov'reignty Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire Would guard it: that each other fardel seems But feathers in the balance. Late, alas! Was my conversion: but when I became Rome's pastor, I discern'd at once the dream And cozenage of life, saw that the heart Rested not there, and yet no prouder height Lur'd on the climber: wherefore, of that life No more enamour'd, in my bosom love Of purer being kindled. For till then I was a soul in misery, alienate From God, and covetous of all earthly things; Now, as thou seest, here punish'd for my doting. Such cleansing from the taint of avarice Do spirits converted need. This mount inflicts No direr penalty. E'en as our eyes Fasten'd below, nor e'er to loftier clime Were lifted, thus hath justice level'd us Here on the earth. As avarice quench'd our love Of good, without which is no working, thus Here justice holds us prison'd, hand and foot Chain'd down and bound, while heaven's just Lord shall please. So long to tarry motionless outstretch'd." My knees I stoop'd, and would have spoke; but he, Ere my beginning, by his ear perceiv'd I did him reverence; and "What cause," said he, "Hath bow'd thee thus!"--"Compunction," I rejoin'd. "And inward awe of your high dignity." "Up," he exclaim'd, "brother! upon thy feet Arise: err not: thy fellow servant I, (Thine and all others') of one Sovran Power. If thou hast ever mark'd those holy sounds Of gospel truth, 'nor shall be given ill marriage,' Thou mayst discern the reasons of my speech. Go thy ways now; and linger here no more. Thy tarrying is a let unto the tears, With which I hasten that whereof thou spak'st. I have on earth a kinswoman; her name Alagia, worthy in herself, so ill Example of our house corrupt her not: And she is all remaineth of me there." CANTO XX Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd, I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave. Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd, Who led me, coasting still, wherever place Along the rock was vacant, as a man Walks near the battlements on narrow wall. For those on th' other part, who drop by drop Wring out their all-infecting malady, Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou! Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey, Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd! So bottomless thy maw!--Ye spheres of heaven! To whom there are, as seems, who attribute All change in mortal state, when is the day Of his appearing, for whom fate reserves To chase her hence?--With wary steps and slow We pass'd; and I attentive to the shades, Whom piteously I heard lament and wail; And, 'midst the wailing, one before us heard Cry out "O blessed Virgin!" as a dame In the sharp pangs of childbed; and "How poor Thou wast," it added, "witness that low roof Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down. O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue choose With poverty, before great wealth with vice." The words so pleas'd me, that desire to know The spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come, Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he Bounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful prime Unblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deeds So worthy, tell me who thou was," I said, "And why thou dost with single voice renew Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'd Haply shall meet reward; if I return To finish the Short pilgrimage of life, Still speeding to its close on restless wing." "I," answer'd he, "will tell thee, not for hell, Which thence I look for; but that in thyself Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time Of mortal dissolution. I was root Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds O'er all the Christian land, that seldom thence Good fruit is gather'd. Vengeance soon should come, Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power; And vengeance I of heav'n's great Judge implore. Hugh Capet was I high: from me descend The Philips and the Louis, of whom France Newly is govern'd; born of one, who ply'd The slaughterer's trade at Paris. When the race Of ancient kings had vanish'd (all save one Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe I found the reins of empire, and such powers Of new acquirement, with full store of friends, That soon the widow'd circlet of the crown Was girt upon the temples of my son, He, from whose bones th' anointed race begins. Till the great dower of Provence had remov'd The stains, that yet obscur'd our lowly blood, Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe'er It wrought no evil: there, with force and lies, Began its rapine; after, for amends, Poitou it seiz'd, Navarre and Gascony. To Italy came Charles, and for amends Young Conradine an innocent victim slew, And sent th' angelic teacher back to heav'n, Still for amends. I see the time at hand, That forth from France invites another Charles To make himself and kindred better known. Unarm'd he issues, saving with that lance, Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that He carries with so home a thrust, as rives The bowels of poor Florence. No increase Of territory hence, but sin and shame Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong. I see the other, who a prisoner late Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do The Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice! What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood So wholly to thyself, they feel no care Of their own flesh? To hide with direr guilt Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ Himself a captive, and his mockery Acted again! Lo! to his holy lip The vinegar and gall once more applied! And he 'twixt living robbers doom'd to bleed! Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty Such violence cannot fill the measure up, With no degree to sanction, pushes on Into the temple his yet eager sails! "O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas'd In secret silence broods?--While daylight lasts, So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn'dst To me for comment, is the general theme Of all our prayers: but when it darkens, then A different strain we utter, then record Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold Made traitor, robber, parricide: the woes Of Midas, which his greedy wish ensued, Mark'd for derision to all future times: And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey, That yet he seems by Joshua's ire pursued. Sapphira with her husband next, we blame; And praise the forefeet, that with furious ramp Spurn'd Heliodorus. All the mountain round Rings with the infamy of Thracia's king, Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shout Ascends: "Declare, O Crassus! for thou know'st, The flavour of thy gold." The voice of each Now high now low, as each his impulse prompts, Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave. Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears'd That blessedness we tell of in the day: But near me none beside his accent rais'd." From him we now had parted, and essay'd With utmost efforts to surmount the way, When I did feel, as nodding to its fall, The mountain tremble; whence an icy chill Seiz'd on me, as on one to death convey'd. So shook not Delos, when Latona there Couch'd to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven. Forthwith from every side a shout arose So vehement, that suddenly my guide Drew near, and cried: "Doubt not, while I conduct thee." "Glory!" all shouted (such the sounds mine ear Gather'd from those, who near me swell'd the sounds) "Glory in the highest be to God." We stood Immovably suspended, like to those, The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem's field That song: till ceas'd the trembling, and the song Was ended: then our hallow'd path resum'd, Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew'd Their custom'd mourning. Never in my breast Did ignorance so struggle with desire Of knowledge, if my memory do not err, As in that moment; nor through haste dar'd I To question, nor myself could aught discern, So on I far'd in thoughtfulness and dread. CANTO XXI The natural thirst, ne'er quench'd but from the well, Whereof the woman of Samaria crav'd, Excited: haste along the cumber'd path, After my guide, impell'd; and pity mov'd My bosom for the 'vengeful deed, though just. When lo! even as Luke relates, that Christ Appear'd unto the two upon their way, New-risen from his vaulted grave; to us A shade appear'd, and after us approach'd, Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet. We were not ware of it; so first it spake, Saying, "God give you peace, my brethren!" then Sudden we turn'd: and Virgil such salute, As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried: "Peace in the blessed council be thy lot Awarded by that righteous court, which me To everlasting banishment exiles!" "How!" he exclaim'd, nor from his speed meanwhile Desisting, "If that ye be spirits, whom God Vouchsafes not room above, who up the height Has been thus far your guide?" To whom the bard: "If thou observe the tokens, which this man Trac'd by the finger of the angel bears, 'Tis plain that in the kingdom of the just He needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheel Spins day and night, for him not yet had drawn That yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil'd, Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes, His soul, that sister is to mine and thine, Not of herself could mount, for not like ours Her ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulf Of hell was ta'en, to lead him, and will lead Far as my lore avails. But, if thou know, Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhile Thus shook and trembled: wherefore all at once Seem'd shouting, even from his wave-wash'd foot." That questioning so tallied with my wish, The thirst did feel abatement of its edge E'en from expectance. He forthwith replied, "In its devotion nought irregular This mount can witness, or by punctual rule Unsanction'd; here from every change exempt. Other than that, which heaven in itself Doth of itself receive, no influence Can reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow, Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher falls Than that brief scale of threefold steps: thick clouds Nor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glance Ne'er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams, That yonder often shift on each side heav'n. Vapour adust doth never mount above The highest of the trinal stairs, whereon Peter's vicegerent stands. Lower perchance, With various motion rock'd, trembles the soil: But here, through wind in earth's deep hollow pent, I know not how, yet never trembled: then Trembles, when any spirit feels itself So purified, that it may rise, or move For rising, and such loud acclaim ensues. Purification by the will alone Is prov'd, that free to change society Seizes the soul rejoicing in her will. Desire of bliss is present from the first; But strong propension hinders, to that wish By the just ordinance of heav'n oppos'd; Propension now as eager to fulfil Th' allotted torment, as erewhile to sin. And I who in this punishment had lain Five hundred years and more, but now have felt Free wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt'st The mountain tremble, and the spirits devout Heard'st, over all his limits, utter praise To that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joy To hasten." Thus he spake: and since the draught Is grateful ever as the thirst is keen, No words may speak my fullness of content. "Now," said the instructor sage, "I see the net That takes ye here, and how the toils are loos'd, Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice. Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn, Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore here So many an age wert prostrate."--"In that time, When the good Titus, with Heav'n's King to help, Aveng'd those piteous gashes, whence the blood By Judas sold did issue, with the name Most lasting and most honour'd there was I Abundantly renown'd," the shade reply'd, "Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweet My vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, Rome To herself drew me, where I merited A myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow. Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang, And next of great Achilles: but i' th' way Fell with the second burthen. Of my flame Those sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv'd From the bright fountain of celestial fire That feeds unnumber'd lamps, the song I mean Which sounds Aeneas' wand'rings: that the breast I hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veins Drank inspiration: whose authority Was ever sacred with me. To have liv'd Coeval with the Mantuan, I would bide The revolution of another sun Beyond my stated years in banishment." The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn'd to me, And holding silence: by his countenance Enjoin'd me silence but the power which wills, Bears not supreme control: laughter and tears Follow so closely on the passion prompts them, They wait not for the motions of the will In natures most sincere. I did but smile, As one who winks; and thereupon the shade Broke off, and peer'd into mine eyes, where best Our looks interpret. "So to good event Mayst thou conduct such great emprize," he cried, "Say, why across thy visage beam'd, but now, The lightning of a smile!" On either part Now am I straiten'd; one conjures me speak, Th' other to silence binds me: whence a sigh I utter, and the sigh is heard. "Speak on;" The teacher cried; "and do not fear to speak, But tell him what so earnestly he asks." Whereon I thus: "Perchance, O ancient spirit! Thou marvel'st at my smiling. There is room For yet more wonder. He who guides my ken On high, he is that Mantuan, led by whom Thou didst presume of men and gods to sing. If other cause thou deem'dst for which I smil'd, Leave it as not the true one; and believe Those words, thou spak'st of him, indeed the cause." Now down he bent t' embrace my teacher's feet; But he forbade him: "Brother! do it not: Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade." He rising answer'd thus: "Now hast thou prov'd The force and ardour of the love I bear thee, When I forget we are but things of air, And as a substance treat an empty shade." CANTO XXII Now we had left the angel, who had turn'd To the sixth circle our ascending step, One gash from off my forehead raz'd: while they, Whose wishes tend to justice, shouted forth: "Blessed!" and ended with, "I thirst:" and I, More nimble than along the other straits, So journey'd, that, without the sense of toil, I follow'd upward the swift-footed shades; When Virgil thus began: "Let its pure flame From virtue flow, and love can never fail To warm another's bosom' so the light Shine manifestly forth. Hence from that hour, When 'mongst us in the purlieus of the deep, Came down the spirit of Aquinum's hard, Who told of thine affection, my good will Hath been for thee of quality as strong As ever link'd itself to one not seen. Therefore these stairs will now seem short to me. But tell me: and if too secure I loose The rein with a friend's license, as a friend Forgive me, and speak now as with a friend: How chanc'd it covetous desire could find Place in that bosom, 'midst such ample store Of wisdom, as thy zeal had treasur'd there?" First somewhat mov'd to laughter by his words, Statius replied: "Each syllable of thine Is a dear pledge of love. Things oft appear That minister false matters to our doubts, When their true causes are remov'd from sight. Thy question doth assure me, thou believ'st I was on earth a covetous man, perhaps Because thou found'st me in that circle plac'd. Know then I was too wide of avarice: And e'en for that excess, thousands of moons Have wax'd and wan'd upon my sufferings. And were it not that I with heedful care Noted where thou exclaim'st as if in ire With human nature, 'Why, thou cursed thirst Of gold! dost not with juster measure guide The appetite of mortals?' I had met The fierce encounter of the voluble rock. Then was I ware that with too ample wing The hands may haste to lavishment, and turn'd, As from my other evil, so from this In penitence. How many from their grave Shall with shorn locks arise, who living, aye And at life's last extreme, of this offence, Through ignorance, did not repent. And know, The fault which lies direct from any sin In level opposition, here With that Wastes its green rankness on one common heap. Therefore if I have been with those, who wail Their avarice, to cleanse me, through reverse Of their transgression, such hath been my lot." To whom the sovran of the pastoral song: "While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag'd By the twin sorrow of Jocasta's womb, From thy discourse with Clio there, it seems As faith had not been shine: without the which Good deeds suffice not. And if so, what sun Rose on thee, or what candle pierc'd the dark That thou didst after see to hoist the sail, And follow, where the fisherman had led?" He answering thus: "By thee conducted first, I enter'd the Parnassian grots, and quaff'd Of the clear spring; illumin'd first by thee Open'd mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one, Who, journeying through the darkness, hears a light Behind, that profits not himself, but makes His followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, 'Lo! A renovated world! Justice return'd! Times of primeval innocence restor'd! And a new race descended from above!' Poet and Christian both to thee I owed. That thou mayst mark more clearly what I trace, My hand shall stretch forth to inform the lines With livelier colouring. Soon o'er all the world, By messengers from heav'n, the true belief Teem'd now prolific, and that word of thine Accordant, to the new instructors chim'd. Induc'd by which agreement, I was wont Resort to them; and soon their sanctity So won upon me, that, Domitian's rage Pursuing them, I mix'd my tears with theirs, And, while on earth I stay'd, still succour'd them; And their most righteous customs made me scorn All sects besides. Before I led the Greeks In tuneful fiction, to the streams of Thebes, I was baptiz'd; but secretly, through fear, Remain'd a Christian, and conform'd long time To Pagan rites. Five centuries and more, T for that lukewarmness was fain to pace Round the fourth circle. Thou then, who hast rais'd The covering, which did hide such blessing from me, Whilst much of this ascent is yet to climb, Say, if thou know, where our old Terence bides, Caecilius, Plautus, Varro: if condemn'd They dwell, and in what province of the deep." "These," said my guide, "with Persius and myself, And others many more, are with that Greek, Of mortals, the most cherish'd by the Nine, In the first ward of darkness. There ofttimes We of that mount hold converse, on whose top For aye our nurses live. We have the bard Of Pella, and the Teian, Agatho, Simonides, and many a Grecian else Ingarlanded with laurel. Of thy train Antigone is there, Deiphile, Argia, and as sorrowful as erst Ismene, and who show'd Langia's wave: Deidamia with her sisters there, And blind Tiresias' daughter, and the bride Sea-born of Peleus." Either poet now Was silent, and no longer by th' ascent Or the steep walls obstructed, round them cast Inquiring eyes. Four handmaids of the day Had finish'd now their office, and the fifth Was at the chariot-beam, directing still Its balmy point aloof, when thus my guide: "Methinks, it well behooves us to the brink Bend the right shoulder' circuiting the mount, As we have ever us'd." So custom there Was usher to the road, the which we chose Less doubtful, as that worthy shade complied. They on before me went; I sole pursued, List'ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey'd Mysterious lessons of sweet poesy. But soon they ceas'd; for midway of the road A tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung, And pleasant to the smell: and as a fir Upward from bough to bough less ample spreads, So downward this less ample spread, that none. Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side, That clos'd our path, a liquid crystal fell From the steep rock, and through the sprays above Stream'd showering. With associate step the bards Drew near the plant; and from amidst the leaves A voice was heard: "Ye shall be chary of me;" And after added: "Mary took more thought For joy and honour of the nuptial feast, Than for herself who answers now for you. The women of old Rome were satisfied With water for their beverage. Daniel fed On pulse, and wisdom gain'd. The primal age Was beautiful as gold; and hunger then Made acorns tasteful, thirst each rivulet Run nectar. Honey and locusts were the food, Whereon the Baptist in the wilderness Fed, and that eminence of glory reach'd And greatness, which the' Evangelist records." CANTO XXIII On the green leaf mine eyes were fix'd, like his Who throws away his days in idle chase Of the diminutive, when thus I heard The more than father warn me: "Son! our time Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away." Thereat my face and steps at once I turn'd Toward the sages, by whose converse cheer'd I journey'd on, and felt no toil: and lo! A sound of weeping and a song: "My lips, O Lord!" and these so mingled, it gave birth To pleasure and to pain. "O Sire, belov'd! Say what is this I hear?" Thus I inquir'd. "Spirits," said he, "who as they go, perchance, Their debt of duty pay." As on their road The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, But stay not; thus, approaching from behind With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass'd, A crowd of spirits, silent and devout. The eyes of each were dark and hollow: pale Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones Stood staring thro' the skin. I do not think Thus dry and meagre Erisicthon show'd, When pinc'ed by sharp-set famine to the quick. "Lo!" to myself I mus'd, "the race, who lost Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak Prey'd on her child." The sockets seem'd as rings, From which the gems were drops. Who reads the name Of man upon his forehead, there the M Had trac'd most plainly. Who would deem, that scent Of water and an apple, could have prov'd Powerful to generate such pining want, Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood Wond'ring what thus could waste them (for the cause Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind Appear'd not) lo! a spirit turn'd his eyes In their deep-sunken cell, and fasten'd then On me, then cried with vehemence aloud: "What grace is this vouchsaf'd me?" By his looks I ne'er had recogniz'd him: but the voice Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal'd. Remembrance of his alter'd lineaments Was kindled from that spark; and I agniz'd The visage of Forese. "Ah! respect This wan and leprous wither'd skin," thus he Suppliant implor'd, "this macerated flesh. Speak to me truly of thyself. And who Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there? Be it not said thou Scorn'st to talk with me." "That face of thine," I answer'd him, "which dead I once bewail'd, disposes me not less For weeping, when I see It thus transform'd. Say then, by Heav'n, what blasts ye thus? The whilst I wonder, ask not Speech from me: unapt Is he to speak, whom other will employs." He thus: "The water and tee plant we pass'd, Virtue possesses, by th' eternal will Infus'd, the which so pines me. Every spirit, Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg'd Too grossly, here in hunger and in thirst Is purified. The odour, which the fruit, And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe, Inflames us with desire to feed and drink. Nor once alone encompassing our route We come to add fresh fuel to the pain: Pain, said Iolace rather: for that will To the tree leads us, by which Christ was led To call Elias, joyful when he paid Our ransom from his vein." I answering thus: "Forese! from that day, in which the world For better life thou changedst, not five years Have circled. If the power of sinning more Were first concluded in thee, ere thou knew'st That kindly grief, which re-espouses us To God, how hither art thou come so soon? I thought to find thee lower, there, where time Is recompense for time." He straight replied: "To drink up the sweet wormwood of affliction I have been brought thus early by the tears Stream'd down my Nella's cheeks. Her prayers devout, Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oft Expectance lingers, and have set me free From th' other circles. In the sight of God So much the dearer is my widow priz'd, She whom I lov'd so fondly, as she ranks More singly eminent for virtuous deeds. The tract most barb'rous of Sardinia's isle, Hath dames more chaste and modester by far Than that wherein I left her. O sweet brother! What wouldst thou have me say? A time to come Stands full within my view, to which this hour Shall not be counted of an ancient date, When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn'd Th' unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bare Unkerchief'd bosoms to the common gaze. What savage women hath the world e'er seen, What Saracens, for whom there needed scourge Of spiritual or other discipline, To force them walk with cov'ring on their limbs! But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav'n Wafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak, Their mouths were op'd for howling: they shall taste Of Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here) Or ere the cheek of him be cloth'd with down Who is now rock'd with lullaby asleep. Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more, Thou seest how not I alone but all Gaze, where thou veil'st the intercepted sun." Whence I replied: "If thou recall to mind What we were once together, even yet Remembrance of those days may grieve thee sore. That I forsook that life, was due to him Who there precedes me, some few evenings past, When she was round, who shines with sister lamp To his, that glisters yonder," and I show'd The sun. "Tis he, who through profoundest night Of he true dead has brought me, with this flesh As true, that follows. From that gloom the aid Of his sure comfort drew me on to climb, And climbing wind along this mountain-steep, Which rectifies in you whate'er the world Made crooked and deprav'd I have his word, That he will bear me company as far As till I come where Beatrice dwells: But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit, Who thus hath promis'd," and I pointed to him; "The other is that shade, for whom so late Your realm, as he arose, exulting shook Through every pendent cliff and rocky bound." CANTO XXIV Our journey was not slacken'd by our talk, Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake, And urg'd our travel stoutly, like a ship When the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms, That seem'd things dead and dead again, drew in At their deep-delved orbs rare wonder of me, Perceiving I had life; and I my words Continued, and thus spake; "He journeys up Perhaps more tardily then else he would, For others' sake. But tell me, if thou know'st, Where is Piccarda? Tell me, if I see Any of mark, among this multitude, Who eye me thus."--"My sister (she for whom, 'Twixt beautiful and good I cannot say Which name was fitter ) wears e'en now her crown, And triumphs in Olympus." Saying this, He added: "Since spare diet hath so worn Our semblance out, 't is lawful here to name Each one. This," and his finger then he rais'd, "Is Buonaggiuna,--Buonaggiuna, he Of Lucca: and that face beyond him, pierc'd Unto a leaner fineness than the rest, Had keeping of the church: he was of Tours, And purges by wan abstinence away Bolsena's eels and cups of muscadel." He show'd me many others, one by one, And all, as they were nam'd, seem'd well content; For no dark gesture I discern'd in any. I saw through hunger Ubaldino grind His teeth on emptiness; and Boniface, That wav'd the crozier o'er a num'rous flock. I saw the Marquis, who tad time erewhile To swill at Forli with less drought, yet so Was one ne'er sated. I howe'er, like him, That gazing 'midst a crowd, singles out one, So singled him of Lucca; for methought Was none amongst them took such note of me. Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca: The sound was indistinct, and murmur'd there, Where justice, that so strips them, fix'd her sting. "Spirit!" said I, "it seems as thou wouldst fain Speak with me. Let me hear thee. Mutual wish To converse prompts, which let us both indulge." He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born, Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make My city please thee, blame it as they may. Go then with this forewarning. If aught false My whisper too implied, th' event shall tell But say, if of a truth I see the man Of that new lay th' inventor, which begins With 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." To whom I thus: "Count of me but as one Who am the scribe of love; that, when he breathes, Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write." "Brother!" said he, "the hind'rance which once held The notary with Guittone and myself, Short of that new and sweeter style I hear, Is now disclos'd. I see how ye your plumes Stretch, as th' inditer guides them; which, no question, Ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond, Sees not the distance parts one style from other." And, as contented, here he held his peace. Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile, In squared regiment direct their course, Then stretch themselves in file for speedier flight; Thus all the tribe of spirits, as they turn'd Their visage, faster deaf, nimble alike Through leanness and desire. And as a man, Tir'd With the motion of a trotting steed, Slacks pace, and stays behind his company, Till his o'erbreathed lungs keep temperate time; E'en so Forese let that holy crew Proceed, behind them lingering at my side, And saying: "When shall I again behold thee?" "How long my life may last," said I, "I know not; This know, how soon soever I return, My wishes will before me have arriv'd. Sithence the place, where I am set to live, Is, day by day, more scoop'd of all its good, And dismal ruin seems to threaten it." "Go now," he cried: "lo! he, whose guilt is most, Passes before my vision, dragg'd at heels Of an infuriate beast. Toward the vale, Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds, Each step increasing swiftness on the last; Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth him A corse most vilely shatter'd. No long space Those wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyes Look'd up to heav'n) "ere thou shalt plainly see That which my words may not more plainly tell. I quit thee: time is precious here: I lose Too much, thus measuring my pace with shine." As from a troop of well-rank'd chivalry One knight, more enterprising than the rest, Pricks forth at gallop, eager to display His prowess in the first encounter prov'd So parted he from us with lengthen'd strides, And left me on the way with those twain spirits, Who were such mighty marshals of the world. When he beyond us had so fled mine eyes No nearer reach'd him, than my thought his words, The branches of another fruit, thick hung, And blooming fresh, appear'd. E'en as our steps Turn'd thither, not far off it rose to view. Beneath it were a multitude, that rais'd Their hands, and shouted forth I know not What Unto the boughs; like greedy and fond brats, That beg, and answer none obtain from him, Of whom they beg; but more to draw them on, He at arm's length the object of their wish Above them holds aloft, and hides it not. At length, as undeceiv'd they went their way: And we approach the tree, who vows and tears Sue to in vain, the mighty tree. "Pass on, And come not near. Stands higher up the wood, Whereof Eve tasted, and from it was ta'en 'this plant." Such sounds from midst the thickets came. Whence I, with either bard, close to the side That rose, pass'd forth beyond. "Remember," next We heard, "those noblest creatures of the clouds, How they their twofold bosoms overgorg'd Oppos'd in fight to Theseus: call to mind The Hebrews, how effeminate they stoop'd To ease their thirst; whence Gideon's ranks were thinn'd, As he to Midian march'd adown the hills." Thus near one border coasting, still we heard The sins of gluttony, with woe erewhile Reguerdon'd. Then along the lonely path, Once more at large, full thousand paces on We travel'd, each contemplative and mute. "Why pensive journey thus ye three alone?" Thus suddenly a voice exclaim'd: whereat I shook, as doth a scar'd and paltry beast; Then rais'd my head to look from whence it came. Was ne'er, in furnace, glass, or metal seen So bright and glowing red, as was the shape I now beheld. "If ye desire to mount," He cried, "here must ye turn. This way he goes, Who goes in quest of peace." His countenance Had dazzled me; and to my guides I fac'd Backward, like one who walks, as sound directs. As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs up On freshen'd wing the air of May, and breathes Of fragrance, all impregn'd with herb and flowers, E'en such a wind I felt upon my front Blow gently, and the moving of a wing Perceiv'd, that moving shed ambrosial smell; And then a voice: "Blessed are they, whom grace Doth so illume, that appetite in them Exhaleth no inordinate desire, Still hung'ring as the rule of temperance wills." CANTO XXV It was an hour, when he who climbs, had need To walk uncrippled: for the sun had now To Taurus the meridian circle left, And to the Scorpion left the night. As one That makes no pause, but presses on his road, Whate'er betide him, if some urgent need Impel: so enter'd we upon our way, One before other; for, but singly, none That steep and narrow scale admits to climb. E'en as the young stork lifteth up his wing Through wish to fly, yet ventures not to quit The nest, and drops it; so in me desire Of questioning my guide arose, and fell, Arriving even to the act, that marks A man prepar'd for speech. Him all our haste Restrain'd not, but thus spake the sire belov'd: Fear not to speed the shaft, that on thy lip Stands trembling for its flight. Encourag'd thus I straight began: "How there can leanness come, Where is no want of nourishment to feed?" "If thou," he answer'd, "hadst remember'd thee, How Meleager with the wasting brand Wasted alike, by equal fires consum'd, This would not trouble thee: and hadst thou thought, How in the mirror your reflected form With mimic motion vibrates, what now seems Hard, had appear'd no harder than the pulp Of summer fruit mature. But that thy will In certainty may find its full repose, Lo Statius here! on him I call, and pray That he would now be healer of thy wound." "If in thy presence I unfold to him The secrets of heaven's vengeance, let me plead Thine own injunction, to exculpate me." So Statius answer'd, and forthwith began: "Attend my words, O son, and in thy mind Receive them: so shall they be light to clear The doubt thou offer'st. Blood, concocted well, Which by the thirsty veins is ne'er imbib'd, And rests as food superfluous, to be ta'en From the replenish'd table, in the heart Derives effectual virtue, that informs The several human limbs, as being that, Which passes through the veins itself to make them. Yet more concocted it descends, where shame Forbids to mention: and from thence distils In natural vessel on another's blood. Then each unite together, one dispos'd T' endure, to act the other, through meet frame Of its recipient mould: that being reach'd, It 'gins to work, coagulating first; Then vivifies what its own substance caus'd To bear. With animation now indued, The active virtue (differing from a plant No further, than that this is on the way And at its limit that) continues yet To operate, that now it moves, and feels, As sea sponge clinging to the rock: and there Assumes th' organic powers its seed convey'd. 'This is the period, son! at which the virtue, That from the generating heart proceeds, Is pliant and expansive; for each limb Is in the heart by forgeful nature plann'd. How babe of animal becomes, remains For thy consid'ring. At this point, more wise, Than thou hast err'd, making the soul disjoin'd From passive intellect, because he saw No organ for the latter's use assign'd. "Open thy bosom to the truth that comes. Know soon as in the embryo, to the brain, Articulation is complete, then turns The primal Mover with a smile of joy On such great work of nature, and imbreathes New spirit replete with virtue, that what here Active it finds, to its own substance draws, And forms an individual soul, that lives, And feels, and bends reflective on itself. And that thou less mayst marvel at the word, Mark the sun's heat, how that to wine doth change, Mix'd with the moisture filter'd through the vine. "When Lachesis hath spun the thread, the soul Takes with her both the human and divine, Memory, intelligence, and will, in act Far keener than before, the other powers Inactive all and mute. No pause allow'd, In wond'rous sort self-moving, to one strand Of those, where the departed roam, she falls, Here learns her destin'd path. Soon as the place Receives her, round the plastic virtue beams, Distinct as in the living limbs before: And as the air, when saturate with showers, The casual beam refracting, decks itself With many a hue; so here the ambient air Weareth that form, which influence of the soul Imprints on it; and like the flame, that where The fire moves, thither follows, so henceforth The new form on the spirit follows still: Hence hath it semblance, and is shadow call'd, With each sense even to the sight endued: Hence speech is ours, hence laughter, tears, and sighs Which thou mayst oft have witness'd on the mount Th' obedient shadow fails not to present Whatever varying passion moves within us. And this the cause of what thou marvel'st at." Now the last flexure of our way we reach'd, And to the right hand turning, other care Awaits us. Here the rocky precipice Hurls forth redundant flames, and from the rim A blast upblown, with forcible rebuff Driveth them back, sequester'd from its bound. Behoov'd us, one by one, along the side, That border'd on the void, to pass; and I Fear'd on one hand the fire, on th' other fear'd Headlong to fall: when thus th' instructor warn'd: "Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes. A little swerving and the way is lost." Then from the bosom of the burning mass, "O God of mercy!" heard I sung; and felt No less desire to turn. And when I saw Spirits along the flame proceeding, I Between their footsteps and mine own was fain To share by turns my view. At the hymn's close They shouted loud, "I do not know a man;" Then in low voice again took up the strain, Which once more ended, "To the wood," they cried, "Ran Dian, and drave forth Callisto, stung With Cytherea's poison:" then return'd Unto their song; then marry a pair extoll'd, Who liv'd in virtue chastely, and the bands Of wedded love. Nor from that task, I ween, Surcease they; whilesoe'er the scorching fire Enclasps them. Of such skill appliance needs To medicine the wound, that healeth last. CANTO XXVI While singly thus along the rim we walk'd, Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well. Avail it that I caution thee." The sun Now all the western clime irradiate chang'd From azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd, My passing shadow made the umber'd flame Burn ruddier. At so strange a sight I mark'd That many a spirit marvel'd on his way. This bred occasion first to speak of me, "He seems," said they, "no insubstantial frame:" Then to obtain what certainty they might, Stretch'd towards me, careful not to overpass The burning pale. "O thou, who followest The others, haply not more slow than they, But mov'd by rev'rence, answer me, who burn In thirst and fire: nor I alone, but these All for thine answer do more thirst, than doth Indian or Aethiop for the cooling stream. Tell us, how is it that thou mak'st thyself A wall against the sun, as thou not yet Into th' inextricable toils of death Hadst enter'd?" Thus spake one, and I had straight Declar'd me, if attention had not turn'd To new appearance. Meeting these, there came, Midway the burning path, a crowd, on whom Earnestly gazing, from each part I view The shadows all press forward, sev'rally Each snatch a hasty kiss, and then away. E'en so the emmets, 'mid their dusky troops, Peer closely one at other, to spy out Their mutual road perchance, and how they thrive. That friendly greeting parted, ere dispatch Of the first onward step, from either tribe Loud clamour rises: those, who newly come, Shout "Sodom and Gomorrah!" these, "The cow Pasiphae enter'd, that the beast she woo'd Might rush unto her luxury." Then as cranes, That part towards the Riphaean mountains fly, Part towards the Lybic sands, these to avoid The ice, and those the sun; so hasteth off One crowd, advances th' other; and resume Their first song weeping, and their several shout. Again drew near my side the very same, Who had erewhile besought me, and their looks Mark'd eagerness to listen. I, who twice Their will had noted, spake: "O spirits secure, Whene'er the time may be, of peaceful end! My limbs, nor crude, nor in mature old age, Have I left yonder: here they bear me, fed With blood, and sinew-strung. That I no more May live in blindness, hence I tend aloft. There is a dame on high, who wind for us This grace, by which my mortal through your realm I bear. But may your utmost wish soon meet Such full fruition, that the orb of heaven, Fullest of love, and of most ample space, Receive you, as ye tell (upon my page Henceforth to stand recorded) who ye are, And what this multitude, that at your backs Have past behind us." As one, mountain-bred, Rugged and clownish, if some city's walls He chance to enter, round him stares agape, Confounded and struck dumb; e'en such appear'd Each spirit. But when rid of that amaze, (Not long the inmate of a noble heart) He, who before had question'd, thus resum'd: "O blessed, who, for death preparing, tak'st Experience of our limits, in thy bark! Their crime, who not with us proceed, was that, For which, as he did triumph, Caesar heard The snout of 'queen,' to taunt him. Hence their cry Of 'Sodom,' as they parted, to rebuke Themselves, and aid the burning by their shame. Our sinning was Hermaphrodite: but we, Because the law of human kind we broke, Following like beasts our vile concupiscence, Hence parting from them, to our own disgrace Record the name of her, by whom the beast In bestial tire was acted. Now our deeds Thou know'st, and how we sinn'd. If thou by name Wouldst haply know us, time permits not now To tell so much, nor can I. Of myself Learn what thou wishest. Guinicelli I, Who having truly sorrow'd ere my last, Already cleanse me." With such pious joy, As the two sons upon their mother gaz'd From sad Lycurgus rescu'd, such my joy (Save that I more represt it) when I heard From his own lips the name of him pronounc'd, Who was a father to me, and to those My betters, who have ever us'd the sweet And pleasant rhymes of love. So nought I heard Nor spake, but long time thoughtfully I went, Gazing on him; and, only for the fire, Approach'd not nearer. When my eyes were fed By looking on him, with such solemn pledge, As forces credence, I devoted me Unto his service wholly. In reply He thus bespake me: "What from thee I hear Is grav'd so deeply on my mind, the waves Of Lethe shall not wash it off, nor make A whit less lively. But as now thy oath Has seal'd the truth, declare what cause impels That love, which both thy looks and speech bewray." "Those dulcet lays," I answer'd, "which, as long As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, Shall make us love the very ink that trac'd them." "Brother!" he cried, and pointed at a shade Before him, "there is one, whose mother speech Doth owe to him a fairer ornament. He in love ditties and the tales of prose Without a rival stands, and lets the fools Talk on, who think the songster of Limoges O'ertops him. Rumour and the popular voice They look to more than truth, and so confirm Opinion, ere by art or reason taught. Thus many of the elder time cried up Guittone, giving him the prize, till truth By strength of numbers vanquish'd. If thou own So ample privilege, as to have gain'd Free entrance to the cloister, whereof Christ Is Abbot of the college, say to him One paternoster for me, far as needs For dwellers in this world, where power to sin No longer tempts us." Haply to make way For one, that follow'd next, when that was said, He vanish'd through the fire, as through the wave A fish, that glances diving to the deep. I, to the spirit he had shown me, drew A little onward, and besought his name, For which my heart, I said, kept gracious room. He frankly thus began: "Thy courtesy So wins on me, I have nor power nor will To hide me. I am Arnault; and with songs, Sorely lamenting for my folly past, Thorough this ford of fire I wade, and see The day, I hope for, smiling in my view. I pray ye by the worth that guides ye up Unto the summit of the scale, in time Remember ye my suff'rings." With such words He disappear'd in the refining flame. CANTO XXVII Now was the sun so station'd, as when first His early radiance quivers on the heights, Where stream'd his Maker's blood, while Libra hangs Above Hesperian Ebro, and new fires Meridian flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the' angel of God Appear'd before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink, And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpass'd our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he Sang: then near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as one Laid in the grave. My hands together clasp'd, And upward stretching, on the fire I look'd, And busy fancy conjur'd up the forms Erewhile beheld alive consum'd in flames. Th' escorting spirits turn'd with gentle looks Toward me, and the Mantuan spake: "My son, Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death. Remember thee, remember thee, if I Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee: now I come More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now? Of this be sure: though in its womb that flame A thousand years contain'd thee, from thy head No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth, Approach, and with thy hands thy vesture's hem Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief. Lay now all fear, O lay all fear aside. Turn hither, and come onward undismay'd." I still, though conscience urg'd' no step advanc'd. When still he saw me fix'd and obstinate, Somewhat disturb'd he cried: "Mark now, my son, From Beatrice thou art by this wall Divided." As at Thisbe's name the eye Of Pyramus was open'd (when life ebb'd Fast from his veins), and took one parting glance, While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turn'd To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard The name, that springs forever in my breast. He shook his forehead; and, "How long," he said, "Linger we now?" then smil'd, as one would smile Upon a child, that eyes the fruit and yields. Into the fire before me then he walk'd; And Statius, who erewhile no little space Had parted us, he pray'd to come behind. I would have cast me into molten glass To cool me, when I enter'd; so intense Rag'd the conflagrant mass. The sire belov'd, To comfort me, as he proceeded, still Of Beatrice talk'd. "Her eyes," saith he, "E'en now I seem to view." From the other side A voice, that sang, did guide us, and the voice Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard, "Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds, That hail'd us from within a light, which shone So radiant, I could not endure the view. "The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes. Delay not: ere the western sky is hung With blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our way Upright within the rock arose, and fac'd Such part of heav'n, that from before my steps The beams were shrouded of the sinking sun. Nor many stairs were overpass, when now By fading of the shadow we perceiv'd The sun behind us couch'd: and ere one face Of darkness o'er its measureless expanse Involv'd th' horizon, and the night her lot Held individual, each of us had made A stair his pallet: not that will, but power, Had fail'd us, by the nature of that mount Forbidden further travel. As the goats, That late have skipp'd and wanton'd rapidly Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en Their supper on the herb, now silent lie And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown, While noonday rages; and the goatherd leans Upon his staff, and leaning watches them: And as the swain, that lodges out all night In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey Disperse them; even so all three abode, I as a goat and as the shepherds they, Close pent on either side by shelving rock. A little glimpse of sky was seen above; Yet by that little I beheld the stars In magnitude and rustle shining forth With more than wonted glory. As I lay, Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing, Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oft Tidings of future hap. About the hour, As I believe, when Venus from the east First lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orb Seems always glowing with the fire of love, A lady young and beautiful, I dream'd, Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came, Methought I saw her ever and anon Bending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang: "Know ye, whoever of my name would ask, That I am Leah: for my brow to weave A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply. To please me at the crystal mirror, here I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she Before her glass abides the livelong day, Her radiant eyes beholding, charm'd no less, Than I with this delightful task. Her joy In contemplation, as in labour mine." And now as glimm'ring dawn appear'd, that breaks More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he Sojourns less distant on his homeward way, Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled My slumber; whence I rose and saw my guide Already risen. "That delicious fruit, Which through so many a branch the zealous care Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day Appease thy hunger." Such the words I heard From Virgil's lip; and never greeting heard So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight Desire so grew upon desire to mount, Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings Increasing for my flight. When we had run O'er all the ladder to its topmost round, As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'd His eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son, The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen, And art arriv'd, where of itself my ken No further reaches. I with skill and art Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, O'ercome the straighter. Lo! the sun, that darts His beam upon thy forehead! lo! the herb, The arboreta and flowers, which of itself This land pours forth profuse! Will those bright eyes With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste To succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down, Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more Sanction of warning voice or sign from me, Free of thy own arbitrement to choose, Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense Were henceforth error. I invest thee then With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself." CANTO XXVIII Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade With lively greenness the new-springing day Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank, Along the champain leisurely my way Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides Delicious odour breath'd. A pleasant air, That intermitted never, never veer'd, Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind Of softest influence: at which the sprays, Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part Where first the holy mountain casts his shade, Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still Upon their top the feather'd quiristers Applied their wonted art, and with full joy Welcom'd those hours of prime, and warbled shrill Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays inept tenor; even as from branch to branch, Along the piney forests on the shore Of Chiassi, rolls the gath'ring melody, When Eolus hath from his cavern loos'd The dripping south. Already had my steps, Though slow, so far into that ancient wood Transported me, I could not ken the place Where I had enter'd, when behold! my path Was bounded by a rill, which to the left With little rippling waters bent the grass, That issued from its brink. On earth no wave How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have Some mixture in itself, compar'd with this, Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll'd, Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er Admits or sun or moon light there to shine. My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyes Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey The tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue, In prodigal variety: and there, As object, rising suddenly to view, That from our bosom every thought beside With the rare marvel chases, I beheld A lady all alone, who, singing, went, And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful! Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart, Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beam Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd: "Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song. Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks, I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd Proserpine, in that season, when her child The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring." As when a lady, turning in the dance, Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce One step before the other to the ground; Over the yellow and vermilion flowers Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like, Valing her sober eyes, and came so near, That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound. Arriving where the limped waters now Lav'd the green sward, her eyes she deign'd to raise, That shot such splendour on me, as I ween Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart. Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil'd through her graceful fingers shifted still The intermingling dyes, which without seed That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er, (A curb for ever to the pride of man) Was by Leander not more hateful held For floating, with inhospitable wave 'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me That flood, because it gave no passage thence. "Strangers ye come, and haply in this place, That cradled human nature in its birth, Wond'ring, ye not without suspicion view My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody, 'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,' will give ye light, Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me, Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine." She spake; and I replied: "I know not how To reconcile this wave and rustling sound Of forest leaves, with what I late have heard Of opposite report." She answering thus: "I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds, Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloud That hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joy Is only in himself, created man For happiness, and gave this goodly place, His pledge and earnest of eternal peace. Favour'd thus highly, through his own defect He fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell, And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang'd Laughter unblam'd and ever-new delight. That vapours none, exhal'd from earth beneath, Or from the waters (which, wherever heat Attracts them, follow), might ascend thus far To vex man's peaceful state, this mountain rose So high toward the heav'n, nor fears the rage Of elements contending, from that part Exempted, where the gate his limit bars. Because the circumambient air throughout With its first impulse circles still, unless Aught interpose to cheek or thwart its course; Upon the summit, which on every side To visitation of th' impassive air Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes Beneath its sway th' umbrageous wood resound: And in the shaken plant such power resides, That it impregnates with its efficacy The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume That wafted flies abroad; and th' other land Receiving (as 't is worthy in itself, Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive, And from its womb produces many a tree Of various virtue. This when thou hast heard, The marvel ceases, if in yonder earth Some plant without apparent seed be found To fix its fibrous stem. And further learn, That with prolific foison of all seeds, This holy plain is fill'd, and in itself Bears fruit that ne'er was pluck'd on other soil. "The water, thou behold'st, springs not from vein, As stream, that intermittently repairs And spends his pulse of life, but issues forth From fountain, solid, undecaying, sure; And by the will omnific, full supply Feeds whatsoe'er On either side it pours; On this devolv'd with power to take away Remembrance of offence, on that to bring Remembrance back of every good deed done. From whence its name of Lethe on this part; On th' other Eunoe: both of which must first Be tasted ere it work; the last exceeding All flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may now Be well contented, if I here break off, No more revealing: yet a corollary I freely give beside: nor deem my words Less grateful to thee, if they somewhat pass The stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yore The golden age recorded and its bliss, On the Parnassian mountain, of this place Perhaps had dream'd. Here was man guiltless, here Perpetual spring and every fruit, and this The far-fam'd nectar." Turning to the bards, When she had ceas'd, I noted in their looks A smile at her conclusion; then my face Again directed to the lovely dame. CANTO XXIX Singing, as if enamour'd, she resum'd And clos'd the song, with "Blessed they whose sins Are cover'd." Like the wood-nymphs then, that tripp'd Singly across the sylvan shadows, one Eager to view and one to 'scape the sun, So mov'd she on, against the current, up The verdant rivage. I, her mincing step Observing, with as tardy step pursued. Between us not an hundred paces trod, The bank, on each side bending equally, Gave me to face the orient. Nor our way Far onward brought us, when to me at once She turn'd, and cried: "My brother! look and hearken." And lo! a sudden lustre ran across Through the great forest on all parts, so bright I doubted whether lightning were abroad; But that expiring ever in the spleen, That doth unfold it, and this during still And waxing still in splendor, made me question What it might be: and a sweet melody Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide With warrantable zeal the hardihood Of our first parent, for that there were earth Stood in obedience to the heav'ns, she only, Woman, the creature of an hour, endur'd not Restraint of any veil: which had she borne Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these, Had from the first, and long time since, been mine. While through that wilderness of primy sweets That never fade, suspense I walk'd, and yet Expectant of beatitude more high, Before us, like a blazing fire, the air Under the green boughs glow'd; and, for a song, Distinct the sound of melody was heard. O ye thrice holy virgins! for your sakes If e'er I suffer'd hunger, cold and watching, Occasion calls on me to crave your bounty. Now through my breast let Helicon his stream Pour copious; and Urania with her choir Arise to aid me: while the verse unfolds Things that do almost mock the grasp of thought. Onward a space, what seem'd seven trees of gold, The intervening distance to mine eye Falsely presented; but when I was come So near them, that no lineament was lost Of those, with which a doubtful object, seen Remotely, plays on the misdeeming sense, Then did the faculty, that ministers Discourse to reason, these for tapers of gold Distinguish, and it th' singing trace the sound "Hosanna." Above, their beauteous garniture Flam'd with more ample lustre, than the moon Through cloudless sky at midnight in her full. I turn'd me full of wonder to my guide; And he did answer with a countenance Charg'd with no less amazement: whence my view Reverted to those lofty things, which came So slowly moving towards us, that the bride Would have outstript them on her bridal day. The lady called aloud: "Why thus yet burns Affection in thee for these living, lights, And dost not look on that which follows them?" I straightway mark'd a tribe behind them walk, As if attendant on their leaders, cloth'd With raiment of such whiteness, as on earth Was never. On my left, the wat'ry gleam Borrow'd, and gave me back, when there I look'd. As in a mirror, my left side portray'd. When I had chosen on the river's edge Such station, that the distance of the stream Alone did separate me; there I stay'd My steps for clearer prospect, and beheld The flames go onward, leaving, as they went, The air behind them painted as with trail Of liveliest pencils! so distinct were mark'd All those sev'n listed colours, whence the sun Maketh his bow, and Cynthia her zone. These streaming gonfalons did flow beyond My vision; and ten paces, as I guess, Parted the outermost. Beneath a sky So beautiful, came foul and-twenty elders, By two and two, with flower-de-luces crown'd. All sang one song: "Blessed be thou among The daughters of Adam! and thy loveliness Blessed for ever!" After that the flowers, And the fresh herblets, on the opposite brink, Were free from that elected race; as light In heav'n doth second light, came after them Four animals, each crown'd with verdurous leaf. With six wings each was plum'd, the plumage full Of eyes, and th' eyes of Argus would be such, Were they endued with life. Reader, more rhymes Will not waste in shadowing forth their form: For other need no straitens, that in this I may not give my bounty room. But read Ezekiel; for he paints them, from the north How he beheld them come by Chebar's flood, In whirlwind, cloud and fire; and even such As thou shalt find them character'd by him, Here were they; save as to the pennons; there, From him departing, John accords with me. The space, surrounded by the four, enclos'd A car triumphal: on two wheels it came Drawn at a Gryphon's neck; and he above Stretch'd either wing uplifted, 'tween the midst And the three listed hues, on each side three; So that the wings did cleave or injure none; And out of sight they rose. The members, far As he was bird, were golden; white the rest With vermeil intervein'd. So beautiful A car in Rome ne'er grac'd Augustus pomp, Or Africanus': e'en the sun's itself Were poor to this, that chariot of the sun Erroneous, which in blazing ruin fell At Tellus' pray'r devout, by the just doom Mysterious of all-seeing Jove. Three nymphs at the right wheel, came circling in smooth dance; The one so ruddy, that her form had scarce Been known within a furnace of clear flame: The next did look, as if the flesh and bones Were emerald: snow new-fallen seem'd the third. Now seem'd the white to lead, the ruddy now; And from her song who led, the others took Their treasure, swift or slow. At th' other wheel, A band quaternion, each in purple clad, Advanc'd with festal step, as of them one The rest conducted, one, upon whose front Three eyes were seen. In rear of all this group, Two old men I beheld, dissimilar In raiment, but in port and gesture like, Solid and mainly grave; of whom the one Did show himself some favour'd counsellor Of the great Coan, him, whom nature made To serve the costliest creature of her tribe. His fellow mark'd an opposite intent, Bearing a sword, whose glitterance and keen edge, E'en as I view'd it with the flood between, Appall'd me. Next four others I beheld, Of humble seeming: and, behind them all, One single old man, sleeping, as he came, With a shrewd visage. And these seven, each Like the first troop were habited, but wore No braid of lilies on their temples wreath'd. Rather with roses and each vermeil flower, A sight, but little distant, might have sworn, That they were all on fire above their brow. Whenas the car was o'er against me, straight. Was heard a thund'ring, at whose voice it seem'd The chosen multitude were stay'd; for there, With the first ensigns, made they solemn halt. CANTO XXX Soon as the polar light, which never knows Setting nor rising, nor the shadowy veil Of other cloud than sin, fair ornament Of the first heav'n, to duty each one there Safely convoying, as that lower doth The steersman to his port, stood firmly fix'd; Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the van Between the Gryphon and its radiance came, Did turn them to the car, as to their rest: And one, as if commission'd from above, In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud: "Come, spouse, from Libanus!" and all the rest Took up the song--At the last audit so The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh, As, on the sacred litter, at the voice Authoritative of that elder, sprang A hundred ministers and messengers Of life eternal. "Blessed thou! who com'st!" And, "O," they cried, "from full hands scatter ye Unwith'ring lilies;" and, so saying, cast Flowers over head and round them on all sides. I have beheld, ere now, at break of day, The eastern clime all roseate, and the sky Oppos'd, one deep and beautiful serene, And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists Attemper'd at lids rising, that the eye Long while endur'd the sight: thus in a cloud Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose, And down, within and outside of the car, Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath'd, A virgin in my view appear'd, beneath Green mantle, rob'd in hue of living flame: And o'er my Spirit, that in former days Within her presence had abode so long, No shudd'ring terror crept. Mine eyes no more Had knowledge of her; yet there mov'd from her A hidden virtue, at whose touch awak'd, The power of ancient love was strong within me. No sooner on my vision streaming, smote The heav'nly influence, which years past, and e'en In childhood, thrill'd me, than towards Virgil I Turn'd me to leftward, panting, like a babe, That flees for refuge to his mother's breast, If aught have terrified or work'd him woe: And would have cried: "There is no dram of blood, That doth not quiver in me. The old flame Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire:" But Virgil had bereav'd us of himself, Virgil, my best-lov'd father; Virgil, he To whom I gave me up for safety: nor, All, our prime mother lost, avail'd to save My undew'd cheeks from blur of soiling tears. "Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay, Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edge Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that." As to the prow or stern, some admiral Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, When 'mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; Thus on the left side of the car I saw, (Turning me at the sound of mine own name, Which here I am compell'd to register) The virgin station'd, who before appeared Veil'd in that festive shower angelical. Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes; Though from her brow the veil descending, bound With foliage of Minerva, suffer'd not That I beheld her clearly; then with act Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall, Added, as one, who speaking keepeth back The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech: "Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am Beatrice. What! and hast thou deign'd at last Approach the mountainnewest not, O man! Thy happiness is whole?" Down fell mine eyes On the clear fount, but there, myself espying, Recoil'd, and sought the greensward: such a weight Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien Of that stern majesty, which doth surround mother's presence to her awe-struck child, She look'd; a flavour of such bitterness Was mingled in her pity. There her words Brake off, and suddenly the angels sang: "In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:" But went no farther than, "Thou Lord, hast set My feet in ample room." As snow, that lies Amidst the living rafters on the back Of Italy congeal'd when drifted high And closely pil'd by rough Sclavonian blasts, Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls, And straightway melting it distils away, Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I, Without a sigh or tear, or ever these Did sing, that with the chiming of heav'n's sphere, Still in their warbling chime: but when the strain Of dulcet symphony, express'd for me Their soft compassion, more than could the words "Virgin, why so consum'st him?" then the ice, Congeal'd about my bosom, turn'd itself To spirit and water, and with anguish forth Gush'd through the lips and eyelids from the heart. Upon the chariot's right edge still she stood, Immovable, and thus address'd her words To those bright semblances with pity touch'd: "Ye in th' eternal day your vigils keep, So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth, Conveys from you a single step in all The goings on of life: thence with more heed I shape mine answer, for his ear intended, Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow now May equal the transgression. Not alone Through operation of the mighty orbs, That mark each seed to some predestin'd aim, As with aspect or fortunate or ill The constellations meet, but through benign Largess of heav'nly graces, which rain down From such a height, as mocks our vision, this man Was in the freshness of his being, such, So gifted virtually, that in him All better habits wond'rously had thriv'd. The more of kindly strength is in the soil, So much doth evil seed and lack of culture Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness. These looks sometime upheld him; for I show'd My youthful eyes, and led him by their light In upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd The threshold of my second age, and chang'd My mortal for immortal, then he left me, And gave himself to others. When from flesh To spirit I had risen, and increase Of beauty and of virtue circled me, I was less dear to him, and valued less. His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways, Following false images of good, that make No promise perfect. Nor avail'd me aught To sue for inspirations, with the which, I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise, Did call him back; of them so little reck'd him, Such depth he fell, that all device was short Of his preserving, save that he should view The children of perdition. To this end I visited the purlieus of the dead: And one, who hath conducted him thus high, Receiv'd my supplications urg'd with weeping. It were a breaking of God's high decree, If Lethe should be past, and such food tasted Without the cost of some repentant tear." CANTO XXXI "O Thou!" her words she thus without delay Resuming, turn'd their point on me, to whom They but with lateral edge seem'd harsh before, "Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream, If this be true. A charge so grievous needs Thine own avowal." On my faculty Such strange amazement hung, the voice expir'd Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth. A little space refraining, then she spake: "What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The wave On thy remembrances of evil yet Hath done no injury." A mingled sense Of fear and of confusion, from my lips Did such a "Yea" produce, as needed help Of vision to interpret. As when breaks In act to be discharg'd, a cross-bow bent Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretch'd, The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark; Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst Beneath the heavy load, and thus my voice Was slacken'd on its way. She straight began: "When my desire invited thee to love The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings, What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain Did meet thee, that thou so should'st quit the hope Of further progress, or what bait of ease Or promise of allurement led thee on Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere should'st rather wait?" A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voice To answer, hardly to these sounds my lips Gave utterance, wailing: "Thy fair looks withdrawn, Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turn'd My steps aside." She answering spake: "Hadst thou Been silent, or denied what thou avow'st, Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more: such eye Observes it. But whene'er the sinner's cheek Breaks forth into the precious-streaming tears Of self-accusing, in our court the wheel Of justice doth run counter to the edge. Howe'er that thou may'st profit by thy shame For errors past, and that henceforth more strength May arm thee, when thou hear'st the Siren-voice, Lay thou aside the motive to this grief, And lend attentive ear, while I unfold How opposite a way my buried flesh Should have impell'd thee. Never didst thou spy In art or nature aught so passing sweet, As were the limbs, that in their beauteous frame Enclos'd me, and are scatter'd now in dust. If sweetest thing thus fail'd thee with my death, What, afterward, of mortal should thy wish Have tempted? When thou first hadst felt the dart Of perishable things, in my departing For better realms, thy wing thou should'st have prun'd To follow me, and never stoop'd again To 'bide a second blow for a slight girl, Or other gaud as transient and as vain. The new and inexperienc'd bird awaits, Twice it may be, or thrice, the fowler's aim; But in the sight of one, whose plumes are full, In vain the net is spread, the arrow wing'd." I stood, as children silent and asham'd Stand, list'ning, with their eyes upon the earth, Acknowledging their fault and self-condemn'd. And she resum'd: "If, but to hear thus pains thee, Raise thou thy beard, and lo! what sight shall do!" With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm, Rent from its fibers by a blast, that blows From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land, Than I at her behest my visage rais'd: And thus the face denoting by the beard, I mark'd the secret sting her words convey'd. No sooner lifted I mine aspect up, Than downward sunk that vision I beheld Of goodly creatures vanish; and mine eyes Yet unassur'd and wavering, bent their light On Beatrice. Towards the animal, Who joins two natures in one form, she turn'd, And, even under shadow of her veil, And parted by the verdant rill, that flow'd Between, in loveliness appear'd as much Her former self surpassing, as on earth All others she surpass'd. Remorseful goads Shot sudden through me. Each thing else, the more Its love had late beguil'd me, now the more I Was loathsome. On my heart so keenly smote The bitter consciousness, that on the ground O'erpower'd I fell: and what my state was then, She knows who was the cause. When now my strength Flow'd back, returning outward from the heart, The lady, whom alone I first had seen, I found above me. "Loose me not," she cried: "Loose not thy hold;" and lo! had dragg'd me high As to my neck into the stream, while she, Still as she drew me after, swept along, Swift as a shuttle, bounding o'er the wave. The blessed shore approaching then was heard So sweetly, "Tu asperges me," that I May not remember, much less tell the sound. The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasp'd My temples, and immerg'd me, where 't was fit The wave should drench me: and thence raising up, Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphs Presented me so lav'd, and with their arm They each did cover me. "Here are we nymphs, And in the heav'n are stars. Or ever earth Was visited of Beatrice, we Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her. We to her eyes will lead thee; but the light Of gladness that is in them, well to scan, Those yonder three, of deeper ken than ours, Thy sight shall quicken." Thus began their song; And then they led me to the Gryphon's breast, While, turn'd toward us, Beatrice stood. "Spare not thy vision. We have stationed thee Before the emeralds, whence love erewhile Hath drawn his weapons on thee." As they spake, A thousand fervent wishes riveted Mine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood Still fix'd toward the Gryphon motionless. As the sun strikes a mirror, even thus Within those orbs the twofold being, shone, For ever varying, in one figure now Reflected, now in other. Reader! muse How wond'rous in my sight it seem'd to mark A thing, albeit steadfast in itself, Yet in its imag'd semblance mutable. Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soul Fed on the viand, whereof still desire Grows with satiety, the other three With gesture, that declar'd a loftier line, Advanc'd: to their own carol on they came Dancing in festive ring angelical. "Turn, Beatrice!" was their song: "O turn Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one, Who to behold thee many a wearisome pace Hath measur'd. Gracious at our pray'r vouchsafe Unveil to him thy cheeks: that he may mark Thy second beauty, now conceal'd." O splendour! O sacred light eternal! who is he So pale with musing in Pierian shades, Or with that fount so lavishly imbued, Whose spirit should not fail him in th' essay To represent thee such as thou didst seem, When under cope of the still-chiming heaven Thou gav'st to open air thy charms reveal'd. CANTO XXXII Mine eyes with such an eager coveting, Were bent to rid them of their ten years' thirst, No other sense was waking: and e'en they Were fenc'd on either side from heed of aught; So tangled in its custom'd toils that smile Of saintly brightness drew me to itself, When forcibly toward the left my sight The sacred virgins turn'd; for from their lips I heard the warning sounds: "Too fix'd a gaze!" Awhile my vision labor'd; as when late Upon the' o'erstrained eyes the sun hath smote: But soon to lesser object, as the view Was now recover'd (lesser in respect To that excess of sensible, whence late I had perforce been sunder'd) on their right I mark'd that glorious army wheel, and turn, Against the sun and sev'nfold lights, their front. As when, their bucklers for protection rais'd, A well-rang'd troop, with portly banners curl'd, Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground: E'en thus the goodly regiment of heav'n Proceeding, all did pass us, ere the car Had slop'd his beam. Attendant at the wheels The damsels turn'd; and on the Gryphon mov'd The sacred burden, with a pace so smooth, No feather on him trembled. The fair dame Who through the wave had drawn me, companied By Statius and myself, pursued the wheel, Whose orbit, rolling, mark'd a lesser arch. Through the high wood, now void (the more her blame, Who by the serpent was beguil'd) I past With step in cadence to the harmony Angelic. Onward had we mov'd, as far Perchance as arrow at three several flights Full wing'd had sped, when from her station down Descended Beatrice. With one voice All murmur'd "Adam," circling next a plant Despoil'd of flowers and leaf on every bough. Its tresses, spreading more as more they rose, Were such, as 'midst their forest wilds for height The Indians might have gaz'd at. "Blessed thou! Gryphon, whose beak hath never pluck'd that tree Pleasant to taste: for hence the appetite Was warp'd to evil." Round the stately trunk Thus shouted forth the rest, to whom return'd The animal twice-gender'd: "Yea: for so The generation of the just are sav'd." And turning to the chariot-pole, to foot He drew it of the widow'd branch, and bound There left unto the stock whereon it grew. As when large floods of radiance from above Stream, with that radiance mingled, which ascends Next after setting of the scaly sign, Our plants then burgeon, and each wears anew His wonted colours, ere the sun have yok'd Beneath another star his flamy steeds; Thus putting forth a hue, more faint than rose, And deeper than the violet, was renew'd The plant, erewhile in all its branches bare. Unearthly was the hymn, which then arose. I understood it not, nor to the end Endur'd the harmony. Had I the skill To pencil forth, how clos'd th' unpitying eyes Slumb'ring, when Syrinx warbled, (eyes that paid So dearly for their watching,) then like painter, That with a model paints, I might design The manner of my falling into sleep. But feign who will the slumber cunningly; I pass it by to when I wak'd, and tell How suddenly a flash of splendour rent The curtain of my sleep, and one cries out: "Arise, what dost thou?" As the chosen three, On Tabor's mount, admitted to behold The blossoming of that fair tree, whose fruit Is coveted of angels, and doth make Perpetual feast in heaven, to themselves Returning at the word, whence deeper sleeps Were broken, that they their tribe diminish'd saw, Both Moses and Elias gone, and chang'd The stole their master wore: thus to myself Returning, over me beheld I stand The piteous one, who cross the stream had brought My steps. "And where," all doubting, I exclaim'd, "Is Beatrice?"--"See her," she replied, "Beneath the fresh leaf seated on its root. Behold th' associate choir that circles her. The others, with a melody more sweet And more profound, journeying to higher realms, Upon the Gryphon tend." If there her words Were clos'd, I know not; but mine eyes had now Ta'en view of her, by whom all other thoughts Were barr'd admittance. On the very ground Alone she sat, as she had there been left A guard upon the wain, which I beheld Bound to the twyform beast. The seven nymphs Did make themselves a cloister round about her, And in their hands upheld those lights secure From blast septentrion and the gusty south. "A little while thou shalt be forester here: And citizen shalt be forever with me, Of that true Rome, wherein Christ dwells a Roman To profit the misguided world, keep now Thine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest, Take heed thou write, returning to that place." Thus Beatrice: at whose feet inclin'd Devout, at her behest, my thought and eyes, I, as she bade, directed. Never fire, With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloud Leap'd downward from the welkin's farthest bound, As I beheld the bird of Jove descending Pounce on the tree, and, as he rush'd, the rind, Disparting crush beneath him, buds much more And leaflets. On the car with all his might He struck, whence, staggering like a ship, it reel'd, At random driv'n, to starboard now, o'ercome, And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves. Next springing up into the chariot's womb A fox I saw, with hunger seeming pin'd Of all good food. But, for his ugly sins The saintly maid rebuking him, away Scamp'ring he turn'd, fast as his hide-bound corpse Would bear him. Next, from whence before he came, I saw the eagle dart into the hull O' th' car, and leave it with his feathers lin'd; And then a voice, like that which issues forth From heart with sorrow riv'd, did issue forth From heav'n, and, "O poor bark of mine!" it cried, "How badly art thou freighted!" Then, it seem'd, That the earth open'd between either wheel, And I beheld a dragon issue thence, That through the chariot fix'd his forked train; And like a wasp that draggeth back the sting, So drawing forth his baleful train, he dragg'd Part of the bottom forth, and went his way Exulting. What remain'd, as lively turf With green herb, so did clothe itself with plumes, Which haply had with purpose chaste and kind Been offer'd; and therewith were cloth'd the wheels, Both one and other, and the beam, so quickly A sigh were not breath'd sooner. Thus transform'd, The holy structure, through its several parts, Did put forth heads, three on the beam, and one On every side; the first like oxen horn'd, But with a single horn upon their front The four. Like monster sight hath never seen. O'er it methought there sat, secure as rock On mountain's lofty top, a shameless whore, Whose ken rov'd loosely round her. At her side, As 't were that none might bear her off, I saw A giant stand; and ever, and anon They mingled kisses. But, her lustful eyes Chancing on me to wander, that fell minion Scourg'd her from head to foot all o'er; then full Of jealousy, and fierce with rage, unloos'd The monster, and dragg'd on, so far across The forest, that from me its shades alone Shielded the harlot and the new-form'd brute. CANTO XXXIII "The heathen, Lord! are come!" responsive thus, The trinal now, and now the virgin band Quaternion, their sweet psalmody began, Weeping; and Beatrice listen'd, sad And sighing, to the song', in such a mood, That Mary, as she stood beside the cross, Was scarce more chang'd. But when they gave her place To speak, then, risen upright on her feet, She, with a colour glowing bright as fire, Did answer: "Yet a little while, and ye Shall see me not; and, my beloved sisters, Again a little while, and ye shall see me." Before her then she marshall'd all the seven, And, beck'ning only motion'd me, the dame, And that remaining sage, to follow her. So on she pass'd; and had not set, I ween, Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyes Her eyes encounter'd; and, with visage mild, "So mend thy pace," she cried, "that if my words Address thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac'd To hear them." Soon as duly to her side I now had hasten'd: "Brother!" she began, "Why mak'st thou no attempt at questioning, As thus we walk together?" Like to those Who, speaking with too reverent an awe Before their betters, draw not forth the voice Alive unto their lips, befell me shell That I in sounds imperfect thus began: "Lady! what I have need of, that thou know'st, And what will suit my need." She answering thus: "Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thou Henceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more, As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me: The vessel, which thou saw'st the serpent break, Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame, Hope not to scare God's vengeance with a sop. Without an heir for ever shall not be That eagle, he, who left the chariot plum'd, Which monster made it first and next a prey. Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the stars E'en now approaching, whose conjunction, free From all impediment and bar, brings on A season, in the which, one sent from God, (Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out) That foul one, and th' accomplice of her guilt, The giant, both shall slay. And if perchance My saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx, Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foils The intellect with blindness) yet ere long Events shall be the Naiads, that will solve This knotty riddle, and no damage light On flock or field. Take heed; and as these words By me are utter'd, teach them even so To those who live that life, which is a race To death: and when thou writ'st them, keep in mind Not to conceal how thou hast seen the plant, That twice hath now been spoil'd. This whoso robs, This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deed Sins against God, who for his use alone Creating hallow'd it. For taste of this, In pain and in desire, five thousand years And upward, the first soul did yearn for him, Who punish'd in himself the fatal gust. "Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this height And summit thus inverted of the plant, Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts, As Elsa's numbing waters, to thy soul, And their fond pleasures had not dyed it dark As Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen, In such momentous circumstance alone, God's equal justice morally implied In the forbidden tree. But since I mark thee In understanding harden'd into stone, And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain'd, So that thine eye is dazzled at my word, I will, that, if not written, yet at least Painted thou take it in thee, for the cause, That one brings home his staff inwreath'd with palm." I thus: "As wax by seal, that changeth not Its impress, now is stamp'd my brain by thee. But wherefore soars thy wish'd-for speech so high Beyond my sight, that loses it the more, The more it strains to reach it?"--"To the end That thou mayst know," she answer'd straight, "the school, That thou hast follow'd; and how far behind, When following my discourse, its learning halts: And mayst behold your art, from the divine As distant, as the disagreement is 'Twixt earth and heaven's most high and rapturous orb." "I not remember," I replied, "that e'er I was estrang'd from thee, nor for such fault Doth conscience chide me." Smiling she return'd: "If thou canst, not remember, call to mind How lately thou hast drunk of Lethe's wave; And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame, In that forgetfulness itself conclude Blame from thy alienated will incurr'd. From henceforth verily my words shall be As naked as will suit them to appear In thy unpractis'd view." More sparkling now, And with retarded course the sun possess'd The circle of mid-day, that varies still As th' aspect varies of each several clime, When, as one, sent in vaward of a troop For escort, pauses, if perchance he spy Vestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus'd The sev'nfold band, arriving at the verge Of a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen, Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oft To overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff. And, where they stood, before them, as it seem'd, Tigris and Euphrates both beheld, Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends, Linger at parting. "O enlight'ning beam! O glory of our kind! beseech thee say What water this, which from one source deriv'd Itself removes to distance from itself?" To such entreaty answer thus was made: "Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this." And here, as one, who clears himself of blame Imputed, the fair dame return'd: "Of me He this and more hath learnt; and I am safe That Lethe's water hath not hid it from him." And Beatrice: "Some more pressing care That oft the memory 'reeves, perchance hath made His mind's eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows! Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, revive His fainting virtue." As a courteous spirit, That proffers no excuses, but as soon As he hath token of another's will, Makes it his own; when she had ta'en me, thus The lovely maiden mov'd her on, and call'd To Statius with an air most lady-like: "Come thou with him." Were further space allow'd, Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part, That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne'er Been sated. But, since all the leaves are full, Appointed for this second strain, mine art With warning bridle checks me. I return'd From the most holy wave, regenerate, If 'en as new plants renew'd with foliage new, Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars. 
8798	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. PARADISE Part 3 CANTO XXII Astounded, to the guardian of my steps I turn'd me, like the chill, who always runs Thither for succour, where he trusteth most, And she was like the mother, who her son Beholding pale and breathless, with her voice Soothes him, and he is cheer'd; for thus she spake, Soothing me: "Know'st not thou, thou art in heav'n? And know'st not thou, whatever is in heav'n, Is holy, and that nothing there is done But is done zealously and well? Deem now, What change in thee the song, and what my smile had wrought, since thus the shout had pow'r to move thee. In which couldst thou have understood their prayers, The vengeance were already known to thee, Which thou must witness ere thy mortal hour, The sword of heav'n is not in haste to smite, Nor yet doth linger, save unto his seeming, Who in desire or fear doth look for it. But elsewhere now l bid thee turn thy view; So shalt thou many a famous spirit behold." Mine eyes directing, as she will'd, I saw A hundred little spheres, that fairer grew By interchange of splendour. I remain'd, As one, who fearful of o'er-much presuming, Abates in him the keenness of desire, Nor dares to question, when amid those pearls, One largest and most lustrous onward drew, That it might yield contentment to my wish; And from within it these the sounds I heard. "If thou, like me, beheldst the charity That burns amongst us, what thy mind conceives, Were utter'd. But that, ere the lofty bound Thou reach, expectance may not weary thee, I will make answer even to the thought, Which thou hast such respect of. In old days, That mountain, at whose side Cassino rests, Was on its height frequented by a race Deceived and ill dispos'd: and I it was, Who thither carried first the name of Him, Who brought the soul-subliming truth to man. And such a speeding grace shone over me, That from their impious worship I reclaim'd The dwellers round about, who with the world Were in delusion lost. These other flames, The spirits of men contemplative, were all Enliven'd by that warmth, whose kindly force Gives birth to flowers and fruits of holiness. Here is Macarius; Romoaldo here: And here my brethren, who their steps refrain'd Within the cloisters, and held firm their heart." I answ'ring, thus; "Thy gentle words and kind, And this the cheerful semblance, I behold Not unobservant, beaming in ye all, Have rais'd assurance in me, wakening it Full-blossom'd in my bosom, as a rose Before the sun, when the consummate flower Has spread to utmost amplitude. Of thee Therefore entreat I, father! to declare If I may gain such favour, as to gaze Upon thine image, by no covering veil'd." "Brother!" he thus rejoin'd, "in the last sphere Expect completion of thy lofty aim, For there on each desire completion waits, And there on mine: where every aim is found Perfect, entire, and for fulfillment ripe. There all things are as they have ever been: For space is none to bound, nor pole divides, Our ladder reaches even to that clime, And so at giddy distance mocks thy view. Thither the Patriarch Jacob saw it stretch Its topmost round, when it appear'd to him With angels laden. But to mount it now None lifts his foot from earth: and hence my rule Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves; The walls, for abbey rear'd, turned into dens, The cowls to sacks choak'd up with musty meal. Foul usury doth not more lift itself Against God's pleasure, than that fruit which makes The hearts of monks so wanton: for whate'er Is in the church's keeping, all pertains. To such, as sue for heav'n's sweet sake, and not To those who in respect of kindred claim, Or on more vile allowance. Mortal flesh Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not From the oak's birth, unto the acorn's setting. His convent Peter founded without gold Or silver; I with pray'rs and fasting mine; And Francis his in meek humility. And if thou note the point, whence each proceeds, Then look what it hath err'd to, thou shalt find The white grown murky. Jordan was turn'd back; And a less wonder, then the refluent sea, May at God's pleasure work amendment here." So saying, to his assembly back he drew: And they together cluster'd into one, Then all roll'd upward like an eddying wind. The sweet dame beckon'd me to follow them: And, by that influence only, so prevail'd Over my nature, that no natural motion, Ascending or descending here below, Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. So, reader, as my hope is to return Unto the holy triumph, for the which I ofttimes wail my sins, and smite my breast, Thou hadst been longer drawing out and thrusting Thy finger in the fire, than I was, ere The sign, that followeth Taurus, I beheld, And enter'd its precinct. O glorious stars! O light impregnate with exceeding virtue! To whom whate'er of genius lifteth me Above the vulgar, grateful I refer; With ye the parent of all mortal life Arose and set, when I did first inhale The Tuscan air; and afterward, when grace Vouchsaf'd me entrance to the lofty wheel That in its orb impels ye, fate decreed My passage at your clime. To you my soul Devoutly sighs, for virtue even now To meet the hard emprize that draws me on. "Thou art so near the sum of blessedness," Said Beatrice, "that behooves thy ken Be vigilant and clear. And, to this end, Or even thou advance thee further, hence Look downward, and contemplate, what a world Already stretched under our feet there lies: So as thy heart may, in its blithest mood, Present itself to the triumphal throng, Which through the' etherial concave comes rejoicing." I straight obey'd; and with mine eye return'd Through all the seven spheres, and saw this globe So pitiful of semblance, that perforce It moved my smiles: and him in truth I hold For wisest, who esteems it least: whose thoughts Elsewhere are fix'd, him worthiest call and best. I saw the daughter of Latona shine Without the shadow, whereof late I deem'd That dense and rare were cause. Here I sustain'd The visage, Hyperion! of thy sun; And mark'd, how near him with their circle, round Move Maia and Dione; here discern'd Jove's tempering 'twixt his sire and son; and hence Their changes and their various aspects Distinctly scann'd. Nor might I not descry Of all the seven, how bulky each, how swift; Nor of their several distances not learn. This petty area (o'er the which we stride So fiercely), as along the eternal twins I wound my way, appear'd before me all, Forth from the havens stretch'd unto the hills. Then to the beauteous eyes mine eyes return'd. CANTO XXIII E'en as the bird, who midst the leafy bower Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the night, With her sweet brood, impatient to descry Their wished looks, and to bring home their food, In the fond quest unconscious of her toil: She, of the time prevenient, on the spray, That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze Expects the sun; nor ever, till the dawn, Removeth from the east her eager ken; So stood the dame erect, and bent her glance Wistfully on that region, where the sun Abateth most his speed; that, seeing her Suspense and wand'ring, I became as one, In whom desire is waken'd, and the hope Of somewhat new to come fills with delight. Short space ensued; I was not held, I say, Long in expectance, when I saw the heav'n Wax more and more resplendent; and, "Behold," Cried Beatrice, "the triumphal hosts Of Christ, and all the harvest reap'd at length Of thy ascending up these spheres." Meseem'd, That, while she spake her image all did burn, And in her eyes such fullness was of joy, And I am fain to pass unconstrued by. As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles, In peerless beauty, 'mid th' eternal nympus, That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound In bright pre-eminence so saw I there, O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew Their radiance as from ours the starry train: And through the living light so lustrous glow'd The substance, that my ken endur'd it not. O Beatrice! sweet and precious guide! Who cheer'd me with her comfortable words! "Against the virtue, that o'erpow'reth thee, Avails not to resist. Here is the might, And here the wisdom, which did open lay The path, that had been yearned for so long, Betwixt the heav'n and earth." Like to the fire, That, in a cloud imprison'd doth break out Expansive, so that from its womb enlarg'd, It falleth against nature to the ground; Thus in that heav'nly banqueting my soul Outgrew herself; and, in the transport lost. Holds now remembrance none of what she was. "Ope thou thine eyes, and mark me: thou hast seen Things, that empower thee to sustain my smile." I was as one, when a forgotten dream Doth come across him, and he strives in vain To shape it in his fantasy again, Whenas that gracious boon was proffer'd me, Which never may be cancel'd from the book, Wherein the past is written. Now were all Those tongues to sound, that have on sweetest milk Of Polyhymnia and her sisters fed And fatten'd, not with all their help to boot, Unto the thousandth parcel of the truth, My song might shadow forth that saintly smile, flow merely in her saintly looks it wrought. And with such figuring of Paradise The sacred strain must leap, like one, that meets A sudden interruption to his road. But he, who thinks how ponderous the theme, And that 't is lain upon a mortal shoulder, May pardon, if it tremble with the burden. The track, our ventrous keel must furrow, brooks No unribb'd pinnace, no self-sparing pilot. "Why doth my face," said Beatrice, "thus Enamour thee, as that thou dost not turn Unto the beautiful garden, blossoming Beneath the rays of Christ? Here is the rose, Wherein the word divine was made incarnate; And here the lilies, by whose odour known The way of life was follow'd." Prompt I heard Her bidding, and encounter once again The strife of aching vision. As erewhile, Through glance of sunlight, stream'd through broken cloud, Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen, Though veil'd themselves in shade; so saw I there Legions of splendours, on whom burning rays Shed lightnings from above, yet saw I not The fountain whence they flow'd. O gracious virtue! Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up Thou didst exalt thy glory to give room To my o'erlabour'd sight: when at the name Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke Both morn and eve, my soul, with all her might Collected, on the goodliest ardour fix'd. And, as the bright dimensions of the star In heav'n excelling, as once here on earth Were, in my eyeballs lively portray'd, Lo! from within the sky a cresset fell, Circling in fashion of a diadem, And girt the star, and hov'ring round it wheel'd. Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, And draws the spirit most unto itself, Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder, Compar'd unto the sounding of that lyre, Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays The floor of heav'n, was crown'd. "Angelic Love I am, who thus with hov'ring flight enwheel The lofty rapture from that womb inspir'd, Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so, Lady of Heav'n! will hover; long as thou Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere." Such close was to the circling melody: And, as it ended, all the other lights Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name. The robe, that with its regal folds enwraps The world, and with the nearer breath of God Doth burn and quiver, held so far retir'd Its inner hem and skirting over us, That yet no glimmer of its majesty Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes Unequal to pursue the crowned flame, That rose and sought its natal seed of fire; And like to babe, that stretches forth its arms For very eagerness towards the breast, After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd Their wavy summits all the fervent band, Through zealous love to Mary: then in view There halted, and "Regina Coeli" sang So sweetly, the delight hath left me never. O what o'erflowing plenty is up-pil'd In those rich-laden coffers, which below Sow'd the good seed, whose harvest now they keep. Here are the treasures tasted, that with tears Were in the Babylonian exile won, When gold had fail'd them. Here in synod high Of ancient council with the new conven'd, Under the Son of Mary and of God, Victorious he his mighty triumph holds, To whom the keys of glory were assign'd. CANTO XXIV "O ye! in chosen fellowship advanc'd To the great supper of the blessed Lamb, Whereon who feeds hath every wish fulfill'd! If to this man through God's grace be vouchsaf'd Foretaste of that, which from your table falls, Or ever death his fated term prescribe; Be ye not heedless of his urgent will; But may some influence of your sacred dews Sprinkle him. Of the fount ye alway drink, Whence flows what most he craves." Beatrice spake, And the rejoicing spirits, like to spheres On firm-set poles revolving, trail'd a blaze Of comet splendour; and as wheels, that wind Their circles in the horologe, so work The stated rounds, that to th' observant eye The first seems still, and, as it flew, the last; E'en thus their carols weaving variously, They by the measure pac'd, or swift, or slow, Made me to rate the riches of their joy. From that, which I did note in beauty most Excelling, saw I issue forth a flame So bright, as none was left more goodly there. Round Beatrice thrice it wheel'd about, With so divine a song, that fancy's ear Records it not; and the pen passeth on And leaves a blank: for that our mortal speech, Nor e'en the inward shaping of the brain, Hath colours fine enough to trace such folds. "O saintly sister mine! thy prayer devout Is with so vehement affection urg'd, Thou dost unbind me from that beauteous sphere." Such were the accents towards my lady breath'd From that blest ardour, soon as it was stay'd: To whom she thus: "O everlasting light Of him, within whose mighty grasp our Lord Did leave the keys, which of this wondrous bliss He bare below! tent this man, as thou wilt, With lighter probe or deep, touching the faith, By the which thou didst on the billows walk. If he in love, in hope, and in belief, Be steadfast, is not hid from thee: for thou Hast there thy ken, where all things are beheld In liveliest portraiture. But since true faith Has peopled this fair realm with citizens, Meet is, that to exalt its glory more, Thou in his audience shouldst thereof discourse." Like to the bachelor, who arms himself, And speaks not, till the master have propos'd The question, to approve, and not to end it; So I, in silence, arm'd me, while she spake, Summoning up each argument to aid; As was behooveful for such questioner, And such profession: "As good Christian ought, Declare thee, What is faith?" Whereat I rais'd My forehead to the light, whence this had breath'd, Then turn'd to Beatrice, and in her looks Approval met, that from their inmost fount I should unlock the waters. "May the grace, That giveth me the captain of the church For confessor," said I, "vouchsafe to me Apt utterance for my thoughts!" then added: "Sire! E'en as set down by the unerring style Of thy dear brother, who with thee conspir'd To bring Rome in unto the way of life, Faith of things hop'd is substance, and the proof Of things not seen; and herein doth consist Methinks its essence,"--"Rightly hast thou deem'd," Was answer'd: "if thou well discern, why first He hath defin'd it, substance, and then proof." "The deep things," I replied, "which here I scan Distinctly, are below from mortal eye So hidden, they have in belief alone Their being, on which credence hope sublime Is built; and therefore substance it intends. And inasmuch as we must needs infer From such belief our reasoning, all respect To other view excluded, hence of proof Th' intention is deriv'd." Forthwith I heard: "If thus, whate'er by learning men attain, Were understood, the sophist would want room To exercise his wit." So breath'd the flame Of love: then added: "Current is the coin Thou utter'st, both in weight and in alloy. But tell me, if thou hast it in thy purse." "Even so glittering and so round," said I, "I not a whit misdoubt of its assay." Next issued from the deep imbosom'd splendour: "Say, whence the costly jewel, on the which Is founded every virtue, came to thee." "The flood," I answer'd, "from the Spirit of God Rain'd down upon the ancient bond and new,-- Here is the reas'ning, that convinceth me So feelingly, each argument beside Seems blunt and forceless in comparison." Then heard I: "Wherefore holdest thou that each, The elder proposition and the new, Which so persuade thee, are the voice of heav'n?" "The works, that follow'd, evidence their truth;" I answer'd: "Nature did not make for these The iron hot, or on her anvil mould them." "Who voucheth to thee of the works themselves," Was the reply, "that they in very deed Are that they purport? None hath sworn so to thee." "That all the world," said I, "should have been turn'd To Christian, and no miracle been wrought, Would in itself be such a miracle, The rest were not an hundredth part so great. E'en thou wentst forth in poverty and hunger To set the goodly plant, that from the vine, It once was, now is grown unsightly bramble." That ended, through the high celestial court Resounded all the spheres. "Praise we one God!" In song of most unearthly melody. And when that Worthy thus, from branch to branch, Examining, had led me, that we now Approach'd the topmost bough, he straight resum'd; "The grace, that holds sweet dalliance with thy soul, So far discreetly hath thy lips unclos'd That, whatsoe'er has past them, I commend. Behooves thee to express, what thou believ'st, The next, and whereon thy belief hath grown." "O saintly sire and spirit!" I began, "Who seest that, which thou didst so believe, As to outstrip feet younger than thine own, Toward the sepulchre? thy will is here, That I the tenour of my creed unfold; And thou the cause of it hast likewise ask'd. And I reply: I in one God believe, One sole eternal Godhead, of whose love All heav'n is mov'd, himself unmov'd the while. Nor demonstration physical alone, Or more intelligential and abstruse, Persuades me to this faith; but from that truth It cometh to me rather, which is shed Through Moses, the rapt Prophets, and the Psalms. The Gospel, and that ye yourselves did write, When ye were gifted of the Holy Ghost. In three eternal Persons I believe, Essence threefold and one, mysterious league Of union absolute, which, many a time, The word of gospel lore upon my mind Imprints: and from this germ, this firstling spark, The lively flame dilates, and like heav'n's star Doth glitter in me." As the master hears, Well pleas'd, and then enfoldeth in his arms The servant, who hath joyful tidings brought, And having told the errand keeps his peace; Thus benediction uttering with song Soon as my peace I held, compass'd me thrice The apostolic radiance, whose behest Had op'd lips; so well their answer pleas'd. CANTO XXV If e'er the sacred poem that hath made Both heav'n and earth copartners in its toil, And with lean abstinence, through many a year, Faded my brow, be destin'd to prevail Over the cruelty, which bars me forth Of the fair sheep-fold, where a sleeping lamb The wolves set on and fain had worried me, With other voice and fleece of other grain I shall forthwith return, and, standing up At my baptismal font, shall claim the wreath Due to the poet's temples: for I there First enter'd on the faith which maketh souls Acceptable to God: and, for its sake, Peter had then circled my forehead thus. Next from the squadron, whence had issued forth The first fruit of Christ's vicars on the earth, Toward us mov'd a light, at view whereof My Lady, full of gladness, spake to me: "Lo! lo! behold the peer of mickle might, That makes Falicia throng'd with visitants!" As when the ring-dove by his mate alights, In circles each about the other wheels, And murmuring cooes his fondness; thus saw I One, of the other great and glorious prince, With kindly greeting hail'd, extolling both Their heavenly banqueting; but when an end Was to their gratulation, silent, each, Before me sat they down, so burning bright, I could not look upon them. Smiling then, Beatrice spake: "O life in glory shrin'd!" Who didst the largess of our kingly court Set down with faithful pen! let now thy voice Of hope the praises in this height resound. For thou, who figur'st them in shapes, as clear, As Jesus stood before thee, well can'st speak them." "Lift up thy head, and be thou strong in trust: For that, which hither from the mortal world Arriveth, must be ripen'd in our beam." Such cheering accents from the second flame Assur'd me; and mine eyes I lifted up Unto the mountains that had bow'd them late With over-heavy burden. "Sith our Liege Wills of his grace that thou, or ere thy death, In the most secret council, with his lords Shouldst be confronted, so that having view'd The glories of our court, thou mayst therewith Thyself, and all who hear, invigorate With hope, that leads to blissful end; declare, What is that hope, how it doth flourish in thee, And whence thou hadst it?" Thus proceeding still, The second light: and she, whose gentle love My soaring pennons in that lofty flight Escorted, thus preventing me, rejoin'd: Among her sons, not one more full of hope, Hath the church militant: so 't is of him Recorded in the sun, whose liberal orb Enlighteneth all our tribe: and ere his term Of warfare, hence permitted he is come, From Egypt to Jerusalem, to see. The other points, both which thou hast inquir'd, Not for more knowledge, but that he may tell How dear thou holdst the virtue, these to him Leave I; for he may answer thee with ease, And without boasting, so God give him grace." Like to the scholar, practis'd in his task, Who, willing to give proof of diligence, Seconds his teacher gladly, "Hope," said I, "Is of the joy to come a sure expectance, Th' effect of grace divine and merit preceding. This light from many a star visits my heart, But flow'd to me the first from him, who sang The songs of the Supreme, himself supreme Among his tuneful brethren. 'Let all hope In thee,' so speak his anthem, 'who have known Thy name;' and with my faith who know not that? From thee, the next, distilling from his spring, In thine epistle, fell on me the drops So plenteously, that I on others shower The influence of their dew." Whileas I spake, A lamping, as of quick and vollied lightning, Within the bosom of that mighty sheen, Play'd tremulous; then forth these accents breath'd: "Love for the virtue which attended me E'en to the palm, and issuing from the field, Glows vigorous yet within me, and inspires To ask of thee, whom also it delights; What promise thou from hope in chief dost win." "Both scriptures, new and ancient," I reply'd; "Propose the mark (which even now I view) For souls belov'd of God. Isaias saith, That, in their own land, each one must be clad In twofold vesture; and their proper lands this delicious life. In terms more full, And clearer far, thy brother hath set forth This revelation to us, where he tells Of the white raiment destin'd to the saints." And, as the words were ending, from above, "They hope in thee," first heard we cried: whereto Answer'd the carols all. Amidst them next, A light of so clear amplitude emerg'd, That winter's month were but a single day, Were such a crystal in the Cancer's sign. Like as a virgin riseth up, and goes, And enters on the mazes of the dance, Though gay, yet innocent of worse intent, Than to do fitting honour to the bride; So I beheld the new effulgence come Unto the other two, who in a ring Wheel'd, as became their rapture. In the dance And in the song it mingled. And the dame Held on them fix'd her looks: e'en as the spouse Silent and moveless. "This is he, who lay Upon the bosom of our pelican: This he, into whose keeping from the cross The mighty charge was given." Thus she spake, Yet therefore naught the more remov'd her Sight From marking them, or ere her words began, Or when they clos'd. As he, who looks intent, And strives with searching ken, how he may see The sun in his eclipse, and, through desire Of seeing, loseth power of sight: so I Peer'd on that last resplendence, while I heard: "Why dazzlest thou thine eyes in seeking that, Which here abides not? Earth my body is, In earth: and shall be, with the rest, so long, As till our number equal the decree Of the Most High. The two that have ascended, In this our blessed cloister, shine alone With the two garments. So report below." As when, for ease of labour, or to shun Suspected peril at a whistle's breath, The oars, erewhile dash'd frequent in the wave, All rest; the flamy circle at that voice So rested, and the mingling sound was still, Which from the trinal band soft-breathing rose. I turn'd, but ah! how trembled in my thought, When, looking at my side again to see Beatrice, I descried her not, although Not distant, on the happy coast she stood. CANTO XXVI With dazzled eyes, whilst wond'ring I remain'd, Forth of the beamy flame which dazzled me, Issued a breath, that in attention mute Detain'd me; and these words it spake: "'T were well, That, long as till thy vision, on my form O'erspent, regain its virtue, with discourse Thou compensate the brief delay. Say then, Beginning, to what point thy soul aspires: "And meanwhile rest assur'd, that sight in thee Is but o'erpowered a space, not wholly quench'd: Since thy fair guide and lovely, in her look Hath potency, the like to that which dwelt In Ananias' hand." I answering thus: "Be to mine eyes the remedy or late Or early, at her pleasure; for they were The gates, at which she enter'd, and did light Her never dying fire. My wishes here Are centered; in this palace is the weal, That Alpha and Omega, is to all The lessons love can read me." Yet again The voice which had dispers'd my fear, when daz'd With that excess, to converse urg'd, and spake: "Behooves thee sift more narrowly thy terms, And say, who level'd at this scope thy bow." "Philosophy," said I, ''hath arguments, And this place hath authority enough 'T' imprint in me such love: for, of constraint, Good, inasmuch as we perceive the good, Kindles our love, and in degree the more, As it comprises more of goodness in 't. The essence then, where such advantage is, That each good, found without it, is naught else But of his light the beam, must needs attract The soul of each one, loving, who the truth Discerns, on which this proof is built. Such truth Learn I from him, who shows me the first love Of all intelligential substances Eternal: from his voice I learn, whose word Is truth, that of himself to Moses saith, 'I will make all my good before thee pass.' Lastly from thee I learn, who chief proclaim'st, E'en at the outset of thy heralding, In mortal ears the mystery of heav'n." "Through human wisdom, and th' authority Therewith agreeing," heard I answer'd, "keep The choicest of thy love for God. But say, If thou yet other cords within thee feel'st That draw thee towards him; so that thou report How many are the fangs, with which this love Is grappled to thy soul." I did not miss, To what intent the eagle of our Lord Had pointed his demand; yea noted well Th' avowal, which he led to; and resum'd: "All grappling bonds, that knit the heart to God, Confederate to make fast our clarity. The being of the world, and mine own being, The death which he endur'd that I should live, And that, which all the faithful hope, as I do, To the foremention'd lively knowledge join'd, Have from the sea of ill love sav'd my bark, And on the coast secur'd it of the right. As for the leaves, that in the garden bloom, My love for them is great, as is the good Dealt by th' eternal hand, that tends them all." I ended, and therewith a song most sweet Rang through the spheres; and "Holy, holy, holy," Accordant with the rest my lady sang. And as a sleep is broken and dispers'd Through sharp encounter of the nimble light, With the eye's spirit running forth to meet The ray, from membrane on to the membrane urg'd; And the upstartled wight loathes that he sees; So, at his sudden waking, he misdeems Of all around him, till assurance waits On better judgment: thus the saintly came Drove from before mine eyes the motes away, With the resplendence of her own, that cast Their brightness downward, thousand miles below. Whence I my vision, clearer shall before, Recover'd; and, well nigh astounded, ask'd Of a fourth light, that now with us I saw. And Beatrice: "The first diving soul, That ever the first virtue fram'd, admires Within these rays his Maker." Like the leaf, That bows its lithe top till the blast is blown; By its own virtue rear'd then stands aloof; So I, the whilst she said, awe-stricken bow'd. Then eagerness to speak embolden'd me; And I began: "O fruit! that wast alone Mature, when first engender'd! Ancient father! That doubly seest in every wedded bride Thy daughter by affinity and blood! Devoutly as I may, I pray thee hold Converse with me: my will thou seest; and I, More speedily to hear thee, tell it not." It chanceth oft some animal bewrays, Through the sleek cov'ring of his furry coat. The fondness, that stirs in him and conforms His outside seeming to the cheer within: And in like guise was Adam's spirit mov'd To joyous mood, that through the covering shone, Transparent, when to pleasure me it spake: "No need thy will be told, which I untold Better discern, than thou whatever thing Thou holdst most certain: for that will I see In Him, who is truth's mirror, and Himself Parhelion unto all things, and naught else To him. This wouldst thou hear; how long since God Plac'd me high garden, from whose hounds She led me up in this ladder, steep and long; What space endur'd my season of delight; Whence truly sprang the wrath that banish'd me; And what the language, which I spake and fram'd Not that I tasted of the tree, my son, Was in itself the cause of that exile, But only my transgressing of the mark Assign'd me. There, whence at thy lady's hest The Mantuan mov'd him, still was I debarr'd This council, till the sun had made complete, Four thousand and three hundred rounds and twice, His annual journey; and, through every light In his broad pathway, saw I him return, Thousand save sev'nty times, the whilst I dwelt Upon the earth. The language I did use Was worn away, or ever Nimrod's race Their unaccomplishable work began. For naught, that man inclines to, ere was lasting, Left by his reason free, and variable, As is the sky that sways him. That he speaks, Is nature's prompting: whether thus or thus, She leaves to you, as ye do most affect it. Ere I descended into hell's abyss, El was the name on earth of the Chief Good, Whose joy enfolds me: Eli then 't was call'd And so beseemeth: for, in mortals, use Is as the leaf upon the bough; that goes, And other comes instead. Upon the mount Most high above the waters, all my life, Both innocent and guilty, did but reach From the first hour, to that which cometh next (As the sun changes quarter), to the sixth." CANTO XXVII Then "Glory to the Father, to the Son, And to the Holy Spirit," rang aloud Throughout all Paradise, that with the song My spirit reel'd, so passing sweet the strain: And what I saw was equal ecstasy; One universal smile it seem'd of all things, Joy past compare, gladness unutterable, Imperishable life of peace and love, Exhaustless riches and unmeasur'd bliss. Before mine eyes stood the four torches lit; And that, which first had come, began to wax In brightness, and in semblance such became, As Jove might be, if he and Mars were birds, And interchang'd their plumes. Silence ensued, Through the blest quire, by Him, who here appoints Vicissitude of ministry, enjoin'd; When thus I heard: "Wonder not, if my hue Be chang'd; for, while I speak, these shalt thou see All in like manner change with me. My place He who usurps on earth (my place, ay, mine, Which in the presence of the Son of God Is void), the same hath made my cemetery A common sewer of puddle and of blood: The more below his triumph, who from hence Malignant fell." Such colour, as the sun, At eve or morning, paints an adverse cloud, Then saw I sprinkled over all the sky. And as th' unblemish'd dame, who in herself Secure of censure, yet at bare report Of other's failing, shrinks with maiden fear; So Beatrice in her semblance chang'd: And such eclipse in heav'n methinks was seen, When the Most Holy suffer'd. Then the words Proceeded, with voice, alter'd from itself So clean, the semblance did not alter more. "Not to this end was Christ's spouse with my blood, With that of Linus, and of Cletus fed: That she might serve for purchase of base gold: But for the purchase of this happy life Did Sextus, Pius, and Callixtus bleed, And Urban, they, whose doom was not without Much weeping seal'd. No purpose was of our That on the right hand of our successors Part of the Christian people should be set, And part upon their left; nor that the keys, Which were vouchsaf'd me, should for ensign serve Unto the banners, that do levy war On the baptiz'd: nor I, for sigil-mark Set upon sold and lying privileges; Which makes me oft to bicker and turn red. In shepherd's clothing greedy wolves below Range wide o'er all the pastures. Arm of God! Why longer sleepst thou? Caorsines and Gascona Prepare to quaff our blood. O good beginning To what a vile conclusion must thou stoop! But the high providence, which did defend Through Scipio the world's glory unto Rome, Will not delay its succour: and thou, son, Who through thy mortal weight shall yet again Return below, open thy lips, nor hide What is by me not hidden." As a Hood Of frozen vapours streams adown the air, What time the she-goat with her skiey horn Touches the sun; so saw I there stream wide The vapours, who with us had linger'd late And with glad triumph deck th' ethereal cope. Onward my sight their semblances pursued; So far pursued, as till the space between From its reach sever'd them: whereat the guide Celestial, marking me no more intent On upward gazing, said, "Look down and see What circuit thou hast compass'd." From the hour When I before had cast my view beneath, All the first region overpast I saw, Which from the midmost to the bound'ry winds; That onward thence from Gades I beheld The unwise passage of Laertes' son, And hitherward the shore, where thou, Europa! Mad'st thee a joyful burden: and yet more Of this dim spot had seen, but that the sun, A constellation off and more, had ta'en His progress in the zodiac underneath. Then by the spirit, that doth never leave Its amorous dalliance with my lady's looks, Back with redoubled ardour were mine eyes Led unto her: and from her radiant smiles, Whenas I turn'd me, pleasure so divine Did lighten on me, that whatever bait Or art or nature in the human flesh, Or in its limn'd resemblance, can combine Through greedy eyes to take the soul withal, Were to her beauty nothing. Its boon influence From the fair nest of Leda rapt me forth, And wafted on into the swiftest heav'n. What place for entrance Beatrice chose, I may not say, so uniform was all, Liveliest and loftiest. She my secret wish Divin'd; and with such gladness, that God's love Seem'd from her visage shining, thus began: "Here is the goal, whence motion on his race Starts; motionless the centre, and the rest All mov'd around. Except the soul divine, Place in this heav'n is none, the soul divine, Wherein the love, which ruleth o'er its orb, Is kindled, and the virtue that it sheds; One circle, light and love, enclasping it, As this doth clasp the others; and to Him, Who draws the bound, its limit only known. Measur'd itself by none, it doth divide Motion to all, counted unto them forth, As by the fifth or half ye count forth ten. The vase, wherein time's roots are plung'd, thou seest, Look elsewhere for the leaves. O mortal lust! That canst not lift thy head above the waves Which whelm and sink thee down! The will in man Bears goodly blossoms; but its ruddy promise Is, by the dripping of perpetual rain, Made mere abortion: faith and innocence Are met with but in babes, each taking leave Ere cheeks with down are sprinkled; he, that fasts, While yet a stammerer, with his tongue let loose Gluts every food alike in every moon. One yet a babbler, loves and listens to His mother; but no sooner hath free use Of speech, than he doth wish her in her grave. So suddenly doth the fair child of him, Whose welcome is the morn and eve his parting, To negro blackness change her virgin white. "Thou, to abate thy wonder, note that none Bears rule in earth, and its frail family Are therefore wand'rers. Yet before the date, When through the hundredth in his reck'ning drops Pale January must be shor'd aside From winter's calendar, these heav'nly spheres Shall roar so loud, that fortune shall be fain To turn the poop, where she hath now the prow; So that the fleet run onward; and true fruit, Expected long, shall crown at last the bloom!" CANTO XXVII So she who doth imparadise my soul, Had drawn the veil from off our pleasant life, And bar'd the truth of poor mortality; When lo! as one who, in a mirror, spies The shining of a flambeau at his back, Lit sudden ore he deem of its approach, And turneth to resolve him, if the glass Have told him true, and sees the record faithful As note is to its metre; even thus, I well remember, did befall to me, Looking upon the beauteous eyes, whence love Had made the leash to take me. As I turn'd; And that, which, in their circles, none who spies, Can miss of, in itself apparent, struck On mine; a point I saw, that darted light So sharp, no lid, unclosing, may bear up Against its keenness. The least star we view From hence, had seem'd a moon, set by its side, As star by side of star. And so far off, Perchance, as is the halo from the light Which paints it, when most dense the vapour spreads, There wheel'd about the point a circle of fire, More rapid than the motion, which first girds The world. Then, circle after circle, round Enring'd each other; till the seventh reach'd Circumference so ample, that its bow, Within the span of Juno's messenger, lied scarce been held entire. Beyond the sev'nth, Follow'd yet other two. And every one, As more in number distant from the first, Was tardier in motion; and that glow'd With flame most pure, that to the sparkle' of truth Was nearest, as partaking most, methinks, Of its reality. The guide belov'd Saw me in anxious thought suspense, and spake: "Heav'n, and all nature, hangs upon that point. The circle thereto most conjoin'd observe; And know, that by intenser love its course Is to this swiftness wing'd." To whom I thus: "It were enough; nor should I further seek, Had I but witness'd order, in the world Appointed, such as in these wheels is seen. But in the sensible world such diff'rence is, That is each round shows more divinity, As each is wider from the centre. Hence, If in this wondrous and angelic temple, That hath for confine only light and love, My wish may have completion I must know, Wherefore such disagreement is between Th' exemplar and its copy: for myself, Contemplating, I fail to pierce the cause." "It is no marvel, if thy fingers foil'd Do leave the knot untied: so hard 't is grown For want of tenting." Thus she said: "But take," She added, "if thou wish thy cure, my words, And entertain them subtly. Every orb Corporeal, doth proportion its extent Unto the virtue through its parts diffus'd. The greater blessedness preserves the more. The greater is the body (if all parts Share equally) the more is to preserve. Therefore the circle, whose swift course enwheels The universal frame answers to that, Which is supreme in knowledge and in love Thus by the virtue, not the seeming, breadth Of substance, measure, thou shalt see the heav'ns, Each to the' intelligence that ruleth it, Greater to more, and smaller unto less, Suited in strict and wondrous harmony." As when the sturdy north blows from his cheek A blast, that scours the sky, forthwith our air, Clear'd of the rack, that hung on it before, Glitters; and, With his beauties all unveil'd, The firmament looks forth serene, and smiles; Such was my cheer, when Beatrice drove With clear reply the shadows back, and truth Was manifested, as a star in heaven. And when the words were ended, not unlike To iron in the furnace, every cirque Ebullient shot forth scintillating fires: And every sparkle shivering to new blaze, In number did outmillion the account Reduplicate upon the chequer'd board. Then heard I echoing on from choir to choir, "Hosanna," to the fixed point, that holds, And shall for ever hold them to their place, From everlasting, irremovable. Musing awhile I stood: and she, who saw by inward meditations, thus began: "In the first circles, they, whom thou beheldst, Are seraphim and cherubim. Thus swift Follow their hoops, in likeness to the point, Near as they can, approaching; and they can The more, the loftier their vision. Those, That round them fleet, gazing the Godhead next, Are thrones; in whom the first trine ends. And all Are blessed, even as their sight descends Deeper into the truth, wherein rest is For every mind. Thus happiness hath root In seeing, not in loving, which of sight Is aftergrowth. And of the seeing such The meed, as unto each in due degree Grace and good-will their measure have assign'd. The other trine, that with still opening buds In this eternal springtide blossom fair, Fearless of bruising from the nightly ram, Breathe up in warbled melodies threefold Hosannas blending ever, from the three Transmitted. hierarchy of gods, for aye Rejoicing, dominations first, next then Virtues, and powers the third. The next to whom Are princedoms and archangels, with glad round To tread their festal ring; and last the band Angelical, disporting in their sphere. All, as they circle in their orders, look Aloft, and downward with such sway prevail, That all with mutual impulse tend to God. These once a mortal view beheld. Desire In Dionysius so intently wrought, That he, as I have done rang'd them; and nam'd Their orders, marshal'd in his thought. From him Dissentient, one refus'd his sacred read. But soon as in this heav'n his doubting eyes Were open'd, Gregory at his error smil'd Nor marvel, that a denizen of earth Should scan such secret truth; for he had learnt Both this and much beside of these our orbs, From an eye-witness to heav'n's mysteries." CANTO XXIX No longer than what time Latona's twins Cover'd of Libra and the fleecy star, Together both, girding the' horizon hang, In even balance from the zenith pois'd, Till from that verge, each, changing hemisphere, Part the nice level; e'en so brief a space Did Beatrice's silence hold. A smile Bat painted on her cheek; and her fix'd gaze Bent on the point, at which my vision fail'd: When thus her words resuming she began: "I speak, nor what thou wouldst inquire demand; For I have mark'd it, where all time and place Are present. Not for increase to himself Of good, which may not be increas'd, but forth To manifest his glory by its beams, Inhabiting his own eternity, Beyond time's limit or what bound soe'er To circumscribe his being, as he will'd, Into new natures, like unto himself, Eternal Love unfolded. Nor before, As if in dull inaction torpid lay. For not in process of before or aft Upon these waters mov'd the Spirit of God. Simple and mix'd, both form and substance, forth To perfect being started, like three darts Shot from a bow three-corded. And as ray In crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire, E'en at the moment of its issuing; thus Did, from th' eternal Sovran, beam entire His threefold operation, at one act Produc'd coeval. Yet in order each Created his due station knew: those highest, Who pure intelligence were made: mere power The lowest: in the midst, bound with strict league, Intelligence and power, unsever'd bond. Long tract of ages by the angels past, Ere the creating of another world, Describ'd on Jerome's pages thou hast seen. But that what I disclose to thee is true, Those penmen, whom the Holy Spirit mov'd In many a passage of their sacred book Attest; as thou by diligent search shalt find And reason in some sort discerns the same, Who scarce would grant the heav'nly ministers Of their perfection void, so long a space. Thus when and where these spirits of love were made, Thou know'st, and how: and knowing hast allay'd Thy thirst, which from the triple question rose. Ere one had reckon'd twenty, e'en so soon Part of the angels fell: and in their fall Confusion to your elements ensued. The others kept their station: and this task, Whereon thou lookst, began with such delight, That they surcease not ever, day nor night, Their circling. Of that fatal lapse the cause Was the curst pride of him, whom thou hast seen Pent with the world's incumbrance. Those, whom here Thou seest, were lowly to confess themselves Of his free bounty, who had made them apt For ministries so high: therefore their views Were by enlight'ning grace and their own merit Exalted; so that in their will confirm'd They stand, nor feel to fall. For do not doubt, But to receive the grace, which heav'n vouchsafes, Is meritorious, even as the soul With prompt affection welcometh the guest. Now, without further help, if with good heed My words thy mind have treasur'd, thou henceforth This consistory round about mayst scan, And gaze thy fill. But since thou hast on earth Heard vain disputers, reasoners in the schools, Canvas the' angelic nature, and dispute Its powers of apprehension, memory, choice; Therefore, 't is well thou take from me the truth, Pure and without disguise, which they below, Equivocating, darken and perplex. "Know thou, that, from the first, these substances, Rejoicing in the countenance of God, Have held unceasingly their view, intent Upon the glorious vision, from the which Naught absent is nor hid: where then no change Of newness with succession interrupts, Remembrance there needs none to gather up Divided thought and images remote "So that men, thus at variance with the truth Dream, though their eyes be open; reckless some Of error; others well aware they err, To whom more guilt and shame are justly due. Each the known track of sage philosophy Deserts, and has a byway of his own: So much the restless eagerness to shine And love of singularity prevail. Yet this, offensive as it is, provokes Heav'n's anger less, than when the book of God Is forc'd to yield to man's authority, Or from its straightness warp'd: no reck'ning made What blood the sowing of it in the world Has cost; what favour for himself he wins, Who meekly clings to it. The aim of all Is how to shine: e'en they, whose office is To preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep, And pass their own inventions off instead. One tells, how at Christ's suffering the wan moon Bent back her steps, and shadow'd o'er the sun With intervenient disk, as she withdrew: Another, how the light shrouded itself Within its tabernacle, and left dark The Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew. Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears, Bandied about more frequent, than the names Of Bindi and of Lapi in her streets. The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, return From pasture, fed with wind: and what avails For their excuse, they do not see their harm? Christ said not to his first conventicle, 'Go forth and preach impostures to the world,' But gave them truth to build on; and the sound Was mighty on their lips; nor needed they, Beside the gospel, other spear or shield, To aid them in their warfare for the faith. The preacher now provides himself with store Of jests and gibes; and, so there be no lack Of laughter, while he vents them, his big cowl Distends, and he has won the meed he sought: Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the while Of that dark bird which nestles in his hood, They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said. Which now the dotards hold in such esteem, That every counterfeit, who spreads abroad The hands of holy promise, finds a throng Of credulous fools beneath. Saint Anthony Fattens with this his swine, and others worse Than swine, who diet at his lazy board, Paying with unstamp'd metal for their fare. "But (for we far have wander'd) let us seek The forward path again; so as the way Be shorten'd with the time. No mortal tongue Nor thought of man hath ever reach'd so far, That of these natures he might count the tribes. What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal'd With finite number infinite conceals. The fountain at whose source these drink their beams, With light supplies them in as many modes, As there are splendours, that it shines on: each According to the virtue it conceives, Differing in love and sweet affection. Look then how lofty and how huge in breadth The' eternal might, which, broken and dispers'd Over such countless mirrors, yet remains Whole in itself and one, as at the first." CANTO XXX Noon's fervid hour perchance six thousand miles From hence is distant; and the shadowy cone Almost to level on our earth declines; When from the midmost of this blue abyss By turns some star is to our vision lost. And straightway as the handmaid of the sun Puts forth her radiant brow, all, light by light, Fade, and the spangled firmament shuts in, E'en to the loveliest of the glittering throng. Thus vanish'd gradually from my sight The triumph, which plays ever round the point, That overcame me, seeming (for it did) Engirt by that it girdeth. Wherefore love, With loss of other object, forc'd me bend Mine eyes on Beatrice once again. If all, that hitherto is told of her, Were in one praise concluded, 't were too weak To furnish out this turn. Mine eyes did look On beauty, such, as I believe in sooth, Not merely to exceed our human, but, That save its Maker, none can to the full Enjoy it. At this point o'erpower'd I fail, Unequal to my theme, as never bard Of buskin or of sock hath fail'd before. For, as the sun doth to the feeblest sight, E'en so remembrance of that witching smile Hath dispossess my spirit of itself. Not from that day, when on this earth I first Beheld her charms, up to that view of them, Have I with song applausive ever ceas'd To follow, but not follow them no more; My course here bounded, as each artist's is, When it doth touch the limit of his skill. She (such as I bequeath her to the bruit Of louder trump than mine, which hasteneth on, Urging its arduous matter to the close), Her words resum'd, in gesture and in voice Resembling one accustom'd to command: "Forth from the last corporeal are we come Into the heav'n, that is unbodied light, Light intellectual replete with love, Love of true happiness replete with joy, Joy, that transcends all sweetness of delight. Here shalt thou look on either mighty host Of Paradise; and one in that array, Which in the final judgment thou shalt see." As when the lightning, in a sudden spleen Unfolded, dashes from the blinding eyes The visive spirits dazzled and bedimm'd; So, round about me, fulminating streams Of living radiance play'd, and left me swath'd And veil'd in dense impenetrable blaze. Such weal is in the love, that stills this heav'n; For its own flame the torch this fitting ever! No sooner to my list'ning ear had come The brief assurance, than I understood New virtue into me infus'd, and sight Kindled afresh, with vigour to sustain Excess of light, however pure. I look'd; And in the likeness of a river saw Light flowing, from whose amber-seeming waves Flash'd up effulgence, as they glided on 'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring, Incredible how fair; and, from the tide, There ever and anon, outstarting, flew Sparkles instinct with life; and in the flow'rs Did set them, like to rubies chas'd in gold; Then, as if drunk with odors, plung'd again Into the wondrous flood; from which, as one Re'enter'd, still another rose. "The thirst Of knowledge high, whereby thou art inflam'd, To search the meaning of what here thou seest, The more it warms thee, pleases me the more. But first behooves thee of this water drink, Or ere that longing be allay'd." So spake The day-star of mine eyes; then thus subjoin'd: "This stream, and these, forth issuing from its gulf, And diving back, a living topaz each, With all this laughter on its bloomy shores, Are but a preface, shadowy of the truth They emblem: not that, in themselves, the things Are crude; but on thy part is the defect, For that thy views not yet aspire so high." Never did babe, that had outslept his wont, Rush, with such eager straining, to the milk, As I toward the water, bending me, To make the better mirrors of mine eyes In the refining wave; and, as the eaves Of mine eyelids did drink of it, forthwith Seem'd it unto me turn'd from length to round, Then as a troop of maskers, when they put Their vizors off, look other than before, The counterfeited semblance thrown aside; So into greater jubilee were chang'd Those flowers and sparkles, and distinct I saw Before me either court of heav'n displac'd. O prime enlightener! thou who crav'st me strength On the high triumph of thy realm to gaze! Grant virtue now to utter what I kenn'd, There is in heav'n a light, whose goodly shine Makes the Creator visible to all Created, that in seeing him alone Have peace; and in a circle spreads so far, That the circumference were too loose a zone To girdle in the sun. All is one beam, Reflected from the summit of the first, That moves, which being hence and vigour takes, And as some cliff, that from the bottom eyes Its image mirror'd in the crystal flood, As if 't admire its brave appareling Of verdure and of flowers: so, round about, Eyeing the light, on more than million thrones, Stood, eminent, whatever from our earth Has to the skies return'd. How wide the leaves Extended to their utmost of this rose, Whose lowest step embosoms such a space Of ample radiance! Yet, nor amplitude Nor height impeded, but my view with ease Took in the full dimensions of that joy. Near or remote, what there avails, where God Immediate rules, and Nature, awed, suspends Her sway? Into the yellow of the rose Perennial, which in bright expansiveness, Lays forth its gradual blooming, redolent Of praises to the never-wint'ring sun, As one, who fain would speak yet holds his peace, Beatrice led me; and, "Behold," she said, "This fair assemblage! stoles of snowy white How numberless! The city, where we dwell, Behold how vast! and these our seats so throng'd Few now are wanting here! In that proud stall, On which, the crown, already o'er its state Suspended, holds thine eyes--or ere thyself Mayst at the wedding sup,--shall rest the soul Of the great Harry, he who, by the world Augustas hail'd, to Italy must come, Before her day be ripe. But ye are sick, And in your tetchy wantonness as blind, As is the bantling, that of hunger dies, And drives away the nurse. Nor may it be, That he, who in the sacred forum sways, Openly or in secret, shall with him Accordant walk: Whom God will not endure I' th' holy office long; but thrust him down To Simon Magus, where Magna's priest Will sink beneath him: such will be his meed." CANTO XXXI In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then Before my view the saintly multitude, Which in his own blood Christ espous'd. Meanwhile That other host, that soar aloft to gaze And celebrate his glory, whom they love, Hover'd around; and, like a troop of bees, Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, Now, clustering, where their fragrant labour glows, Flew downward to the mighty flow'r, or rose From the redundant petals, streaming back Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold; The rest was whiter than the driven snow. And as they flitted down into the flower, From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, Whisper'd the peace and ardour, which they won From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast Interposition of such numerous flight Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, Wherever merited, celestial light Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. All there, who reign in safety and in bliss, Ages long past or new, on one sole mark Their love and vision fix'd. O trinal beam Of individual star, that charmst them thus, Vouchsafe one glance to gild our storm below! If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roam'd, (Where helice, forever, as she wheels, Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son) Stood in mute wonder 'mid the works of Rome, When to their view the Lateran arose In greatness more than earthly; I, who then From human to divine had past, from time Unto eternity, and out of Florence To justice and to truth, how might I choose But marvel too? 'Twixt gladness and amaze, In sooth no will had I to utter aught, Or hear. And, as a pilgrim, when he rests Within the temple of his vow, looks round In breathless awe, and hopes some time to tell Of all its goodly state: e'en so mine eyes Cours'd up and down along the living light, Now low, and now aloft, and now around, Visiting every step. Looks I beheld, Where charity in soft persuasion sat, Smiles from within and radiance from above, And in each gesture grace and honour high. So rov'd my ken, and its general form All Paradise survey'd: when round I turn'd With purpose of my lady to inquire Once more of things, that held my thought suspense, But answer found from other than I ween'd; For, Beatrice, when I thought to see, I saw instead a senior, at my side, Rob'd, as the rest, in glory. Joy benign Glow'd in his eye, and o'er his cheek diffus'd, With gestures such as spake a father's love. And, "Whither is she vanish'd?" straight I ask'd. "By Beatrice summon'd," he replied, "I come to aid thy wish. Looking aloft To the third circle from the highest, there Behold her on the throne, wherein her merit Hath plac'd her." Answering not, mine eyes I rais'd, And saw her, where aloof she sat, her brow A wreath reflecting of eternal beams. Not from the centre of the sea so far Unto the region of the highest thunder, As was my ken from hers; and yet the form Came through that medium down, unmix'd and pure, "O Lady! thou in whom my hopes have rest! Who, for my safety, hast not scorn'd, in hell To leave the traces of thy footsteps mark'd! For all mine eyes have seen, I, to thy power And goodness, virtue owe and grace. Of slave, Thou hast to freedom brought me; and no means, For my deliverance apt, hast left untried. Thy liberal bounty still toward me keep. That, when my spirit, which thou madest whole, Is loosen'd from this body, it may find Favour with thee." So I my suit preferr'd: And she, so distant, as appear'd, look'd down, And smil'd; then tow'rds th' eternal fountain turn'd. And thus the senior, holy and rever'd: "That thou at length mayst happily conclude Thy voyage (to which end I was dispatch'd, By supplication mov'd and holy love) Let thy upsoaring vision range, at large, This garden through: for so, by ray divine Kindled, thy ken a higher flight shall mount; And from heav'n's queen, whom fervent I adore, All gracious aid befriend us; for that I Am her own faithful Bernard." Like a wight, Who haply from Croatia wends to see Our Veronica, and the while 't is shown, Hangs over it with never-sated gaze, And, all that he hath heard revolving, saith Unto himself in thought: "And didst thou look E'en thus, O Jesus, my true Lord and God? And was this semblance thine?" So gaz'd I then Adoring; for the charity of him, Who musing, in the world that peace enjoy'd, Stood lively before me. "Child of grace!" Thus he began: "thou shalt not knowledge gain Of this glad being, if thine eyes are held Still in this depth below. But search around The circles, to the furthest, till thou spy Seated in state, the queen, that of this realm Is sovran." Straight mine eyes I rais'd; and bright, As, at the birth of morn, the eastern clime Above th' horizon, where the sun declines; To mine eyes, that upward, as from vale To mountain sped, at th' extreme bound, a part Excell'd in lustre all the front oppos'd. And as the glow burns ruddiest o'er the wave, That waits the sloping beam, which Phaeton Ill knew to guide, and on each part the light Diminish'd fades, intensest in the midst; So burn'd the peaceful oriflame, and slack'd On every side the living flame decay'd. And in that midst their sportive pennons wav'd Thousands of angels; in resplendence each Distinct, and quaint adornment. At their glee And carol, smil'd the Lovely One of heav'n, That joy was in the eyes of all the blest. Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich, As is the colouring in fancy's loom, 'T were all too poor to utter the least part Of that enchantment. When he saw mine eyes Intent on her, that charm'd him, Bernard gaz'd With so exceeding fondness, as infus'd Ardour into my breast, unfelt before. CANTO XXXII Freely the sage, though wrapt in musings high, Assum'd the teacher's part, and mild began: "The wound, that Mary clos'd, she open'd first, Who sits so beautiful at Mary's feet. The third in order, underneath her, lo! Rachel with Beatrice. Sarah next, Judith, Rebecca, and the gleaner maid, Meek ancestress of him, who sang the songs Of sore repentance in his sorrowful mood. All, as I name them, down from deaf to leaf, Are in gradation throned on the rose. And from the seventh step, successively, Adown the breathing tresses of the flow'r Still doth the file of Hebrew dames proceed. For these are a partition wall, whereby The sacred stairs are sever'd, as the faith In Christ divides them. On this part, where blooms Each leaf in full maturity, are set Such as in Christ, or ere he came, believ'd. On th' other, where an intersected space Yet shows the semicircle void, abide All they, who look'd to Christ already come. And as our Lady on her glorious stool, And they who on their stools beneath her sit, This way distinction make: e'en so on his, The mighty Baptist that way marks the line (He who endur'd the desert and the pains Of martyrdom, and for two years of hell, Yet still continued holy), and beneath, Augustin, Francis, Benedict, and the rest, Thus far from round to round. So heav'n's decree Forecasts, this garden equally to fill. With faith in either view, past or to come, Learn too, that downward from the step, which cleaves Midway the twain compartments, none there are Who place obtain for merit of their own, But have through others' merit been advanc'd, On set conditions: spirits all releas'd, Ere for themselves they had the power to choose. And, if thou mark and listen to them well, Their childish looks and voice declare as much. "Here, silent as thou art, I know thy doubt; And gladly will I loose the knot, wherein Thy subtle thoughts have bound thee. From this realm Excluded, chalice no entrance here may find, No more shall hunger, thirst, or sorrow can. A law immutable hath establish'd all; Nor is there aught thou seest, that doth not fit, Exactly, as the finger to the ring. It is not therefore without cause, that these, O'erspeedy comers to immortal life, Are different in their shares of excellence. Our Sovran Lord--that settleth this estate In love and in delight so absolute, That wish can dare no further--every soul, Created in his joyous sight to dwell, With grace at pleasure variously endows. And for a proof th' effect may well suffice. And 't is moreover most expressly mark'd In holy scripture, where the twins are said To, have struggled in the womb. Therefore, as grace Inweaves the coronet, so every brow Weareth its proper hue of orient light. And merely in respect to his prime gift, Not in reward of meritorious deed, Hath each his several degree assign'd. In early times with their own innocence More was not wanting, than the parents' faith, To save them: those first ages past, behoov'd That circumcision in the males should imp The flight of innocent wings: but since the day Of grace hath come, without baptismal rites In Christ accomplish'd, innocence herself Must linger yet below. Now raise thy view Unto the visage most resembling Christ: For, in her splendour only, shalt thou win The pow'r to look on him." Forthwith I saw Such floods of gladness on her visage shower'd, From holy spirits, winging that profound; That, whatsoever I had yet beheld, Had not so much suspended me with wonder, Or shown me such similitude of God. And he, who had to her descended, once, On earth, now hail'd in heav'n; and on pois'd wing. "Ave, Maria, Gratia Plena," sang: To whose sweet anthem all the blissful court, From all parts answ'ring, rang: that holier joy Brooded the deep serene. "Father rever'd: Who deign'st, for me, to quit the pleasant place, Wherein thou sittest, by eternal lot! Say, who that angel is, that with such glee Beholds our queen, and so enamour'd glows Of her high beauty, that all fire he seems." So I again resorted to the lore Of my wise teacher, he, whom Mary's charms Embellish'd, as the sun the morning star; Who thus in answer spake: "In him are summ'd, Whatever of buxomness and free delight May be in Spirit, or in angel, met: And so beseems: for that he bare the palm Down unto Mary, when the Son of God Vouchsaf'd to clothe him in terrestrial weeds. Now let thine eyes wait heedful on my words, And note thou of this just and pious realm The chiefest nobles. Those, highest in bliss, The twain, on each hand next our empress thron'd, Are as it were two roots unto this rose. He to the left, the parent, whose rash taste Proves bitter to his seed; and, on the right, That ancient father of the holy church, Into whose keeping Christ did give the keys Of this sweet flow'r: near whom behold the seer, That, ere he died, saw all the grievous times Of the fair bride, who with the lance and nails Was won. And, near unto the other, rests The leader, under whom on manna fed Th' ungrateful nation, fickle and perverse. On th' other part, facing to Peter, lo! Where Anna sits, so well content to look On her lov'd daughter, that with moveless eye She chants the loud hosanna: while, oppos'd To the first father of your mortal kind, Is Lucia, at whose hest thy lady sped, When on the edge of ruin clos'd thine eye. "But (for the vision hasteneth so an end) Here break we off, as the good workman doth, That shapes the cloak according to the cloth: And to the primal love our ken shall rise; That thou mayst penetrate the brightness, far As sight can bear thee. Yet, alas! in sooth Beating thy pennons, thinking to advance, Thou backward fall'st. Grace then must first be gain'd; Her grace, whose might can help thee. Thou in prayer Seek her: and, with affection, whilst I sue, Attend, and yield me all thy heart." He said, And thus the saintly orison began. CANTO XXXIII "O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son, Created beings all in lowliness Surpassing, as in height, above them all, Term by th' eternal counsel pre-ordain'd, Ennobler of thy nature, so advanc'd In thee, that its great Maker did not scorn, Himself, in his own work enclos'd to dwell! For in thy womb rekindling shone the love Reveal'd, whose genial influence makes now This flower to germin in eternal peace! Here thou to us, of charity and love, Art, as the noon-day torch: and art, beneath, To mortal men, of hope a living spring. So mighty art thou, lady! and so great, That he who grace desireth, and comes not To thee for aidance, fain would have desire Fly without wings. Nor only him who asks, Thy bounty succours, but doth freely oft Forerun the asking. Whatsoe'er may be Of excellence in creature, pity mild, Relenting mercy, large munificence, Are all combin'd in thee. Here kneeleth one, Who of all spirits hath review'd the state, From the world's lowest gap unto this height. Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring grace For virtue, yet more high to lift his ken Toward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne'er Coveted sight, more fondly, for myself, Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer, (And pray they be not scant) that thou wouldst drive Each cloud of his mortality away; That on the sovran pleasure he may gaze. This also I entreat of thee, O queen! Who canst do what thou wilt! that in him thou Wouldst after all he hath beheld, preserve Affection sound, and human passions quell. Lo! Where, with Beatrice, many a saint Stretch their clasp'd hands, in furtherance of my suit!" The eyes, that heav'n with love and awe regards, Fix'd on the suitor, witness'd, how benign She looks on pious pray'rs: then fasten'd they On th' everlasting light, wherein no eye Of creature, as may well be thought, so far Can travel inward. I, meanwhile, who drew Near to the limit, where all wishes end, The ardour of my wish (for so behooved), Ended within me. Beck'ning smil'd the sage, That I should look aloft: but, ere he bade, Already of myself aloft I look'd; For visual strength, refining more and more, Bare me into the ray authentical Of sovran light. Thenceforward, what I saw, Was not for words to speak, nor memory's self To stand against such outrage on her skill. As one, who from a dream awaken'd, straight, All he hath seen forgets; yet still retains Impression of the feeling in his dream; E'en such am I: for all the vision dies, As 't were, away; and yet the sense of sweet, That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart. Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unseal'd; Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lost The Sybil's sentence. O eternal beam! (Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?) Yield me again some little particle Of what thou then appearedst, give my tongue Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, Unto the race to come, that shall not lose Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught Of memory in me, and endure to hear The record sound in this unequal strain. Such keenness from the living ray I met, That, if mine eyes had turn'd away, methinks, I had been lost; but, so embolden'd, on I pass'd, as I remember, till my view Hover'd the brink of dread infinitude. O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav'st Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken On th' everlasting splendour, that I look'd, While sight was unconsum'd, and, in that depth, Saw in one volume clasp'd of love, whatever The universe unfolds; all properties Of substance and of accident, beheld, Compounded, yet one individual light The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw The universal form: for that whenever I do but speak of it, my soul dilates Beyond her proper self; and, till I speak, One moment seems a longer lethargy, Than five-and-twenty ages had appear'd To that emprize, that first made Neptune wonder At Argo's shadow darkening on his flood. With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, Wond'ring I gaz'd; and admiration still Was kindled, as I gaz'd. It may not be, That one, who looks upon that light, can turn To other object, willingly, his view. For all the good, that will may covet, there Is summ'd; and all, elsewhere defective found, Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe's That yet is moisten'd at his mother's breast. Not that the semblance of the living light Was chang'd (that ever as at first remain'd) But that my vision quickening, in that sole Appearance, still new miracles descry'd, And toil'd me with the change. In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd methought, Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound: And, from another, one reflected seem'd, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem'd fire, breath'd equally from both. Oh speech How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth! Yet this to what I saw Is less than little. Oh eternal light! Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyself Sole understood, past, present, or to come! Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in thee Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mus'd; For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: steadfastly I therefore por'd upon the view. As one Who vers'd in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not; e'en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How plac'd: but the flight was not for my wing; Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And in the spleen unfolded what it sought. Here vigour fail'd the tow'ring fantasy: But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the Love impell'd, That moves the sun in heav'n and all the stars. 
8800	----	INSTRUCTIONS: This is a multi volume index file The index has links to all volumes. Follow these instructions if you would like to have your own copy of this index and all the volumes of DANTE'S DIVINE COMEDY, on your hard disk. Doing so will allow this index to be used with all the many links to the volumes and chapters when you are not connected to the internet: 1. Click on the DOWNLOAD button at the top of this file to download the zipped file package to whatever download directory you have set up for your computer. 3. Go to your Download Directory and double-click on the downloaded file (8800-h.zip), and move the directory 8800-h to this or any other directory you would like. Then double-click on 8800-h; you will see several directories: you may rename the directory named files to any name you wish, such as DANTE. You may move this file to any directory on your computer. 4. In the newly named directory containing all the eBooks in this set you will find a file named INDEX.HTM in capital letters, this html file can only be used here; a shortcut to it may be installed on your desktop or any directory on your computer. This index file or its shorcut allows you to open all of the OFF-LINE files, chapters and illustrations in this set now on your hard disk. The name of the SHORTCUT may of course be renamed as you wish, for example: DANTE INFERNO INDEX. When using the index or any of the files you may use the BACK button to return from any link. 5. This archive of Project Gutenberg eBooks in the files directory (see instruction #3) also includes, in addition to the usual HTML files for your computer, two sets of mobile viewer files for Kindles, Nooks and others which use .mobi or .epub formats. There is no index for these as after you download them to your mobile viewer it will automatially list the new title names in the usual place. The directories are named: "EPUB" and "KINDLE". Double click on the directory which applies to your mobile viewer and move all the enclosed files to your device using the same connection technique you are familiar with when you have downloaded any commercial eBooks from your computer. 
8799	----	THE VISION OF HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE BY DANTE ALIGHIERI PARADISE Complete TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. PARADISE LIST OF CANTOS Canto 1 Canto 2 Canto 3 Canto 4 Canto 5 Canto 6 Canto 7 Canto 8 Canto 9 Canto 10 Canto 11 Canto 12 Canto 13 Canto 14 Canto 15 Canto 16 Canto 17 Canto 18 Canto 19 Canto 20 Canto 21 Canto 22 Canto 23 Canto 24 Canto 25 Canto 26 Canto 27 Canto 28 Canto 29 Canto 30 Canto 31 Canto 32 Canto 33 CANTO I His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd, Pierces the universe, and in one part Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. In heav'n, That largeliest of his light partakes, was I, Witness of things, which to relate again Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence; For that, so near approaching its desire Our intellect is to such depth absorb'd, That memory cannot follow. Nathless all, That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm Could store, shall now be matter of my song. Benign Apollo! this last labour aid, And make me such a vessel of thy worth, As thy own laurel claims of me belov'd. Thus far hath one of steep Parnassus' brows Suffic'd me; henceforth there is need of both For my remaining enterprise Do thou Enter into my bosom, and there breathe So, as when Marsyas by thy hand was dragg'd Forth from his limbs unsheath'd. O power divine! If thou to me of shine impart so much, That of that happy realm the shadow'd form Trac'd in my thoughts I may set forth to view, Thou shalt behold me of thy favour'd tree Come to the foot, and crown myself with leaves; For to that honour thou, and my high theme Will fit me. If but seldom, mighty Sire! To grace his triumph gathers thence a wreath Caesar or bard (more shame for human wills Deprav'd) joy to the Delphic god must spring From the Pierian foliage, when one breast Is with such thirst inspir'd. From a small spark Great flame hath risen: after me perchance Others with better voice may pray, and gain From the Cirrhaean city answer kind. Through diver passages, the world's bright lamp Rises to mortals, but through that which joins Four circles with the threefold cross, in best Course, and in happiest constellation set He comes, and to the worldly wax best gives Its temper and impression. Morning there, Here eve was by almost such passage made; And whiteness had o'erspread that hemisphere, Blackness the other part; when to the left I saw Beatrice turn'd, and on the sun Gazing, as never eagle fix'd his ken. As from the first a second beam is wont To issue, and reflected upwards rise, E'en as a pilgrim bent on his return, So of her act, that through the eyesight pass'd Into my fancy, mine was form'd; and straight, Beyond our mortal wont, I fix'd mine eyes Upon the sun. Much is allowed us there, That here exceeds our pow'r; thanks to the place Made for the dwelling of the human kind I suffer'd it not long, and yet so long That I beheld it bick'ring sparks around, As iron that comes boiling from the fire. And suddenly upon the day appear'd A day new-ris'n, as he, who hath the power, Had with another sun bedeck'd the sky. Her eyes fast fix'd on the eternal wheels, Beatrice stood unmov'd; and I with ken Fix'd upon her, from upward gaze remov'd At her aspect, such inwardly became As Glaucus, when he tasted of the herb, That made him peer among the ocean gods; Words may not tell of that transhuman change: And therefore let the example serve, though weak, For those whom grace hath better proof in store If I were only what thou didst create, Then newly, Love! by whom the heav'n is rul'd, Thou know'st, who by thy light didst bear me up. Whenas the wheel which thou dost ever guide, Desired Spirit! with its harmony Temper'd of thee and measur'd, charm'd mine ear, Then seem'd to me so much of heav'n to blaze With the sun's flame, that rain or flood ne'er made A lake so broad. The newness of the sound, And that great light, inflam'd me with desire, Keener than e'er was felt, to know their cause. Whence she who saw me, clearly as myself, To calm my troubled mind, before I ask'd, Open'd her lips, and gracious thus began: "With false imagination thou thyself Mak'st dull, so that thou seest not the thing, Which thou hadst seen, had that been shaken off. Thou art not on the earth as thou believ'st; For light'ning scap'd from its own proper place Ne'er ran, as thou hast hither now return'd." Although divested of my first-rais'd doubt, By those brief words, accompanied with smiles, Yet in new doubt was I entangled more, And said: "Already satisfied, I rest From admiration deep, but now admire How I above those lighter bodies rise." Whence, after utt'rance of a piteous sigh, She tow'rds me bent her eyes, with such a look, As on her frenzied child a mother casts; Then thus began: "Among themselves all things Have order; and from hence the form, which makes The universe resemble God. In this The higher creatures see the printed steps Of that eternal worth, which is the end Whither the line is drawn. All natures lean, In this their order, diversely, some more, Some less approaching to their primal source. Thus they to different havens are mov'd on Through the vast sea of being, and each one With instinct giv'n, that bears it in its course; This to the lunar sphere directs the fire, This prompts the hearts of mortal animals, This the brute earth together knits, and binds. Nor only creatures, void of intellect, Are aim'd at by this bow; but even those, That have intelligence and love, are pierc'd. That Providence, who so well orders all, With her own light makes ever calm the heaven, In which the substance, that hath greatest speed, Is turn'd: and thither now, as to our seat Predestin'd, we are carried by the force Of that strong cord, that never looses dart, But at fair aim and glad. Yet is it true, That as ofttimes but ill accords the form To the design of art, through sluggishness Of unreplying matter, so this course Is sometimes quitted by the creature, who Hath power, directed thus, to bend elsewhere; As from a cloud the fire is seen to fall, From its original impulse warp'd, to earth, By vicious fondness. Thou no more admire Thy soaring, (if I rightly deem,) than lapse Of torrent downwards from a mountain's height. There would in thee for wonder be more cause, If, free of hind'rance, thou hadst fix'd thyself Below, like fire unmoving on the earth." So said, she turn'd toward the heav'n her face. CANTO II All ye, who in small bark have following sail'd, Eager to listen, on the advent'rous track Of my proud keel, that singing cuts its way, Backward return with speed, and your own shores Revisit, nor put out to open sea, Where losing me, perchance ye may remain Bewilder'd in deep maze. The way I pass Ne'er yet was run: Minerva breathes the gale, Apollo guides me, and another Nine To my rapt sight the arctic beams reveal. Ye other few, who have outstretch'd the neck. Timely for food of angels, on which here They live, yet never know satiety, Through the deep brine ye fearless may put out Your vessel, marking, well the furrow broad Before you in the wave, that on both sides Equal returns. Those, glorious, who pass'd o'er To Colchos, wonder'd not as ye will do, When they saw Jason following the plough. The increate perpetual thirst, that draws Toward the realm of God's own form, bore us Swift almost as the heaven ye behold. Beatrice upward gaz'd, and I on her, And in such space as on the notch a dart Is plac'd, then loosen'd flies, I saw myself Arriv'd, where wond'rous thing engag'd my sight. Whence she, to whom no work of mine was hid, Turning to me, with aspect glad as fair, Bespake me: "Gratefully direct thy mind To God, through whom to this first star we come." Me seem'd as if a cloud had cover'd us, Translucent, solid, firm, and polish'd bright, Like adamant, which the sun's beam had smit Within itself the ever-during pearl Receiv'd us, as the wave a ray of light Receives, and rests unbroken. If I then Was of corporeal frame, and it transcend Our weaker thought, how one dimension thus Another could endure, which needs must be If body enter body, how much more Must the desire inflame us to behold That essence, which discovers by what means God and our nature join'd! There will be seen That which we hold through faith, not shown by proof, But in itself intelligibly plain, E'en as the truth that man at first believes. I answered: "Lady! I with thoughts devout, Such as I best can frame, give thanks to Him, Who hath remov'd me from the mortal world. But tell, I pray thee, whence the gloomy spots Upon this body, which below on earth Give rise to talk of Cain in fabling quaint?" She somewhat smil'd, then spake: "If mortals err In their opinion, when the key of sense Unlocks not, surely wonder's weapon keen Ought not to pierce thee; since thou find'st, the wings Of reason to pursue the senses' flight Are short. But what thy own thought is, declare." Then I: "What various here above appears, Is caus'd, I deem, by bodies dense or rare." She then resum'd: "Thou certainly wilt see In falsehood thy belief o'erwhelm'd, if well Thou listen to the arguments, which I Shall bring to face it. The eighth sphere displays Numberless lights, the which in kind and size May be remark'd of different aspects; If rare or dense of that were cause alone, One single virtue then would be in all, Alike distributed, or more, or less. Different virtues needs must be the fruits Of formal principles, and these, save one, Will by thy reasoning be destroy'd. Beside, If rarity were of that dusk the cause, Which thou inquirest, either in some part That planet must throughout be void, nor fed With its own matter; or, as bodies share Their fat and leanness, in like manner this Must in its volume change the leaves. The first, If it were true, had through the sun's eclipse Been manifested, by transparency Of light, as through aught rare beside effus'd. But this is not. Therefore remains to see The other cause: and if the other fall, Erroneous so must prove what seem'd to thee. If not from side to side this rarity Pass through, there needs must be a limit, whence Its contrary no further lets it pass. And hence the beam, that from without proceeds, Must be pour'd back, as colour comes, through glass Reflected, which behind it lead conceals. Now wilt thou say, that there of murkier hue Than in the other part the ray is shown, By being thence refracted farther back. From this perplexity will free thee soon Experience, if thereof thou trial make, The fountain whence your arts derive their streame. Three mirrors shalt thou take, and two remove From thee alike, and more remote the third. Betwixt the former pair, shall meet thine eyes; Then turn'd toward them, cause behind thy back A light to stand, that on the three shall shine, And thus reflected come to thee from all. Though that beheld most distant do not stretch A space so ample, yet in brightness thou Will own it equaling the rest. But now, As under snow the ground, if the warm ray Smites it, remains dismantled of the hue And cold, that cover'd it before, so thee, Dismantled in thy mind, I will inform With light so lively, that the tremulous beam Shall quiver where it falls. Within the heaven, Where peace divine inhabits, circles round A body, in whose virtue dies the being Of all that it contains. The following heaven, That hath so many lights, this being divides, Through different essences, from it distinct, And yet contain'd within it. The other orbs Their separate distinctions variously Dispose, for their own seed and produce apt. Thus do these organs of the world proceed, As thou beholdest now, from step to step, Their influences from above deriving, And thence transmitting downwards. Mark me well, How through this passage to the truth I ford, The truth thou lov'st, that thou henceforth alone, May'st know to keep the shallows, safe, untold. "The virtue and motion of the sacred orbs, As mallet by the workman's hand, must needs By blessed movers be inspir'd. This heaven, Made beauteous by so many luminaries, From the deep spirit, that moves its circling sphere, Its image takes an impress as a seal: And as the soul, that dwells within your dust, Through members different, yet together form'd, In different pow'rs resolves itself; e'en so The intellectual efficacy unfolds Its goodness multiplied throughout the stars; On its own unity revolving still. Different virtue compact different Makes with the precious body it enlivens, With which it knits, as life in you is knit. From its original nature full of joy, The virtue mingled through the body shines, As joy through pupil of the living eye. From hence proceeds, that which from light to light Seems different, and not from dense or rare. This is the formal cause, that generates Proportion'd to its power, the dusk or clear." CANTO III That sun, which erst with love my bosom warm'd Had of fair truth unveil'd the sweet aspect, By proof of right, and of the false reproof; And I, to own myself convinc'd and free Of doubt, as much as needed, rais'd my head Erect for speech. But soon a sight appear'd, Which, so intent to mark it, held me fix'd, That of confession I no longer thought. As through translucent and smooth glass, or wave Clear and unmov'd, and flowing not so deep As that its bed is dark, the shape returns So faint of our impictur'd lineaments, That on white forehead set a pearl as strong Comes to the eye: such saw I many a face, All stretch'd to speak, from whence I straight conceiv'd Delusion opposite to that, which rais'd Between the man and fountain, amorous flame. Sudden, as I perceiv'd them, deeming these Reflected semblances to see of whom They were, I turn'd mine eyes, and nothing saw; Then turn'd them back, directed on the light Of my sweet guide, who smiling shot forth beams From her celestial eyes. "Wonder not thou," She cry'd, "at this my smiling, when I see Thy childish judgment; since not yet on truth It rests the foot, but, as it still is wont, Makes thee fall back in unsound vacancy. True substances are these, which thou behold'st, Hither through failure of their vow exil'd. But speak thou with them; listen, and believe, That the true light, which fills them with desire, Permits not from its beams their feet to stray." Straight to the shadow which for converse seem'd Most earnest, I addressed me, and began, As one by over-eagerness perplex'd: "O spirit, born for joy! who in the rays Of life eternal, of that sweetness know'st The flavour, which, not tasted, passes far All apprehension, me it well would please, If thou wouldst tell me of thy name, and this Your station here." Whence she, with kindness prompt, And eyes glist'ning with smiles: "Our charity, To any wish by justice introduc'd, Bars not the door, no more than she above, Who would have all her court be like herself. I was a virgin sister in the earth; And if thy mind observe me well, this form, With such addition grac'd of loveliness, Will not conceal me long, but thou wilt know Piccarda, in the tardiest sphere thus plac'd, Here 'mid these other blessed also blest. Our hearts, whose high affections burn alone With pleasure, from the Holy Spirit conceiv'd, Admitted to his order dwell in joy. And this condition, which appears so low, Is for this cause assign'd us, that our vows Were in some part neglected and made void." Whence I to her replied: "Something divine Beams in your countenance, wond'rous fair, From former knowledge quite transmuting you. Therefore to recollect was I so slow. But what thou sayst hath to my memory Given now such aid, that to retrace your forms Is easier. Yet inform me, ye, who here Are happy, long ye for a higher place More to behold, and more in love to dwell?" She with those other spirits gently smil'd, Then answer'd with such gladness, that she seem'd With love's first flame to glow: "Brother! our will Is in composure settled by the power Of charity, who makes us will alone What we possess, and nought beyond desire; If we should wish to be exalted more, Then must our wishes jar with the high will Of him, who sets us here, which in these orbs Thou wilt confess not possible, if here To be in charity must needs befall, And if her nature well thou contemplate. Rather it is inherent in this state Of blessedness, to keep ourselves within The divine will, by which our wills with his Are one. So that as we from step to step Are plac'd throughout this kingdom, pleases all, E'en as our King, who in us plants his will; And in his will is our tranquillity; It is the mighty ocean, whither tends Whatever it creates and nature makes." Then saw I clearly how each spot in heav'n Is Paradise, though with like gracious dew The supreme virtue show'r not over all. But as it chances, if one sort of food Hath satiated, and of another still The appetite remains, that this is ask'd, And thanks for that return'd; e'en so did I In word and motion, bent from her to learn What web it was, through which she had not drawn The shuttle to its point. She thus began: "Exalted worth and perfectness of life The Lady higher up enshrine in heaven, By whose pure laws upon your nether earth The robe and veil they wear, to that intent, That e'en till death they may keep watch or sleep With their great bridegroom, who accepts each vow, Which to his gracious pleasure love conforms. from the world, to follow her, when young Escap'd; and, in her vesture mantling me, Made promise of the way her sect enjoins. Thereafter men, for ill than good more apt, Forth snatch'd me from the pleasant cloister's pale. God knows how after that my life was fram'd. This other splendid shape, which thou beholdst At my right side, burning with all the light Of this our orb, what of myself I tell May to herself apply. From her, like me A sister, with like violence were torn The saintly folds, that shaded her fair brows. E'en when she to the world again was brought In spite of her own will and better wont, Yet not for that the bosom's inward veil Did she renounce. This is the luminary Of mighty Constance, who from that loud blast, Which blew the second over Suabia's realm, That power produc'd, which was the third and last." She ceas'd from further talk, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and with that song Vanish'd, as heavy substance through deep wave. Mine eye, that far as it was capable, Pursued her, when in dimness she was lost, Turn'd to the mark where greater want impell'd, And bent on Beatrice all its gaze. But she as light'ning beam'd upon my looks: So that the sight sustain'd it not at first. Whence I to question her became less prompt. CANTO IV Between two kinds of food, both equally Remote and tempting, first a man might die Of hunger, ere he one could freely choose. E'en so would stand a lamb between the maw Of two fierce wolves, in dread of both alike: E'en so between two deer a dog would stand, Wherefore, if I was silent, fault nor praise I to myself impute, by equal doubts Held in suspense, since of necessity It happen'd. Silent was I, yet desire Was painted in my looks; and thus I spake My wish more earnestly than language could. As Daniel, when the haughty king he freed From ire, that spurr'd him on to deeds unjust And violent; so look'd Beatrice then. "Well I discern," she thus her words address'd, "How contrary desires each way constrain thee, So that thy anxious thought is in itself Bound up and stifled, nor breathes freely forth. Thou arguest; if the good intent remain; What reason that another's violence Should stint the measure of my fair desert? "Cause too thou findst for doubt, in that it seems, That spirits to the stars, as Plato deem'd, Return. These are the questions which thy will Urge equally; and therefore I the first Of that will treat which hath the more of gall. Of seraphim he who is most ensky'd, Moses and Samuel, and either John, Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self, Have not in any other heav'n their seats, Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st; Nor more or fewer years exist; but all Make the first circle beauteous, diversely Partaking of sweet life, as more or less Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them. Here were they shown thee, not that fate assigns This for their sphere, but for a sign to thee Of that celestial furthest from the height. Thus needs, that ye may apprehend, we speak: Since from things sensible alone ye learn That, which digested rightly after turns To intellectual. For no other cause The scripture, condescending graciously To your perception, hands and feet to God Attributes, nor so means: and holy church Doth represent with human countenance Gabriel, and Michael, and him who made Tobias whole. Unlike what here thou seest, The judgment of Timaeus, who affirms Each soul restor'd to its particular star, Believing it to have been taken thence, When nature gave it to inform her mold: Since to appearance his intention is E'en what his words declare: or else to shun Derision, haply thus he hath disguis'd His true opinion. If his meaning be, That to the influencing of these orbs revert The honour and the blame in human acts, Perchance he doth not wholly miss the truth. This principle, not understood aright, Erewhile perverted well nigh all the world; So that it fell to fabled names of Jove, And Mercury, and Mars. That other doubt, Which moves thee, is less harmful; for it brings No peril of removing thee from me. "That, to the eye of man, our justice seems Unjust, is argument for faith, and not For heretic declension. To the end This truth may stand more clearly in your view, I will content thee even to thy wish "If violence be, when that which suffers, nought Consents to that which forceth, not for this These spirits stood exculpate. For the will, That will not, still survives unquench'd, and doth As nature doth in fire, tho' violence Wrest it a thousand times; for, if it yield Or more or less, so far it follows force. And thus did these, whom they had power to seek The hallow'd place again. In them, had will Been perfect, such as once upon the bars Held Laurence firm, or wrought in Scaevola To his own hand remorseless, to the path, Whence they were drawn, their steps had hasten'd back, When liberty return'd: but in too few Resolve so steadfast dwells. And by these words If duly weigh'd, that argument is void, Which oft might have perplex'd thee still. But now Another question thwarts thee, which to solve Might try thy patience without better aid. I have, no doubt, instill'd into thy mind, That blessed spirit may not lie; since near The source of primal truth it dwells for aye: And thou might'st after of Piccarda learn That Constance held affection to the veil; So that she seems to contradict me here. Not seldom, brother, it hath chanc'd for men To do what they had gladly left undone, Yet to shun peril they have done amiss: E'en as Alcmaeon, at his father's suit Slew his own mother, so made pitiless Not to lose pity. On this point bethink thee, That force and will are blended in such wise As not to make the' offence excusable. Absolute will agrees not to the wrong, That inasmuch as there is fear of woe From non-compliance, it agrees. Of will Thus absolute Piccarda spake, and I Of th' other; so that both have truly said." Such was the flow of that pure rill, that well'd From forth the fountain of all truth; and such The rest, that to my wond'ring thoughts I found. "O thou of primal love the prime delight! Goddess!" I straight reply'd, "whose lively words Still shed new heat and vigour through my soul! Affection fails me to requite thy grace With equal sum of gratitude: be his To recompense, who sees and can reward thee. Well I discern, that by that truth alone Enlighten'd, beyond which no truth may roam, Our mind can satisfy her thirst to know: Therein she resteth, e'en as in his lair The wild beast, soon as she hath reach'd that bound, And she hath power to reach it; else desire Were given to no end. And thence doth doubt Spring, like a shoot, around the stock of truth; And it is nature which from height to height On to the summit prompts us. This invites, This doth assure me, lady, rev'rently To ask thee of other truth, that yet Is dark to me. I fain would know, if man By other works well done may so supply The failure of his vows, that in your scale They lack not weight." I spake; and on me straight Beatrice look'd with eyes that shot forth sparks Of love celestial in such copious stream, That, virtue sinking in me overpower'd, I turn'd, and downward bent confus'd my sight. CANTO V "If beyond earthly wont, the flame of love Illume me, so that I o'ercome thy power Of vision, marvel not: but learn the cause In that perfection of the sight, which soon As apprehending, hasteneth on to reach The good it apprehends. I well discern, How in thine intellect already shines The light eternal, which to view alone Ne'er fails to kindle love; and if aught else Your love seduces, 't is but that it shows Some ill-mark'd vestige of that primal beam. "This would'st thou know, if failure of the vow By other service may be so supplied, As from self-question to assure the soul." Thus she her words, not heedless of my wish, Began; and thus, as one who breaks not off Discourse, continued in her saintly strain. "Supreme of gifts, which God creating gave Of his free bounty, sign most evident Of goodness, and in his account most priz'd, Was liberty of will, the boon wherewith All intellectual creatures, and them sole He hath endow'd. Hence now thou mayst infer Of what high worth the vow, which so is fram'd That when man offers, God well-pleas'd accepts; For in the compact between God and him, This treasure, such as I describe it to thee, He makes the victim, and of his own act. What compensation therefore may he find? If that, whereof thou hast oblation made, By using well thou think'st to consecrate, Thou would'st of theft do charitable deed. Thus I resolve thee of the greater point. "But forasmuch as holy church, herein Dispensing, seems to contradict the truth I have discover'd to thee, yet behooves Thou rest a little longer at the board, Ere the crude aliment, which thou hast taken, Digested fitly to nutrition turn. Open thy mind to what I now unfold, And give it inward keeping. Knowledge comes Of learning well retain'd, unfruitful else. "This sacrifice in essence of two things Consisteth; one is that, whereof 't is made, The covenant the other. For the last, It ne'er is cancell'd if not kept: and hence I spake erewhile so strictly of its force. For this it was enjoin'd the Israelites, Though leave were giv'n them, as thou know'st, to change The offering, still to offer. Th' other part, The matter and the substance of the vow, May well be such, to that without offence It may for other substance be exchang'd. But at his own discretion none may shift The burden on his shoulders, unreleas'd By either key, the yellow and the white. Nor deem of any change, as less than vain, If the last bond be not within the new Included, as the quatre in the six. No satisfaction therefore can be paid For what so precious in the balance weighs, That all in counterpoise must kick the beam. Take then no vow at random: ta'en, with faith Preserve it; yet not bent, as Jephthah once, Blindly to execute a rash resolve, Whom better it had suited to exclaim, 'I have done ill,' than to redeem his pledge By doing worse or, not unlike to him In folly, that great leader of the Greeks: Whence, on the alter, Iphigenia mourn'd Her virgin beauty, and hath since made mourn Both wise and simple, even all, who hear Of so fell sacrifice. Be ye more staid, O Christians, not, like feather, by each wind Removable: nor think to cleanse ourselves In every water. Either testament, The old and new, is yours: and for your guide The shepherd of the church let this suffice To save you. When by evil lust entic'd, Remember ye be men, not senseless beasts; Nor let the Jew, who dwelleth in your streets, Hold you in mock'ry. Be not, as the lamb, That, fickle wanton, leaves its mother's milk, To dally with itself in idle play." Such were the words that Beatrice spake: These ended, to that region, where the world Is liveliest, full of fond desire she turn'd. Though mainly prompt new question to propose, Her silence and chang'd look did keep me dumb. And as the arrow, ere the cord is still, Leapeth unto its mark; so on we sped Into the second realm. There I beheld The dame, so joyous enter, that the orb Grew brighter at her smiles; and, if the star Were mov'd to gladness, what then was my cheer, Whom nature hath made apt for every change! As in a quiet and clear lake the fish, If aught approach them from without, do draw Towards it, deeming it their food; so drew Full more than thousand splendours towards us, And in each one was heard: "Lo! one arriv'd To multiply our loves!" and as each came The shadow, streaming forth effulgence new, Witness'd augmented joy. Here, reader! think, If thou didst miss the sequel of my tale, To know the rest how sorely thou wouldst crave; And thou shalt see what vehement desire Possess'd me, as soon as these had met my view, To know their state. "O born in happy hour! Thou to whom grace vouchsafes, or ere thy close Of fleshly warfare, to behold the thrones Of that eternal triumph, know to us The light communicated, which through heaven Expatiates without bound. Therefore, if aught Thou of our beams wouldst borrow for thine aid, Spare not; and of our radiance take thy fill." Thus of those piteous spirits one bespake me; And Beatrice next: "Say on; and trust As unto gods!"--"How in the light supreme Thou harbour'st, and from thence the virtue bring'st, That, sparkling in thine eyes, denotes thy joy, I mark; but, who thou art, am still to seek; Or wherefore, worthy spirit! for thy lot This sphere assign'd, that oft from mortal ken Is veil'd by others' beams." I said, and turn'd Toward the lustre, that with greeting, kind Erewhile had hail'd me. Forthwith brighter far Than erst, it wax'd: and, as himself the sun Hides through excess of light, when his warm gaze Hath on the mantle of thick vapours prey'd; Within its proper ray the saintly shape Was, through increase of gladness, thus conceal'd; And, shrouded so in splendour answer'd me, E'en as the tenour of my song declares. CANTO VI "After that Constantine the eagle turn'd Against the motions of the heav'n, that roll'd Consenting with its course, when he of yore, Lavinia's spouse, was leader of the flight, A hundred years twice told and more, his seat At Europe's extreme point, the bird of Jove Held, near the mountains, whence he issued first. There, under shadow of his sacred plumes Swaying the world, till through successive hands To mine he came devolv'd. Caesar I was, And am Justinian; destin'd by the will Of that prime love, whose influence I feel, From vain excess to clear th' encumber'd laws. Or ere that work engag'd me, I did hold Christ's nature merely human, with such faith Contented. But the blessed Agapete, Who was chief shepherd, he with warning voice To the true faith recall'd me. I believ'd His words: and what he taught, now plainly see, As thou in every contradiction seest The true and false oppos'd. Soon as my feet Were to the church reclaim'd, to my great task, By inspiration of God's grace impell'd, I gave me wholly, and consign'd mine arms To Belisarius, with whom heaven's right hand Was link'd in such conjointment, 't was a sign That I should rest. To thy first question thus I shape mine answer, which were ended here, But that its tendency doth prompt perforce To some addition; that thou well, mayst mark What reason on each side they have to plead, By whom that holiest banner is withstood, Both who pretend its power and who oppose. "Beginning from that hour, when Pallas died To give it rule, behold the valorous deeds Have made it worthy reverence. Not unknown To thee, how for three hundred years and more It dwelt in Alba, up to those fell lists Where for its sake were met the rival three; Nor aught unknown to thee, which it achiev'd Down to the Sabines' wrong to Lucrece' woe, With its sev'n kings conqu'ring the nation round; Nor all it wrought, by Roman worthies home 'Gainst Brennus and th' Epirot prince, and hosts Of single chiefs, or states in league combin'd Of social warfare; hence Torquatus stern, And Quintius nam'd of his neglected locks, The Decii, and the Fabii hence acquir'd Their fame, which I with duteous zeal embalm. By it the pride of Arab hordes was quell'd, When they led on by Hannibal o'erpass'd The Alpine rocks, whence glide thy currents, Po! Beneath its guidance, in their prime of days Scipio and Pompey triumph'd; and that hill, Under whose summit thou didst see the light, Rued its stern bearing. After, near the hour, When heav'n was minded that o'er all the world His own deep calm should brood, to Caesar's hand Did Rome consign it; and what then it wrought From Var unto the Rhine, saw Isere's flood, Saw Loire and Seine, and every vale, that fills The torrent Rhone. What after that it wrought, When from Ravenna it came forth, and leap'd The Rubicon, was of so bold a flight, That tongue nor pen may follow it. Tow'rds Spain It wheel'd its bands, then tow'rd Dyrrachium smote, And on Pharsalia with so fierce a plunge, E'en the warm Nile was conscious to the pang; Its native shores Antandros, and the streams Of Simois revisited, and there Where Hector lies; then ill for Ptolemy His pennons shook again; lightning thence fell On Juba; and the next upon your west, At sound of the Pompeian trump, return'd. "What following and in its next bearer's gripe It wrought, is now by Cassius and Brutus Bark'd off in hell, and by Perugia's sons And Modena's was mourn'd. Hence weepeth still Sad Cleopatra, who, pursued by it, Took from the adder black and sudden death. With him it ran e'en to the Red Sea coast; With him compos'd the world to such a peace, That of his temple Janus barr'd the door. "But all the mighty standard yet had wrought, And was appointed to perform thereafter, Throughout the mortal kingdom which it sway'd, Falls in appearance dwindled and obscur'd, If one with steady eye and perfect thought On the third Caesar look; for to his hands, The living Justice, in whose breath I move, Committed glory, e'en into his hands, To execute the vengeance of its wrath. "Hear now and wonder at what next I tell. After with Titus it was sent to wreak Vengeance for vengeance of the ancient sin, And, when the Lombard tooth, with fangs impure, Did gore the bosom of the holy church, Under its wings victorious, Charlemagne Sped to her rescue. Judge then for thyself Of those, whom I erewhile accus'd to thee, What they are, and how grievous their offending, Who are the cause of all your ills. The one Against the universal ensign rears The yellow lilies, and with partial aim That to himself the other arrogates: So that 't is hard to see which more offends. Be yours, ye Ghibellines, to veil your arts Beneath another standard: ill is this Follow'd of him, who severs it and justice: And let not with his Guelphs the new-crown'd Charles Assail it, but those talons hold in dread, Which from a lion of more lofty port Have rent the easing. Many a time ere now The sons have for the sire's transgression wail'd; Nor let him trust the fond belief, that heav'n Will truck its armour for his lilied shield. "This little star is furnish'd with good spirits, Whose mortal lives were busied to that end, That honour and renown might wait on them: And, when desires thus err in their intention, True love must needs ascend with slacker beam. But it is part of our delight, to measure Our wages with the merit; and admire The close proportion. Hence doth heav'nly justice Temper so evenly affection in us, It ne'er can warp to any wrongfulness. Of diverse voices is sweet music made: So in our life the different degrees Render sweet harmony among these wheels. "Within the pearl, that now encloseth us, Shines Romeo's light, whose goodly deed and fair Met ill acceptance. But the Provencals, That were his foes, have little cause for mirth. Ill shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong Of other's worth. Four daughters were there born To Raymond Berenger, and every one Became a queen; and this for him did Romeo, Though of mean state and from a foreign land. Yet envious tongues incited him to ask A reckoning of that just one, who return'd Twelve fold to him for ten. Aged and poor He parted thence: and if the world did know The heart he had, begging his life by morsels, 'T would deem the praise, it yields him, scantly dealt." CANTO VII "Hosanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright With fourfold lustre to its orb again, Revolving; and the rest unto their dance With it mov'd also; and like swiftest sparks, In sudden distance from my sight were veil'd. Me doubt possess'd, and "Speak," it whisper'd me, "Speak, speak unto thy lady, that she quench Thy thirst with drops of sweetness." Yet blank awe, Which lords it o'er me, even at the sound Of Beatrice's name, did bow me down As one in slumber held. Not long that mood Beatrice suffer'd: she, with such a smile, As might have made one blest amid the flames, Beaming upon me, thus her words began: "Thou in thy thought art pond'ring (as I deem), And what I deem is truth how just revenge Could be with justice punish'd: from which doubt I soon will free thee; so thou mark my words; For they of weighty matter shall possess thee. "That man, who was unborn, himself condemn'd, And, in himself, all, who since him have liv'd, His offspring: whence, below, the human kind Lay sick in grievous error many an age; Until it pleas'd the Word of God to come Amongst them down, to his own person joining The nature, from its Maker far estrang'd, By the mere act of his eternal love. Contemplate here the wonder I unfold. The nature with its Maker thus conjoin'd, Created first was blameless, pure and good; But through itself alone was driven forth From Paradise, because it had eschew'd The way of truth and life, to evil turn'd. Ne'er then was penalty so just as that Inflicted by the cross, if thou regard The nature in assumption doom'd: ne'er wrong So great, in reference to him, who took Such nature on him, and endur'd the doom. God therefore and the Jews one sentence pleased: So different effects flow'd from one act, And heav'n was open'd, though the earth did quake. Count it not hard henceforth, when thou dost hear That a just vengeance was by righteous court Justly reveng'd. But yet I see thy mind By thought on thought arising sore perplex'd, And with how vehement desire it asks Solution of the maze. What I have heard, Is plain, thou sayst: but wherefore God this way For our redemption chose, eludes my search. "Brother! no eye of man not perfected, Nor fully ripen'd in the flame of love, May fathom this decree. It is a mark, In sooth, much aim'd at, and but little kenn'd: And I will therefore show thee why such way Was worthiest. The celestial love, that spume All envying in its bounty, in itself With such effulgence blazeth, as sends forth All beauteous things eternal. What distils Immediate thence, no end of being knows, Bearing its seal immutably impress'd. Whatever thence immediate falls, is free, Free wholly, uncontrollable by power Of each thing new: by such conformity More grateful to its author, whose bright beams, Though all partake their shining, yet in those Are liveliest, which resemble him the most. These tokens of pre-eminence on man Largely bestow'd, if any of them fail, He needs must forfeit his nobility, No longer stainless. Sin alone is that, Which doth disfranchise him, and make unlike To the chief good; for that its light in him Is darken'd. And to dignity thus lost Is no return; unless, where guilt makes void, He for ill pleasure pay with equal pain. Your nature, which entirely in its seed Trangress'd, from these distinctions fell, no less Than from its state in Paradise; nor means Found of recovery (search all methods out As strickly as thou may) save one of these, The only fords were left through which to wade, Either that God had of his courtesy Releas'd him merely, or else man himself For his own folly by himself aton'd. "Fix now thine eye, intently as thou canst, On th' everlasting counsel, and explore, Instructed by my words, the dread abyss. "Man in himself had ever lack'd the means Of satisfaction, for he could not stoop Obeying, in humility so low, As high he, disobeying, thought to soar: And for this reason he had vainly tried Out of his own sufficiency to pay The rigid satisfaction. Then behooved That God should by his own ways lead him back Unto the life, from whence he fell, restor'd: By both his ways, I mean, or one alone. But since the deed is ever priz'd the more, The more the doer's good intent appears, Goodness celestial, whose broad signature Is on the universe, of all its ways To raise ye up, was fain to leave out none, Nor aught so vast or so magnificent, Either for him who gave or who receiv'd Between the last night and the primal day, Was or can be. For God more bounty show'd. Giving himself to make man capable Of his return to life, than had the terms Been mere and unconditional release. And for his justice, every method else Were all too scant, had not the Son of God Humbled himself to put on mortal flesh. "Now, to fulfil each wish of thine, remains I somewhat further to thy view unfold. That thou mayst see as clearly as myself. "I see, thou sayst, the air, the fire I see, The earth and water, and all things of them Compounded, to corruption turn, and soon Dissolve. Yet these were also things create, Because, if what were told me, had been true They from corruption had been therefore free. "The angels, O my brother! and this clime Wherein thou art, impassible and pure, I call created, as indeed they are In their whole being. But the elements, Which thou hast nam'd, and what of them is made, Are by created virtue' inform'd: create Their substance, and create the' informing virtue In these bright stars, that round them circling move The soul of every brute and of each plant, The ray and motion of the sacred lights, With complex potency attract and turn. But this our life the' eternal good inspires Immediate, and enamours of itself; So that our wishes rest for ever here. "And hence thou mayst by inference conclude Our resurrection certain, if thy mind Consider how the human flesh was fram'd, When both our parents at the first were made." CANTO VIII The world was in its day of peril dark Wont to believe the dotage of fond love From the fair Cyprian deity, who rolls In her third epicycle, shed on men By stream of potent radiance: therefore they Of elder time, in their old error blind, Not her alone with sacrifice ador'd And invocation, but like honours paid To Cupid and Dione, deem'd of them Her mother, and her son, him whom they feign'd To sit in Dido's bosom: and from her, Whom I have sung preluding, borrow'd they The appellation of that star, which views, Now obvious and now averse, the sun. I was not ware that I was wafted up Into its orb; but the new loveliness That grac'd my lady, gave me ample proof That we had entered there. And as in flame A sparkle is distinct, or voice in voice Discern'd, when one its even tenour keeps, The other comes and goes; so in that light I other luminaries saw, that cours'd In circling motion, rapid more or less, As their eternal phases each impels. Never was blast from vapour charged with cold, Whether invisible to eye or no, Descended with such speed, it had not seem'd To linger in dull tardiness, compar'd To those celestial lights, that tow'rds us came, Leaving the circuit of their joyous ring, Conducted by the lofty seraphim. And after them, who in the van appear'd, Such an hosanna sounded, as hath left Desire, ne'er since extinct in me, to hear Renew'd the strain. Then parting from the rest One near us drew, and sole began: "We all Are ready at thy pleasure, well dispos'd To do thee gentle service. We are they, To whom thou in the world erewhile didst Sing 'O ye! whose intellectual ministry Moves the third heaven!' and in one orb we roll, One motion, one impulse, with those who rule Princedoms in heaven; yet are of love so full, That to please thee 't will be as sweet to rest." After mine eyes had with meek reverence Sought the celestial guide, and were by her Assur'd, they turn'd again unto the light Who had so largely promis'd, and with voice That bare the lively pressure of my zeal, "Tell who ye are," I cried. Forthwith it grew In size and splendour, through augmented joy; And thus it answer'd: "A short date below The world possess'd me. Had the time been more, Much evil, that will come, had never chanc'd. My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine Around, and shroud me, as an animal In its own silk unswath'd. Thou lov'dst me well, And had'st good cause; for had my sojourning Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee Had put forth more than blossoms. The left bank, That Rhone, when he hath mix'd with Sorga, laves. "In me its lord expected, and that horn Of fair Ausonia, with its boroughs old, Bari, and Croton, and Gaeta pil'd, From where the Trento disembogues his waves, With Verde mingled, to the salt sea-flood. Already on my temples beam'd the crown, Which gave me sov'reignty over the land By Danube wash'd, whenas he strays beyond The limits of his German shores. The realm, Where, on the gulf by stormy Eurus lash'd, Betwixt Pelorus and Pachynian heights, The beautiful Trinacria lies in gloom (Not through Typhaeus, but the vap'ry cloud Bituminous upsteam'd), THAT too did look To have its scepter wielded by a race Of monarchs, sprung through me from Charles and Rodolph; had not ill lording which doth spirit up The people ever, in Palermo rais'd The shout of 'death,' re-echo'd loud and long. Had but my brother's foresight kenn'd as much, He had been warier that the greedy want Of Catalonia might not work his bale. And truly need there is, that he forecast, Or other for him, lest more freight be laid On his already over-laden bark. Nature in him, from bounty fall'n to thrift, Would ask the guard of braver arms, than such As only care to have their coffers fill'd." "My liege, it doth enhance the joy thy words Infuse into me, mighty as it is, To think my gladness manifest to thee, As to myself, who own it, when thou lookst Into the source and limit of all good, There, where thou markest that which thou dost speak, Thence priz'd of me the more. Glad thou hast made me. Now make intelligent, clearing the doubt Thy speech hath raised in me; for much I muse, How bitter can spring up, when sweet is sown." I thus inquiring; he forthwith replied: "If I have power to show one truth, soon that Shall face thee, which thy questioning declares Behind thee now conceal'd. The Good, that guides And blessed makes this realm, which thou dost mount, Ordains its providence to be the virtue In these great bodies: nor th' all perfect Mind Upholds their nature merely, but in them Their energy to save: for nought, that lies Within the range of that unerring bow, But is as level with the destin'd aim, As ever mark to arrow's point oppos'd. Were it not thus, these heavens, thou dost visit, Would their effect so work, it would not be Art, but destruction; and this may not chance, If th' intellectual powers, that move these stars, Fail not, or who, first faulty made them fail. Wilt thou this truth more clearly evidenc'd?" To whom I thus: "It is enough: no fear, I see, lest nature in her part should tire." He straight rejoin'd: "Say, were it worse for man, If he liv'd not in fellowship on earth?" "Yea," answer'd I; "nor here a reason needs." "And may that be, if different estates Grow not of different duties in your life? Consult your teacher, and he tells you 'no."' Thus did he come, deducing to this point, And then concluded: "For this cause behooves, The roots, from whence your operations come, Must differ. Therefore one is Solon born; Another, Xerxes; and Melchisidec A third; and he a fourth, whose airy voyage Cost him his son. In her circuitous course, Nature, that is the seal to mortal wax, Doth well her art, but no distinctions owns 'Twixt one or other household. Hence befalls That Esau is so wide of Jacob: hence Quirinus of so base a father springs, He dates from Mars his lineage. Were it not That providence celestial overrul'd, Nature, in generation, must the path Trac'd by the generator, still pursue Unswervingly. Thus place I in thy sight That, which was late behind thee. But, in sign Of more affection for thee, 't is my will Thou wear this corollary. Nature ever Finding discordant fortune, like all seed Out of its proper climate, thrives but ill. And were the world below content to mark And work on the foundation nature lays, It would not lack supply of excellence. But ye perversely to religion strain Him, who was born to gird on him the sword, And of the fluent phrasemen make your king; Therefore your steps have wander'd from the paths." CANTO IX After solution of my doubt, thy Charles, O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake That must befall his seed: but, "Tell it not," Said he, "and let the destin'd years come round." Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed Of sorrow well-deserv'd shall quit your wrongs. And now the visage of that saintly light Was to the sun, that fills it, turn'd again, As to the good, whose plenitude of bliss Sufficeth all. O ye misguided souls! Infatuate, who from such a good estrange Your hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity, Alas for you!--And lo! toward me, next, Another of those splendent forms approach'd, That, by its outward bright'ning, testified The will it had to pleasure me. The eyes Of Beatrice, resting, as before, Firmly upon me, manifested forth Approval of my wish. "And O," I cried, "Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform'd; And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughts I can reflect on thee." Thereat the light, That yet was new to me, from the recess, Where it before was singing, thus began, As one who joys in kindness: "In that part Of the deprav'd Italian land, which lies Between Rialto, and the fountain-springs Of Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise, But to no lofty eminence, a hill, From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend, That sorely sheet the region. From one root I and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza: And here I glitter, for that by its light This star o'ercame me. Yet I naught repine, Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot, Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive. "This jewel, that is next me in our heaven, Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left, And not to perish, ere these hundred years Five times absolve their round. Consider thou, If to excel be worthy man's endeavour, When such life may attend the first. Yet they Care not for this, the crowd that now are girt By Adice and Tagliamento, still Impenitent, tho' scourg'd. The hour is near, When for their stubbornness at Padua's marsh The water shall be chang'd, that laves Vicena And where Cagnano meets with Sile, one Lords it, and bears his head aloft, for whom The web is now a-warping. Feltro too Shall sorrow for its godless shepherd's fault, Of so deep stain, that never, for the like, Was Malta's bar unclos'd. Too large should be The skillet, that would hold Ferrara's blood, And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it, The which this priest, in show of party-zeal, Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suit The country's custom. We descry above, Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to us Reflected shine the judgments of our God: Whence these our sayings we avouch for good." She ended, and appear'd on other thoughts Intent, re-ent'ring on the wheel she late Had left. That other joyance meanwhile wax'd A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing, Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun, For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes Of gladness, as here laughter: and below, As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. "God seeth all: and in him is thy sight," Said I, "blest Spirit! Therefore will of his Cannot to thee be dark. Why then delays Thy voice to satisfy my wish untold, That voice which joins the inexpressive song, Pastime of heav'n, the which those ardours sing, That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread? I would not wait thy asking, wert thou known To me, as thoroughly I to thee am known." He forthwith answ'ring, thus his words began: "The valley' of waters, widest next to that Which doth the earth engarland, shapes its course, Between discordant shores, against the sun Inward so far, it makes meridian there, Where was before th' horizon. Of that vale Dwelt I upon the shore, 'twixt Ebro's stream And Macra's, that divides with passage brief Genoan bounds from Tuscan. East and west Are nearly one to Begga and my land, Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm. Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco: And I did bear impression of this heav'n, That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flame Glow'd Belus' daughter, injuring alike Sichaeus and Creusa, than did I, Long as it suited the unripen'd down That fledg'd my cheek: nor she of Rhodope, That was beguiled of Demophoon; Nor Jove's son, when the charms of Iole Were shrin'd within his heart. And yet there hides No sorrowful repentance here, but mirth, Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind), But for the virtue, whose o'erruling sway And providence have wrought thus quaintly. Here The skill is look'd into, that fashioneth With such effectual working, and the good Discern'd, accruing to this upper world From that below. But fully to content Thy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth, Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst, Who of this light is denizen, that here Beside me sparkles, as the sun-beam doth On the clear wave. Know then, the soul of Rahab Is in that gladsome harbour, to our tribe United, and the foremost rank assign'd. He to that heav'n, at which the shadow ends Of your sublunar world, was taken up, First, in Christ's triumph, of all souls redeem'd: For well behoov'd, that, in some part of heav'n, She should remain a trophy, to declare The mighty contest won with either palm; For that she favour'd first the high exploit Of Joshua on the holy land, whereof The Pope recks little now. Thy city, plant Of him, that on his Maker turn'd the back, And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung, Engenders and expands the cursed flower, That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs, Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this, The gospel and great teachers laid aside, The decretals, as their stuft margins show, Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals, Intent on these, ne'er journey but in thought To Nazareth, where Gabriel op'd his wings. Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican, And other most selected parts of Rome, That were the grave of Peter's soldiery, Shall be deliver'd from the adult'rous bond." CANTO X Looking into his first-born with the love, Which breathes from both eternal, the first Might Ineffable, whence eye or mind Can roam, hath in such order all dispos'd, As none may see and fail to enjoy. Raise, then, O reader! to the lofty wheels, with me, Thy ken directed to the point, whereat One motion strikes on th' other. There begin Thy wonder of the mighty Architect, Who loves his work so inwardly, his eye Doth ever watch it. See, how thence oblique Brancheth the circle, where the planets roll To pour their wished influence on the world; Whose path not bending thus, in heav'n above Much virtue would be lost, and here on earth, All power well nigh extinct: or, from direct Were its departure distant more or less, I' th' universal order, great defect Must, both in heav'n and here beneath, ensue. Now rest thee, reader! on thy bench, and muse Anticipative of the feast to come; So shall delight make thee not feel thy toil. Lo! I have set before thee, for thyself Feed now: the matter I indite, henceforth Demands entire my thought. Join'd with the part, Which late we told of, the great minister Of nature, that upon the world imprints The virtue of the heaven, and doles out Time for us with his beam, went circling on Along the spires, where each hour sooner comes; And I was with him, weetless of ascent, As one, who till arriv'd, weets not his coming. For Beatrice, she who passeth on So suddenly from good to better, time Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs Have been her brightness! What she was i' th' sun (Where I had enter'd), not through change of hue, But light transparent--did I summon up Genius, art, practice--I might not so speak, It should be e'er imagin'd: yet believ'd It may be, and the sight be justly crav'd. And if our fantasy fail of such height, What marvel, since no eye above the sun Hath ever travel'd? Such are they dwell here, Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire, Who of his spirit and of his offspring shows; And holds them still enraptur'd with the view. And thus to me Beatrice: "Thank, oh thank, The Sun of angels, him, who by his grace To this perceptible hath lifted thee." Never was heart in such devotion bound, And with complacency so absolute Dispos'd to render up itself to God, As mine was at those words: and so entire The love for Him, that held me, it eclips'd Beatrice in oblivion. Naught displeas'd Was she, but smil'd thereat so joyously, That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake And scatter'd my collected mind abroad. Then saw I a bright band, in liveliness Surpassing, who themselves did make the crown, And us their centre: yet more sweet in voice, Than in their visage beaming. Cinctur'd thus, Sometime Latona's daughter we behold, When the impregnate air retains the thread, That weaves her zone. In the celestial court, Whence I return, are many jewels found, So dear and beautiful, they cannot brook Transporting from that realm: and of these lights Such was the song. Who doth not prune his wing To soar up thither, let him look from thence For tidings from the dumb. When, singing thus, Those burning suns that circled round us thrice, As nearest stars around the fixed pole, Then seem'd they like to ladies, from the dance Not ceasing, but suspense, in silent pause, List'ning, till they have caught the strain anew: Suspended so they stood: and, from within, Thus heard I one, who spake: "Since with its beam The grace, whence true love lighteth first his flame, That after doth increase by loving, shines So multiplied in thee, it leads thee up Along this ladder, down whose hallow'd steps None e'er descend, and mount them not again, Who from his phial should refuse thee wine To slake thy thirst, no less constrained were, Than water flowing not unto the sea. Thou fain wouldst hear, what plants are these, that bloom In the bright garland, which, admiring, girds This fair dame round, who strengthens thee for heav'n. I then was of the lambs, that Dominic Leads, for his saintly flock, along the way, Where well they thrive, not sworn with vanity. He, nearest on my right hand, brother was, And master to me: Albert of Cologne Is this: and of Aquinum, Thomas I. If thou of all the rest wouldst be assur'd, Let thine eye, waiting on the words I speak, In circuit journey round the blessed wreath. That next resplendence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who to either forum lent Such help, as favour wins in Paradise. The other, nearest, who adorns our quire, Was Peter, he that with the widow gave To holy church his treasure. The fifth light, Goodliest of all, is by such love inspired, That all your world craves tidings of its doom: Within, there is the lofty light, endow'd With sapience so profound, if truth be truth, That with a ken of such wide amplitude No second hath arisen. Next behold That taper's radiance, to whose view was shown, Clearliest, the nature and the ministry Angelical, while yet in flesh it dwelt. In the other little light serenely smiles That pleader for the Christian temples, he Who did provide Augustin of his lore. Now, if thy mind's eye pass from light to light, Upon my praises following, of the eighth Thy thirst is next. The saintly soul, that shows The world's deceitfulness, to all who hear him, Is, with the sight of all the good, that is, Blest there. The limbs, whence it was driven, lie Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And exile came it here. Lo! further on, Where flames the arduous Spirit of Isidore, Of Bede, and Richard, more than man, erewhile, In deep discernment. Lastly this, from whom Thy look on me reverteth, was the beam Of one, whose spirit, on high musings bent, Rebuk'd the ling'ring tardiness of death. It is the eternal light of Sigebert, Who 'scap'd not envy, when of truth he argued, Reading in the straw-litter'd street." Forthwith, As clock, that calleth up the spouse of God To win her bridegroom's love at matin's hour, Each part of other fitly drawn and urg'd, Sends out a tinkling sound, of note so sweet, Affection springs in well-disposed breast; Thus saw I move the glorious wheel, thus heard Voice answ'ring voice, so musical and soft, It can be known but where day endless shines. CANTO XI O fond anxiety of mortal men! How vain and inconclusive arguments Are those, which make thee beat thy wings below For statues one, and one for aphorisms Was hunting; this the priesthood follow'd, that By force or sophistry aspir'd to rule; To rob another, and another sought By civil business wealth; one moiling lay Tangled in net of sensual delight, And one to witless indolence resign'd; What time from all these empty things escap'd, With Beatrice, I thus gloriously Was rais'd aloft, and made the guest of heav'n. They of the circle to that point, each one. Where erst it was, had turn'd; and steady glow'd, As candle in his socket. Then within The lustre, that erewhile bespake me, smiling With merer gladness, heard I thus begin: "E'en as his beam illumes me, so I look Into the eternal light, and clearly mark Thy thoughts, from whence they rise. Thou art in doubt, And wouldst, that I should bolt my words afresh In such plain open phrase, as may be smooth To thy perception, where I told thee late That 'well they thrive;' and that 'no second such Hath risen,' which no small distinction needs. "The providence, that governeth the world, In depth of counsel by created ken Unfathomable, to the end that she, Who with loud cries was 'spous'd in precious blood, Might keep her footing towards her well-belov'd, Safe in herself and constant unto him, Hath two ordain'd, who should on either hand In chief escort her: one seraphic all In fervency; for wisdom upon earth, The other splendour of cherubic light. I but of one will tell: he tells of both, Who one commendeth which of them so'er Be taken: for their deeds were to one end. "Between Tupino, and the wave, that falls From blest Ubaldo's chosen hill, there hangs Rich slope of mountain high, whence heat and cold Are wafted through Perugia's eastern gate: And Norcera with Gualdo, in its rear Mourn for their heavy yoke. Upon that side, Where it doth break its steepness most, arose A sun upon the world, as duly this From Ganges doth: therefore let none, who speak Of that place, say Ascesi; for its name Were lamely so deliver'd; but the East, To call things rightly, be it henceforth styl'd. He was not yet much distant from his rising, When his good influence 'gan to bless the earth. A dame to whom none openeth pleasure's gate More than to death, was, 'gainst his father's will, His stripling choice: and he did make her his, Before the Spiritual court, by nuptial bonds, And in his father's sight: from day to day, Then lov'd her more devoutly. She, bereav'd Of her first husband, slighted and obscure, Thousand and hundred years and more, remain'd Without a single suitor, till he came. Nor aught avail'd, that, with Amyclas, she Was found unmov'd at rumour of his voice, Who shook the world: nor aught her constant boldness Whereby with Christ she mounted on the cross, When Mary stay'd beneath. But not to deal Thus closely with thee longer, take at large The rovers' titles--Poverty and Francis. Their concord and glad looks, wonder and love, And sweet regard gave birth to holy thoughts, So much, that venerable Bernard first Did bare his feet, and, in pursuit of peace So heavenly, ran, yet deem'd his footing slow. O hidden riches! O prolific good! Egidius bares him next, and next Sylvester, And follow both the bridegroom; so the bride Can please them. Thenceforth goes he on his way, The father and the master, with his spouse, And with that family, whom now the cord Girt humbly: nor did abjectness of heart Weigh down his eyelids, for that he was son Of Pietro Bernardone, and by men In wond'rous sort despis'd. But royally His hard intention he to Innocent Set forth, and from him first receiv'd the seal On his religion. Then, when numerous flock'd The tribe of lowly ones, that trac'd HIS steps, Whose marvellous life deservedly were sung In heights empyreal, through Honorius' hand A second crown, to deck their Guardian's virtues, Was by the eternal Spirit inwreath'd: and when He had, through thirst of martyrdom, stood up In the proud Soldan's presence, and there preach'd Christ and his followers; but found the race Unripen'd for conversion: back once more He hasted (not to intermit his toil), And reap'd Ausonian lands. On the hard rock, 'Twixt Arno and the Tyber, he from Christ Took the last Signet, which his limbs two years Did carry. Then the season come, that he, Who to such good had destin'd him, was pleas'd T' advance him to the meed, which he had earn'd By his self-humbling, to his brotherhood, As their just heritage, he gave in charge His dearest lady, and enjoin'd their love And faith to her: and, from her bosom, will'd His goodly spirit should move forth, returning To its appointed kingdom, nor would have His body laid upon another bier. "Think now of one, who were a fit colleague, To keep the bark of Peter in deep sea Helm'd to right point; and such our Patriarch was. Therefore who follow him, as he enjoins, Thou mayst be certain, take good lading in. But hunger of new viands tempts his flock, So that they needs into strange pastures wide Must spread them: and the more remote from him The stragglers wander, so much mole they come Home to the sheep-fold, destitute of milk. There are of them, in truth, who fear their harm, And to the shepherd cleave; but these so few, A little stuff may furnish out their cloaks. "Now, if my words be clear, if thou have ta'en Good heed, if that, which I have told, recall To mind, thy wish may be in part fulfill'd: For thou wilt see the point from whence they split, Nor miss of the reproof, which that implies, 'That well they thrive not sworn with vanity."' CANTO XII Soon as its final word the blessed flame Had rais'd for utterance, straight the holy mill Began to wheel, nor yet had once revolv'd, Or ere another, circling, compass'd it, Motion to motion, song to song, conjoining, Song, that as much our muses doth excel, Our Sirens with their tuneful pipes, as ray Of primal splendour doth its faint reflex. As when, if Juno bid her handmaid forth, Two arches parallel, and trick'd alike, Span the thin cloud, the outer taking birth From that within (in manner of that voice Whom love did melt away, as sun the mist), And they who gaze, presageful call to mind The compact, made with Noah, of the world No more to be o'erflow'd; about us thus Of sempiternal roses, bending, wreath'd Those garlands twain, and to the innermost E'en thus th' external answered. When the footing, And other great festivity, of song, And radiance, light with light accordant, each Jocund and blythe, had at their pleasure still'd (E'en as the eyes by quick volition mov'd, Are shut and rais'd together), from the heart Of one amongst the new lights mov'd a voice, That made me seem like needle to the star, In turning to its whereabout, and thus Began: "The love, that makes me beautiful, Prompts me to tell of th' other guide, for whom Such good of mine is spoken. Where one is, The other worthily should also be; That as their warfare was alike, alike Should be their glory. Slow, and full of doubt, And with thin ranks, after its banner mov'd The army of Christ (which it so clearly cost To reappoint), when its imperial Head, Who reigneth ever, for the drooping host Did make provision, thorough grace alone, And not through its deserving. As thou heard'st, Two champions to the succour of his spouse He sent, who by their deeds and words might join Again his scatter'd people. In that clime, Where springs the pleasant west-wind to unfold The fresh leaves, with which Europe sees herself New-garmented; nor from those billows far, Beyond whose chiding, after weary course, The sun doth sometimes hide him, safe abides The happy Callaroga, under guard Of the great shield, wherein the lion lies Subjected and supreme. And there was born The loving million of the Christian faith, The hollow'd wrestler, gentle to his own, And to his enemies terrible. So replete His soul with lively virtue, that when first Created, even in the mother's womb, It prophesied. When, at the sacred font, The spousals were complete 'twixt faith and him, Where pledge of mutual safety was exchang'd, The dame, who was his surety, in her sleep Beheld the wondrous fruit, that was from him And from his heirs to issue. And that such He might be construed, as indeed he was, She was inspir'd to name him of his owner, Whose he was wholly, and so call'd him Dominic. And I speak of him, as the labourer, Whom Christ in his own garden chose to be His help-mate. Messenger he seem'd, and friend Fast-knit to Christ; and the first love he show'd, Was after the first counsel that Christ gave. Many a time his nurse, at entering found That he had ris'n in silence, and was prostrate, As who should say, "My errand was for this." O happy father! Felix rightly nam'd! O favour'd mother! rightly nam'd Joanna! If that do mean, as men interpret it. Not for the world's sake, for which now they pore Upon Ostiense and Taddeo's page, But for the real manna, soon he grew Mighty in learning, and did set himself To go about the vineyard, that soon turns To wan and wither'd, if not tended well: And from the see (whose bounty to the just And needy is gone by, not through its fault, But his who fills it basely, he besought, No dispensation for commuted wrong, Nor the first vacant fortune, nor the tenth), That to God's paupers rightly appertain, But, 'gainst an erring and degenerate world, Licence to fight, in favour of that seed, From which the twice twelve cions gird thee round. Then, with sage doctrine and good will to help, Forth on his great apostleship he far'd, Like torrent bursting from a lofty vein; And, dashing 'gainst the stocks of heresy, Smote fiercest, where resistance was most stout. Thence many rivulets have since been turn'd, Over the garden Catholic to lead Their living waters, and have fed its plants. "If such one wheel of that two-yoked car, Wherein the holy church defended her, And rode triumphant through the civil broil. Thou canst not doubt its fellow's excellence, Which Thomas, ere my coming, hath declar'd So courteously unto thee. But the track, Which its smooth fellies made, is now deserted: That mouldy mother is where late were lees. His family, that wont to trace his path, Turn backward, and invert their steps; erelong To rue the gathering in of their ill crop, When the rejected tares in vain shall ask Admittance to the barn. I question not But he, who search'd our volume, leaf by leaf, Might still find page with this inscription on't, 'I am as I was wont.' Yet such were not From Acquasparta nor Casale, whence Of those, who come to meddle with the text, One stretches and another cramps its rule. Bonaventura's life in me behold, From Bagnororegio, one, who in discharge Of my great offices still laid aside All sinister aim. Illuminato here, And Agostino join me: two they were, Among the first of those barefooted meek ones, Who sought God's friendship in the cord: with them Hugues of Saint Victor, Pietro Mangiadore, And he of Spain in his twelve volumes shining, Nathan the prophet, Metropolitan Chrysostom, and Anselmo, and, who deign'd To put his hand to the first art, Donatus. Raban is here: and at my side there shines Calabria's abbot, Joachim, endow'd With soul prophetic. The bright courtesy Of friar Thomas, and his goodly lore, Have mov'd me to the blazon of a peer So worthy, and with me have mov'd this throng." CANTO XIII Let him, who would conceive what now I saw, Imagine (and retain the image firm, As mountain rock, the whilst he hears me speak), Of stars fifteen, from midst the ethereal host Selected, that, with lively ray serene, O'ercome the massiest air: thereto imagine The wain, that, in the bosom of our sky, Spins ever on its axle night and day, With the bright summit of that horn which swells Due from the pole, round which the first wheel rolls, T' have rang'd themselves in fashion of two signs In heav'n, such as Ariadne made, When death's chill seized her; and that one of them Did compass in the other's beam; and both In such sort whirl around, that each should tend With opposite motion and, conceiving thus, Of that true constellation, and the dance Twofold, that circled me, he shall attain As 't were the shadow; for things there as much Surpass our usage, as the swiftest heav'n Is swifter than the Chiana. There was sung No Bacchus, and no Io Paean, but Three Persons in the Godhead, and in one Substance that nature and the human join'd. The song fulfill'd its measure; and to us Those saintly lights attended, happier made At each new minist'ring. Then silence brake, Amid th' accordant sons of Deity, That luminary, in which the wondrous life Of the meek man of God was told to me; And thus it spake: "One ear o' th' harvest thresh'd, And its grain safely stor'd, sweet charity Invites me with the other to like toil. "Thou know'st, that in the bosom, whence the rib Was ta'en to fashion that fair cheek, whose taste All the world pays for, and in that, which pierc'd By the keen lance, both after and before Such satisfaction offer'd, as outweighs Each evil in the scale, whate'er of light To human nature is allow'd, must all Have by his virtue been infus'd, who form'd Both one and other: and thou thence admir'st In that I told thee, of beatitudes A second, there is none, to his enclos'd In the fifth radiance. Open now thine eyes To what I answer thee; and thou shalt see Thy deeming and my saying meet in truth, As centre in the round. That which dies not, And that which can die, are but each the beam Of that idea, which our Soverign Sire Engendereth loving; for that lively light, Which passeth from his brightness; not disjoin'd From him, nor from his love triune with them, Doth, through his bounty, congregate itself, Mirror'd, as 't were in new existences, Itself unalterable and ever one. "Descending hence unto the lowest powers, Its energy so sinks, at last it makes But brief contingencies: for so I name Things generated, which the heav'nly orbs Moving, with seed or without seed, produce. Their wax, and that which molds it, differ much: And thence with lustre, more or less, it shows Th' ideal stamp impress: so that one tree According to his kind, hath better fruit, And worse: and, at your birth, ye, mortal men, Are in your talents various. Were the wax Molded with nice exactness, and the heav'n In its disposing influence supreme, The lustre of the seal should be complete: But nature renders it imperfect ever, Resembling thus the artist in her work, Whose faultering hand is faithless to his skill. Howe'er, if love itself dispose, and mark The primal virtue, kindling with bright view, There all perfection is vouchsafed; and such The clay was made, accomplish'd with each gift, That life can teem with; such the burden fill'd The virgin's bosom: so that I commend Thy judgment, that the human nature ne'er Was or can be, such as in them it was. "Did I advance no further than this point, 'How then had he no peer?' thou might'st reply. But, that what now appears not, may appear Right plainly, ponder, who he was, and what (When he was bidden 'Ask' ), the motive sway'd To his requesting. I have spoken thus, That thou mayst see, he was a king, who ask'd For wisdom, to the end he might be king Sufficient: not the number to search out Of the celestial movers; or to know, If necessary with contingent e'er Have made necessity; or whether that Be granted, that first motion is; or if Of the mid circle can, by art, be made Triangle with each corner, blunt or sharp. "Whence, noting that, which I have said, and this, Thou kingly prudence and that ken mayst learn, At which the dart of my intention aims. And, marking clearly, that I told thee, 'Risen,' Thou shalt discern it only hath respect To kings, of whom are many, and the good Are rare. With this distinction take my words; And they may well consist with that which thou Of the first human father dost believe, And of our well-beloved. And let this Henceforth be led unto thy feet, to make Thee slow in motion, as a weary man, Both to the 'yea' and to the 'nay' thou seest not. For he among the fools is down full low, Whose affirmation, or denial, is Without distinction, in each case alike Since it befalls, that in most instances Current opinion leads to false: and then Affection bends the judgment to her ply. "Much more than vainly doth he loose from shore, Since he returns not such as he set forth, Who fishes for the truth and wanteth skill. And open proofs of this unto the world Have been afforded in Parmenides, Melissus, Bryso, and the crowd beside, Who journey'd on, and knew not whither: so did Sabellius, Arius, and the other fools, Who, like to scymitars, reflected back The scripture-image, by distortion marr'd. "Let not the people be too swift to judge, As one who reckons on the blades in field, Or ere the crop be ripe. For I have seen The thorn frown rudely all the winter long And after bear the rose upon its top; And bark, that all the way across the sea Ran straight and speedy, perish at the last, E'en in the haven's mouth seeing one steal, Another brine, his offering to the priest, Let not Dame Birtha and Sir Martin thence Into heav'n's counsels deem that they can pry: For one of these may rise, the other fall." CANTO XIV From centre to the circle, and so back From circle to the centre, water moves In the round chalice, even as the blow Impels it, inwardly, or from without. Such was the image glanc'd into my mind, As the great spirit of Aquinum ceas'd; And Beatrice after him her words Resum'd alternate: "Need there is (tho' yet He tells it to you not in words, nor e'en In thought) that he should fathom to its depth Another mystery. Tell him, if the light, Wherewith your substance blooms, shall stay with you Eternally, as now: and, if it doth, How, when ye shall regain your visible forms, The sight may without harm endure the change, That also tell." As those, who in a ring Tread the light measure, in their fitful mirth Raise loud the voice, and spring with gladder bound; Thus, at the hearing of that pious suit, The saintly circles in their tourneying And wond'rous note attested new delight. Whoso laments, that we must doff this garb Of frail mortality, thenceforth to live Immortally above, he hath not seen The sweet refreshing, of that heav'nly shower. Him, who lives ever, and for ever reigns In mystic union of the Three in One, Unbounded, bounding all, each spirit thrice Sang, with such melody, as but to hear For highest merit were an ample meed. And from the lesser orb the goodliest light, With gentle voice and mild, such as perhaps The angel's once to Mary, thus replied: "Long as the joy of Paradise shall last, Our love shall shine around that raiment, bright, As fervent; fervent, as in vision blest; And that as far in blessedness exceeding, As it hath grave beyond its virtue great. Our shape, regarmented with glorious weeds Of saintly flesh, must, being thus entire, Show yet more gracious. Therefore shall increase, Whate'er of light, gratuitous, imparts The Supreme Good; light, ministering aid, The better disclose his glory: whence The vision needs increasing, much increase The fervour, which it kindles; and that too The ray, that comes from it. But as the greed Which gives out flame, yet it its whiteness shines More lively than that, and so preserves Its proper semblance; thus this circling sphere Of splendour, shall to view less radiant seem, Than shall our fleshly robe, which yonder earth Now covers. Nor will such excess of light O'erpower us, in corporeal organs made Firm, and susceptible of all delight." So ready and so cordial an "Amen," Followed from either choir, as plainly spoke Desire of their dead bodies; yet perchance Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear, Mothers and sires, and those whom best they lov'd, Ere they were made imperishable flame. And lo! forthwith there rose up round about A lustre over that already there, Of equal clearness, like the brightening up Of the horizon. As at an evening hour Of twilight, new appearances through heav'n Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried; So there new substances, methought began To rise in view; and round the other twain Enwheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. O gentle glitter of eternal beam! With what a such whiteness did it flow, O'erpowering vision in me! But so fair, So passing lovely, Beatrice show'd, Mind cannot follow it, nor words express Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regain'd Power to look up, and I beheld myself, Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss Translated: for the star, with warmer smile Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. With all the heart, and with that tongue which speaks The same in all, an holocaust I made To God, befitting the new grace vouchsaf'd. And from my bosom had not yet upsteam'd The fuming of that incense, when I knew The rite accepted. With such mighty sheen And mantling crimson, in two listed rays The splendours shot before me, that I cried, "God of Sabaoth! that does prank them thus!" As leads the galaxy from pole to pole, Distinguish'd into greater lights and less, Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell; So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars, Those rays describ'd the venerable sign, That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. Here memory mocks the toil of genius. Christ Beam'd on that cross; and pattern fails me now. But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ Will pardon me for that I leave untold, When in the flecker'd dawning he shall spy The glitterance of Christ. From horn to horn, And 'tween the summit and the base did move Lights, scintillating, as they met and pass'd. Thus oft are seen, with ever-changeful glance, Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow, The atomies of bodies, long or short, To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line Checkers the shadow, interpos'd by art Against the noontide heat. And as the chime Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and help With many strings, a pleasant dining makes To him, who heareth not distinct the note; So from the lights, which there appear'd to me, Gather'd along the cross a melody, That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment Possess'd me. Yet I mark'd it was a hymn Of lofty praises; for there came to me "Arise and conquer," as to one who hears And comprehends not. Me such ecstasy O'ercame, that never till that hour was thing That held me in so sweet imprisonment. Perhaps my saying over bold appears, Accounting less the pleasure of those eyes, Whereon to look fulfilleth all desire. But he, who is aware those living seals Of every beauty work with quicker force, The higher they are ris'n; and that there I had not turn'd me to them; he may well Excuse me that, whereof in my excuse I do accuse me, and may own my truth; That holy pleasure here not yet reveal'd, Which grows in transport as we mount aloof. CANTO XV True love, that ever shows itself as clear In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, Silenced that lyre harmonious, and still'd The sacred chords, that are by heav'n's right hand Unwound and tighten'd, flow to righteous prayers Should they not hearken, who, to give me will For praying, in accordance thus were mute? He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief, Who, for the love of thing that lasteth not, Despoils himself forever of that love. As oft along the still and pure serene, At nightfall, glides a sudden trail of fire, Attracting with involuntary heed The eye to follow it, erewhile at rest, And seems some star that shifted place in heav'n, Only that, whence it kindles, none is lost, And it is soon extinct; thus from the horn, That on the dexter of the cross extends, Down to its foot, one luminary ran From mid the cluster shone there; yet no gem Dropp'd from its foil; and through the beamy list Like flame in alabaster, glow'd its course. So forward stretch'd him (if of credence aught Our greater muse may claim) the pious ghost Of old Anchises, in the' Elysian bower, When he perceiv'd his son. "O thou, my blood! O most exceeding grace divine! to whom, As now to thee, hath twice the heav'nly gate Been e'er unclos'd?" so spake the light; whence I Turn'd me toward him; then unto my dame My sight directed, and on either side Amazement waited me; for in her eyes Was lighted such a smile, I thought that mine Had div'd unto the bottom of my grace And of my bliss in Paradise. Forthwith To hearing and to sight grateful alike, The spirit to his proem added things I understood not, so profound he spake; Yet not of choice but through necessity Mysterious; for his high conception scar'd Beyond the mark of mortals. When the flight Of holy transport had so spent its rage, That nearer to the level of our thought The speech descended, the first sounds I heard Were, "Best he thou, Triunal Deity! That hast such favour in my seed vouchsaf'd!" Then follow'd: "No unpleasant thirst, tho' long, Which took me reading in the sacred book, Whose leaves or white or dusky never change, Thou hast allay'd, my son, within this light, From whence my voice thou hear'st; more thanks to her. Who for such lofty mounting has with plumes Begirt thee. Thou dost deem thy thoughts to me From him transmitted, who is first of all, E'en as all numbers ray from unity; And therefore dost not ask me who I am, Or why to thee more joyous I appear, Than any other in this gladsome throng. The truth is as thou deem'st; for in this hue Both less and greater in that mirror look, In which thy thoughts, or ere thou think'st, are shown. But, that the love, which keeps me wakeful ever, Urging with sacred thirst of sweet desire, May be contended fully, let thy voice, Fearless, and frank and jocund, utter forth Thy will distinctly, utter forth the wish, Whereto my ready answer stands decreed." I turn'd me to Beatrice; and she heard Ere I had spoken, smiling, an assent, That to my will gave wings; and I began "To each among your tribe, what time ye kenn'd The nature, in whom naught unequal dwells, Wisdom and love were in one measure dealt; For that they are so equal in the sun, From whence ye drew your radiance and your heat, As makes all likeness scant. But will and means, In mortals, for the cause ye well discern, With unlike wings are fledge. A mortal I Experience inequality like this, And therefore give no thanks, but in the heart, For thy paternal greeting. This howe'er I pray thee, living topaz! that ingemm'st This precious jewel, let me hear thy name." "I am thy root, O leaf! whom to expect Even, hath pleas'd me:" thus the prompt reply Prefacing, next it added; "he, of whom Thy kindred appellation comes, and who, These hundred years and more, on its first ledge Hath circuited the mountain, was my son And thy great grandsire. Well befits, his long Endurance should be shorten'd by thy deeds. "Florence, within her ancient limit-mark, Which calls her still to matin prayers and noon, Was chaste and sober, and abode in peace. She had no armlets and no head-tires then, No purfled dames, no zone, that caught the eye More than the person did. Time was not yet, When at his daughter's birth the sire grew pale. For fear the age and dowry should exceed On each side just proportion. House was none Void of its family; nor yet had come Hardanapalus, to exhibit feats Of chamber prowess. Montemalo yet O'er our suburban turret rose; as much To be surpass in fall, as in its rising. I saw Bellincione Berti walk abroad In leathern girdle and a clasp of bone; And, with no artful colouring on her cheeks, His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw Of Nerli and of Vecchio well content With unrob'd jerkin; and their good dames handling The spindle and the flax; O happy they! Each sure of burial in her native land, And none left desolate a-bed for France! One wak'd to tend the cradle, hushing it With sounds that lull'd the parent's infancy: Another, with her maidens, drawing off The tresses from the distaff, lectur'd them Old tales of Troy and Fesole and Rome. A Salterello and Cianghella we Had held as strange a marvel, as ye would A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. "In such compos'd and seemly fellowship, Such faithful and such fair equality, In so sweet household, Mary at my birth Bestow'd me, call'd on with loud cries; and there In your old baptistery, I was made Christian at once and Cacciaguida; as were My brethren, Eliseo and Moronto. "From Valdipado came to me my spouse, And hence thy surname grew. I follow'd then The Emperor Conrad; and his knighthood he Did gird on me; in such good part he took My valiant service. After him I went To testify against that evil law, Whose people, by the shepherd's fault, possess Your right, usurping. There, by that foul crew Was I releas'd from the deceitful world, Whose base affection many a spirit soils, And from the martyrdom came to this peace." CANTO XVI O slight respect of man's nobility! I never shall account it marvelous, That our infirm affection here below Thou mov'st to boasting, when I could not choose, E'en in that region of unwarp'd desire, In heav'n itself, but make my vaunt in thee! Yet cloak thou art soon shorten'd, for that time, Unless thou be eked out from day to day, Goes round thee with his shears. Resuming then With greeting such, as Rome, was first to bear, But since hath disaccustom'd I began; And Beatrice, that a little space Was sever'd, smil'd reminding me of her, Whose cough embolden'd (as the story holds) To first offence the doubting Guenever. "You are my sire," said I, "you give me heart Freely to speak my thought: above myself You raise me. Through so many streams with joy My soul is fill'd, that gladness wells from it; So that it bears the mighty tide, and bursts not Say then, my honour'd stem! what ancestors Where those you sprang from, and what years were mark'd In your first childhood? Tell me of the fold, That hath Saint John for guardian, what was then Its state, and who in it were highest seated?" As embers, at the breathing of the wind, Their flame enliven, so that light I saw Shine at my blandishments; and, as it grew More fair to look on, so with voice more sweet, Yet not in this our modern phrase, forthwith It answer'd: "From the day, when it was said 'Hail Virgin!' to the throes, by which my mother, Who now is sainted, lighten'd her of me Whom she was heavy with, this fire had come, Five hundred fifty times and thrice, its beams To reilumine underneath the foot Of its own lion. They, of whom I sprang, And I, had there our birth-place, where the last Partition of our city first is reach'd By him, that runs her annual game. Thus much Suffice of my forefathers: who they were, And whence they hither came, more honourable It is to pass in silence than to tell. All those, who in that time were there from Mars Until the Baptist, fit to carry arms, Were but the fifth of them this day alive. But then the citizen's blood, that now is mix'd From Campi and Certaldo and Fighine, Ran purely through the last mechanic's veins. O how much better were it, that these people Were neighbours to you, and that at Galluzzo And at Trespiano, ye should have your bound'ry, Than to have them within, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's hind, and Signa's, him, That hath his eye already keen for bart'ring! Had not the people, which of all the world Degenerates most, been stepdame unto Caesar, But, as a mother, gracious to her son; Such one, as hath become a Florentine, And trades and traffics, had been turn'd adrift To Simifonte, where his grandsire ply'd The beggar's craft. The Conti were possess'd Of Montemurlo still: the Cerchi still Were in Acone's parish; nor had haply From Valdigrieve past the Buondelmonte. The city's malady hath ever source In the confusion of its persons, as The body's, in variety of food: And the blind bull falls with a steeper plunge, Than the blind lamb; and oftentimes one sword Doth more and better execution, Than five. Mark Luni, Urbisaglia mark, How they are gone, and after them how go Chiusi and Sinigaglia; and 't will seem No longer new or strange to thee to hear, That families fail, when cities have their end. All things, that appertain t' ye, like yourselves, Are mortal: but mortality in some Ye mark not, they endure so long, and you Pass by so suddenly. And as the moon Doth, by the rolling of her heav'nly sphere, Hide and reveal the strand unceasingly; So fortune deals with Florence. Hence admire not At what of them I tell thee, whose renown Time covers, the first Florentines. I saw The Ughi, Catilini and Filippi, The Alberichi, Greci and Ormanni, Now in their wane, illustrious citizens: And great as ancient, of Sannella him, With him of Arca saw, and Soldanieri And Ardinghi, and Bostichi. At the poop, That now is laden with new felony, So cumb'rous it may speedily sink the bark, The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprung The County Guido, and whoso hath since His title from the fam'd Bellincione ta'en. Fair governance was yet an art well priz'd By him of Pressa: Galigaio show'd The gilded hilt and pommel, in his house. The column, cloth'd with verrey, still was seen Unshaken: the Sacchetti still were great, Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci, With them who blush to hear the bushel nam'd. Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunk Was in its strength: and to the curule chairs Sizii and Arigucci yet were drawn. How mighty them I saw, whom since their pride Hath undone! and in all her goodly deeds Florence was by the bullets of bright gold O'erflourish'd. Such the sires of those, who now, As surely as your church is vacant, flock Into her consistory, and at leisure There stall them and grow fat. The o'erweening brood, That plays the dragon after him that flees, But unto such, as turn and show the tooth, Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb, Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem'd, That Ubertino of Donati grudg'd His father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe. Already Caponsacco had descended Into the mart from Fesole: and Giuda And Infangato were good citizens. A thing incredible I tell, tho' true: The gateway, named from those of Pera, led Into the narrow circuit of your walls. Each one, who bears the sightly quarterings Of the great Baron (he whose name and worth The festival of Thomas still revives) His knighthood and his privilege retain'd; Albeit one, who borders them With gold, This day is mingled with the common herd. In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt, And Importuni: well for its repose Had it still lack'd of newer neighbourhood. The house, from whence your tears have had their spring, Through the just anger that hath murder'd ye And put a period to your gladsome days, Was honour'd, it, and those consorted with it. O Buondelmonte! what ill counseling Prevail'd on thee to break the plighted bond Many, who now are weeping, would rejoice, Had God to Ema giv'n thee, the first time Thou near our city cam'st. But so was doom'd: On that maim'd stone set up to guard the bridge, At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell. With these and others like to them, I saw Florence in such assur'd tranquility, She had no cause at which to grieve: with these Saw her so glorious and so just, that ne'er The lily from the lance had hung reverse, Or through division been with vermeil dyed." CANTO XVII Such as the youth, who came to Clymene To certify himself of that reproach, Which had been fasten'd on him, (he whose end Still makes the fathers chary to their sons), E'en such was I; nor unobserv'd was such Of Beatrice, and that saintly lamp, Who had erewhile for me his station mov'd; When thus by lady: "Give thy wish free vent, That it may issue, bearing true report Of the mind's impress; not that aught thy words May to our knowledge add, but to the end, That thou mayst use thyself to own thy thirst And men may mingle for thee when they hear." "O plant! from whence I spring! rever'd and lov'd! Who soar'st so high a pitch, thou seest as clear, As earthly thought determines two obtuse In one triangle not contain'd, so clear Dost see contingencies, ere in themselves Existent, looking at the point whereto All times are present, I, the whilst I scal'd With Virgil the soul purifying mount, And visited the nether world of woe, Touching my future destiny have heard Words grievous, though I feel me on all sides Well squar'd to fortune's blows. Therefore my will Were satisfied to know the lot awaits me, The arrow, seen beforehand, slacks its flight." So said I to the brightness, which erewhile To me had spoken, and my will declar'd, As Beatrice will'd, explicitly. Nor with oracular response obscure, Such, as or ere the Lamb of God was slain, Beguil'd the credulous nations; but, in terms Precise and unambiguous lore, replied The spirit of paternal love, enshrin'd, Yet in his smile apparent; and thus spake: "Contingency, unfolded not to view Upon the tablet of your mortal mold, Is all depictur'd in the' eternal sight; But hence deriveth not necessity, More then the tall ship, hurried down the flood, Doth from the vision, that reflects the scene. From thence, as to the ear sweet harmony From organ comes, so comes before mine eye The time prepar'd for thee. Such as driv'n out From Athens, by his cruel stepdame's wiles, Hippolytus departed, such must thou Depart from Florence. This they wish, and this Contrive, and will ere long effectuate, there, Where gainful merchandize is made of Christ, Throughout the livelong day. The common cry, Will, as 't is ever wont, affix the blame Unto the party injur'd: but the truth Shall, in the vengeance it dispenseth, find A faithful witness. Thou shall leave each thing Belov'd most dearly: this is the first shaft Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove How salt the savour is of other's bread, How hard the passage to descend and climb By other's stairs, But that shall gall thee most Will be the worthless and vile company, With whom thou must be thrown into these straits. For all ungrateful, impious all and mad, Shall turn 'gainst thee: but in a little while Theirs and not thine shall be the crimson'd brow Their course shall so evince their brutishness T' have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee. "First refuge thou must find, first place of rest, In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears Upon the ladder perch'd the sacred bird. He shall behold thee with such kind regard, That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that Which falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall Forerun the asking. With him shalt thou see That mortal, who was at his birth impress So strongly from this star, that of his deeds The nations shall take note. His unripe age Yet holds him from observance; for these wheels Only nine years have compass him about. But, ere the Gascon practice on great Harry, Sparkles of virtue shall shoot forth in him, In equal scorn of labours and of gold. His bounty shall be spread abroad so widely, As not to let the tongues e'en of his foes Be idle in its praise. Look thou to him And his beneficence: for he shall cause Reversal of their lot to many people, Rich men and beggars interchanging fortunes. And thou shalt bear this written in thy soul Of him, but tell it not;" and things he told Incredible to those who witness them; Then added: "So interpret thou, my son, What hath been told thee.--Lo! the ambushment That a few circling seasons hide for thee! Yet envy not thy neighbours: time extends Thy span beyond their treason's chastisement." Soon, as the saintly spirit, by his silence, Had shown the web, which I had streteh'd for him Upon the warp, was woven, I began, As one, who in perplexity desires Counsel of other, wise, benign and friendly: "My father! well I mark how time spurs on Toward me, ready to inflict the blow, Which falls most heavily on him, who most Abandoned himself. Therefore 't is good I should forecast, that driven from the place Most dear to me, I may not lose myself All others by my song. Down through the world Of infinite mourning, and along the mount From whose fair height my lady's eyes did lift me, And after through this heav'n from light to light, Have I learnt that, which if I tell again, It may with many woefully disrelish; And, if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear my life may perish among those, To whom these days shall be of ancient date." The brightness, where enclos'd the treasure smil'd, Which I had found there, first shone glisteningly, Like to a golden mirror in the sun; Next answer'd: "Conscience, dimm'd or by its own Or other's shame, will feel thy saying sharp. Thou, notwithstanding, all deceit remov'd, See the whole vision be made manifest. And let them wince who have their withers wrung. What though, when tasted first, thy voice shall prove Unwelcome, on digestion it will turn To vital nourishment. The cry thou raisest, Shall, as the wind doth, smite the proudest summits; Which is of honour no light argument, For this there only have been shown to thee, Throughout these orbs, the mountain, and the deep, Spirits, whom fame hath note of. For the mind Of him, who hears, is loth to acquiesce And fix its faith, unless the instance brought Be palpable, and proof apparent urge." CANTO XVIII CANTO XVIII Now in his word, sole, ruminating, joy'd That blessed spirit; and I fed on mine, Tempting the sweet with bitter: she meanwhile, Who led me unto God, admonish'd: "Muse On other thoughts: bethink thee, that near Him I dwell, who recompenseth every wrong." At the sweet sounds of comfort straight I turn'd; And, in the saintly eyes what love was seen, I leave in silence here: nor through distrust Of my words only, but that to such bliss The mind remounts not without aid. Thus much Yet may I speak; that, as I gaz'd on her, Affection found no room for other wish. While the everlasting pleasure, that did full On Beatrice shine, with second view From her fair countenance my gladden'd soul Contented; vanquishing me with a beam Of her soft smile, she spake: "Turn thee, and list. These eyes are not thy only Paradise." As here we sometimes in the looks may see Th' affection mark'd, when that its sway hath ta'en The spirit wholly; thus the hallow'd light, To whom I turn'd, flashing, bewray'd its will To talk yet further with me, and began: "On this fifth lodgment of the tree, whose life Is from its top, whose fruit is ever fair And leaf unwith'ring, blessed spirits abide, That were below, ere they arriv'd in heav'n, So mighty in renown, as every muse Might grace her triumph with them. On the horns Look therefore of the cross: he, whom I name, Shall there enact, as doth in summer cloud Its nimble fire." Along the cross I saw, At the repeated name of Joshua, A splendour gliding; nor, the word was said, Ere it was done: then, at the naming saw Of the great Maccabee, another move With whirling speed; and gladness was the scourge Unto that top. The next for Charlemagne And for the peer Orlando, two my gaze Pursued, intently, as the eye pursues A falcon flying. Last, along the cross, William, and Renard, and Duke Godfrey drew My ken, and Robert Guiscard. And the soul, Who spake with me among the other lights Did move away, and mix; and with the choir Of heav'nly songsters prov'd his tuneful skill. To Beatrice on my right l bent, Looking for intimation or by word Or act, what next behoov'd; and did descry Such mere effulgence in her eyes, such joy, It past all former wont. And, as by sense Of new delight, the man, who perseveres In good deeds doth perceive from day to day His virtue growing; I e'en thus perceiv'd Of my ascent, together with the heav'n The circuit widen'd, noting the increase Of beauty in that wonder. Like the change In a brief moment on some maiden's cheek, Which from its fairness doth discharge the weight Of pudency, that stain'd it; such in her, And to mine eyes so sudden was the change, Through silvery whiteness of that temperate star, Whose sixth orb now enfolded us. I saw, Within that Jovial cresset, the clear sparks Of love, that reign'd there, fashion to my view Our language. And as birds, from river banks Arisen, now in round, now lengthen'd troop, Array them in their flight, greeting, as seems, Their new-found pastures; so, within the lights, The saintly creatures flying, sang, and made Now D. now I. now L. figur'd I' th' air. First, singing, to their notes they mov'd, then one Becoming of these signs, a little while Did rest them, and were mute. O nymph divine Of Pegasean race! whose souls, which thou Inspir'st, mak'st glorious and long-liv'd, as they Cities and realms by thee! thou with thyself Inform me; that I may set forth the shapes, As fancy doth present them. Be thy power Display'd in this brief song. The characters, Vocal and consonant, were five-fold seven. In order each, as they appear'd, I mark'd. Diligite Justitiam, the first, Both verb and noun all blazon'd; and the extreme Qui judicatis terram. In the M. Of the fifth word they held their station, Making the star seem silver streak'd with gold. And on the summit of the M. I saw Descending other lights, that rested there, Singing, methinks, their bliss and primal good. Then, as at shaking of a lighted brand, Sparkles innumerable on all sides Rise scatter'd, source of augury to th' unwise; Thus more than thousand twinkling lustres hence Seem'd reascending, and a higher pitch Some mounting, and some less; e'en as the sun, Which kindleth them, decreed. And when each one Had settled in his place, the head and neck Then saw I of an eagle, lively Grav'd in that streaky fire. Who painteth there, Hath none to guide him; of himself he guides; And every line and texture of the nest Doth own from him the virtue, fashions it. The other bright beatitude, that seem'd Erewhile, with lilied crowning, well content To over-canopy the M. mov'd forth, Following gently the impress of the bird. Sweet star! what glorious and thick-studded gems Declar'd to me our justice on the earth To be the effluence of that heav'n, which thou, Thyself a costly jewel, dost inlay! Therefore I pray the Sovran Mind, from whom Thy motion and thy virtue are begun, That he would look from whence the fog doth rise, To vitiate thy beam: so that once more He may put forth his hand 'gainst such, as drive Their traffic in that sanctuary, whose walls With miracles and martyrdoms were built. Ye host of heaven! whose glory I survey! O beg ye grace for those, that are on earth All after ill example gone astray. War once had for its instrument the sword: But now 't is made, taking the bread away Which the good Father locks from none. --And thou, That writes but to cancel, think, that they, Who for the vineyard, which thou wastest, died, Peter and Paul live yet, and mark thy doings. Thou hast good cause to cry, "My heart so cleaves To him, that liv'd in solitude remote, And from the wilds was dragg'd to martyrdom, I wist not of the fisherman nor Paul." CANTO XIX Before my sight appear'd, with open wings, The beauteous image, in fruition sweet Gladdening the thronged spirits. Each did seem A little ruby, whereon so intense The sun-beam glow'd that to mine eyes it came In clear refraction. And that, which next Befalls me to portray, voice hath not utter'd, Nor hath ink written, nor in fantasy Was e'er conceiv'd. For I beheld and heard The beak discourse; and, what intention form'd Of many, singly as of one express, Beginning: "For that I was just and piteous, l am exalted to this height of glory, The which no wish exceeds: and there on earth Have I my memory left, e'en by the bad Commended, while they leave its course untrod." Thus is one heat from many embers felt, As in that image many were the loves, And one the voice, that issued from them all. Whence I address them: "O perennial flowers Of gladness everlasting! that exhale In single breath your odours manifold! Breathe now; and let the hunger be appeas'd, That with great craving long hath held my soul, Finding no food on earth. This well I know, That if there be in heav'n a realm, that shows In faithful mirror the celestial Justice, Yours without veil reflects it. Ye discern The heed, wherewith I do prepare myself To hearken; ye the doubt that urges me With such inveterate craving." Straight I saw, Like to a falcon issuing from the hood, That rears his head, and claps him with his wings, His beauty and his eagerness bewraying. So saw I move that stately sign, with praise Of grace divine inwoven and high song Of inexpressive joy. "He," it began, "Who turn'd his compass on the world's extreme, And in that space so variously hath wrought, Both openly, and in secret, in such wise Could not through all the universe display Impression of his glory, that the Word Of his omniscience should not still remain In infinite excess. In proof whereof, He first through pride supplanted, who was sum Of each created being, waited not For light celestial, and abortive fell. Whence needs each lesser nature is but scant Receptacle unto that Good, which knows No limit, measur'd by itself alone. Therefore your sight, of th' omnipresent Mind A single beam, its origin must own Surpassing far its utmost potency. The ken, your world is gifted with, descends In th' everlasting Justice as low down, As eye doth in the sea; which though it mark The bottom from the shore, in the wide main Discerns it not; and ne'ertheless it is, But hidden through its deepness. Light is none, Save that which cometh from the pure serene Of ne'er disturbed ether: for the rest, 'Tis darkness all, or shadow of the flesh, Or else its poison. Here confess reveal'd That covert, which hath hidden from thy search The living justice, of the which thou mad'st Such frequent question; for thou saidst--'A man Is born on Indus' banks, and none is there Who speaks of Christ, nor who doth read nor write, And all his inclinations and his acts, As far as human reason sees, are good, And he offendeth not in word or deed. But unbaptiz'd he dies, and void of faith. Where is the justice that condemns him? where His blame, if he believeth not?'--What then, And who art thou, that on the stool wouldst sit To judge at distance of a thousand miles With the short-sighted vision of a span? To him, who subtilizes thus with me, There would assuredly be room for doubt Even to wonder, did not the safe word Of scripture hold supreme authority. "O animals of clay! O spirits gross I The primal will, that in itself is good, Hath from itself, the chief Good, ne'er been mov'd. Justice consists in consonance with it, Derivable by no created good, Whose very cause depends upon its beam." As on her nest the stork, that turns about Unto her young, whom lately she hath fed, While they with upward eyes do look on her; So lifted I my gaze; and bending so The ever-blessed image wav'd its wings, Lab'ring with such deep counsel. Wheeling round It warbled, and did say: "As are my notes To thee, who understand'st them not, such is Th' eternal judgment unto mortal ken." Then still abiding in that ensign rang'd, Wherewith the Romans over-awed the world, Those burning splendours of the Holy Spirit Took up the strain; and thus it spake again: "None ever hath ascended to this realm, Who hath not a believer been in Christ, Either before or after the blest limbs Were nail'd upon the wood. But lo! of those Who call 'Christ, Christ,' there shall be many found, In judgment, further off from him by far, Than such, to whom his name was never known. Christians like these the Ethiop shall condemn: When that the two assemblages shall part; One rich eternally, the other poor. "What may the Persians say unto your kings, When they shall see that volume, in the which All their dispraise is written, spread to view? There amidst Albert's works shall that be read, Which will give speedy motion to the pen, When Prague shall mourn her desolated realm. There shall be read the woe, that he doth work With his adulterate money on the Seine, Who by the tusk will perish: there be read The thirsting pride, that maketh fool alike The English and Scot, impatient of their bound. There shall be seen the Spaniard's luxury, The delicate living there of the Bohemian, Who still to worth has been a willing stranger. The halter of Jerusalem shall see A unit for his virtue, for his vices No less a mark than million. He, who guards The isle of fire by old Anchises honour'd Shall find his avarice there and cowardice; And better to denote his littleness, The writing must be letters maim'd, that speak Much in a narrow space. All there shall know His uncle and his brother's filthy doings, Who so renown'd a nation and two crowns Have bastardized. And they, of Portugal And Norway, there shall be expos'd with him Of Ratza, who hath counterfeited ill The coin of Venice. O blest Hungary! If thou no longer patiently abid'st Thy ill-entreating! and, O blest Navarre! If with thy mountainous girdle thou wouldst arm thee In earnest of that day, e'en now are heard Wailings and groans in Famagosta's streets And Nicosia's, grudging at their beast, Who keepeth even footing with the rest." CANTO XX When, disappearing, from our hemisphere, The world's enlightener vanishes, and day On all sides wasteth, suddenly the sky, Erewhile irradiate only with his beam, Is yet again unfolded, putting forth Innumerable lights wherein one shines. Of such vicissitude in heaven I thought, As the great sign, that marshaleth the world And the world's leaders, in the blessed beak Was silent; for that all those living lights, Waxing in splendour, burst forth into songs, Such as from memory glide and fall away. Sweet love! that dost apparel thee in smiles, How lustrous was thy semblance in those sparkles, Which merely are from holy thoughts inspir'd! After the precious and bright beaming stones, That did ingem the sixth light, ceas'd the chiming Of their angelic bells; methought I heard The murmuring of a river, that doth fall From rock to rock transpicuous, making known The richness of his spring-head: and as sound Of cistern, at the fret-board, or of pipe, Is, at the wind-hole, modulate and tun'd; Thus up the neck, as it were hollow, rose That murmuring of the eagle, and forthwith Voice there assum'd, and thence along the beak Issued in form of words, such as my heart Did look for, on whose tables I inscrib'd them. "The part in me, that sees, and bears the sun,, In mortal eagles," it began, "must now Be noted steadfastly: for of the fires, That figure me, those, glittering in mine eye, Are chief of all the greatest. This, that shines Midmost for pupil, was the same, who sang The Holy Spirit's song, and bare about The ark from town to town; now doth he know The merit of his soul-impassion'd strains By their well-fitted guerdon. Of the five, That make the circle of the vision, he Who to the beak is nearest, comforted The widow for her son: now doth he know How dear he costeth not to follow Christ, Both from experience of this pleasant life, And of its opposite. He next, who follows In the circumference, for the over arch, By true repenting slack'd the pace of death: Now knoweth he, that the degrees of heav'n Alter not, when through pious prayer below Today's is made tomorrow's destiny. The other following, with the laws and me, To yield the shepherd room, pass'd o'er to Greece, From good intent producing evil fruit: Now knoweth he, how all the ill, deriv'd From his well doing, doth not helm him aught, Though it have brought destruction on the world. That, which thou seest in the under bow, Was William, whom that land bewails, which weeps For Charles and Frederick living: now he knows How well is lov'd in heav'n the righteous king, Which he betokens by his radiant seeming. Who in the erring world beneath would deem, That Trojan Ripheus in this round was set Fifth of the saintly splendours? now he knows Enough of that, which the world cannot see, The grace divine, albeit e'en his sight Reach not its utmost depth." Like to the lark, That warbling in the air expatiates long, Then, trilling out his last sweet melody, Drops satiate with the sweetness; such appear'd That image stampt by the' everlasting pleasure, Which fashions like itself all lovely things. I, though my doubting were as manifest, As is through glass the hue that mantles it, In silence waited not: for to my lips "What things are these?" involuntary rush'd, And forc'd a passage out: whereat I mark'd A sudden lightening and new revelry. The eye was kindled: and the blessed sign No more to keep me wond'ring and suspense, Replied: "I see that thou believ'st these things, Because I tell them, but discern'st not how; So that thy knowledge waits not on thy faith: As one who knows the name of thing by rote, But is a stranger to its properties, Till other's tongue reveal them. Fervent love And lively hope with violence assail The kingdom of the heavens, and overcome The will of the Most high; not in such sort As man prevails o'er man; but conquers it, Because 't is willing to be conquer'd, still, Though conquer'd, by its mercy conquering. "Those, in the eye who live the first and fifth, Cause thee to marvel, in that thou behold'st The region of the angels deck'd with them. They quitted not their bodies, as thou deem'st, Gentiles but Christians, in firm rooted faith, This of the feet in future to be pierc'd, That of feet nail'd already to the cross. One from the barrier of the dark abyss, Where never any with good will returns, Came back unto his bones. Of lively hope Such was the meed; of lively hope, that wing'd The prayers sent up to God for his release, And put power into them to bend his will. The glorious Spirit, of whom I speak to thee, A little while returning to the flesh, Believ'd in him, who had the means to help, And, in believing, nourish'd such a flame Of holy love, that at the second death He was made sharer in our gamesome mirth. The other, through the riches of that grace, Which from so deep a fountain doth distil, As never eye created saw its rising, Plac'd all his love below on just and right: Wherefore of grace God op'd in him the eye To the redemption of mankind to come; Wherein believing, he endur'd no more The filth of paganism, and for their ways Rebuk'd the stubborn nations. The three nymphs, Whom at the right wheel thou beheldst advancing, Were sponsors for him more than thousand years Before baptizing. O how far remov'd, Predestination! is thy root from such As see not the First cause entire: and ye, O mortal men! be wary how ye judge: For we, who see our Maker, know not yet The number of the chosen: and esteem Such scantiness of knowledge our delight: For all our good is in that primal good Concentrate, and God's will and ours are one." So, by that form divine, was giv'n to me Sweet medicine to clear and strengthen sight, And, as one handling skillfully the harp, Attendant on some skilful songster's voice Bids the chords vibrate, and therein the song Acquires more pleasure; so, the whilst it spake, It doth remember me, that I beheld The pair of blessed luminaries move. Like the accordant twinkling of two eyes, Their beamy circlets, dancing to the sounds. CANTO XXI Again mine eyes were fix'd on Beatrice, And with mine eyes my soul, that in her looks Found all contentment. Yet no smile she wore And, "Did I smile," quoth she, "thou wouldst be straight Like Semele when into ashes turn'd: For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs, My beauty, which the loftier it climbs, As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more, So shines, that, were no temp'ring interpos'd, Thy mortal puissance would from its rays Shrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt. Into the seventh splendour are we wafted, That underneath the burning lion's breast Beams, in this hour, commingled with his might, Thy mind be with thine eyes: and in them mirror'd The shape, which in this mirror shall be shown." Whoso can deem, how fondly I had fed My sight upon her blissful countenance, May know, when to new thoughts I chang'd, what joy To do the bidding of my heav'nly guide: In equal balance poising either weight. Within the crystal, which records the name, (As its remoter circle girds the world) Of that lov'd monarch, in whose happy reign No ill had power to harm, I saw rear'd up, In colour like to sun-illumin'd gold. A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain, So lofty was the summit; down whose steps I saw the splendours in such multitude Descending, ev'ry light in heav'n, methought, Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of day Bestirring them to dry their feathers chill, Some speed their way a-field, and homeward some, Returning, cross their flight, while some abide And wheel around their airy lodge; so seem'd That glitterance, wafted on alternate wing, As upon certain stair it met, and clash'd Its shining. And one ling'ring near us, wax'd So bright, that in my thought: said: "The love, Which this betokens me, admits no doubt." Unwillingly from question I refrain, To her, by whom my silence and my speech Are order'd, looking for a sign: whence she, Who in the sight of Him, that seeth all, Saw wherefore I was silent, prompted me T' indulge the fervent wish; and I began: "I am not worthy, of my own desert, That thou shouldst answer me; but for her sake, Who hath vouchsaf'd my asking, spirit blest! That in thy joy art shrouded! say the cause, Which bringeth thee so near: and wherefore, say, Doth the sweet symphony of Paradise Keep silence here, pervading with such sounds Of rapt devotion ev'ry lower sphere?" "Mortal art thou in hearing as in sight;" Was the reply: "and what forbade the smile Of Beatrice interrupts our song. Only to yield thee gladness of my voice, And of the light that vests me, I thus far Descend these hallow'd steps: not that more love Invites me; for lo! there aloft, as much Or more of love is witness'd in those flames: But such my lot by charity assign'd, That makes us ready servants, as thou seest, To execute the counsel of the Highest." "That in this court," said I, "O sacred lamp! Love no compulsion needs, but follows free Th' eternal Providence, I well discern: This harder find to deem, why of thy peers Thou only to this office wert foredoom'd." I had not ended, when, like rapid mill, Upon its centre whirl'd the light; and then The love, that did inhabit there, replied: "Splendour eternal, piercing through these folds, Its virtue to my vision knits, and thus Supported, lifts me so above myself, That on the sov'ran essence, which it wells from, I have the power to gaze: and hence the joy, Wherewith I sparkle, equaling with my blaze The keenness of my sight. But not the soul, That is in heav'n most lustrous, nor the seraph That hath his eyes most fix'd on God, shall solve What thou hast ask'd: for in th' abyss it lies Of th' everlasting statute sunk so low, That no created ken may fathom it. And, to the mortal world when thou return'st, Be this reported; that none henceforth dare Direct his footsteps to so dread a bourn. The mind, that here is radiant, on the earth Is wrapt in mist. Look then if she may do, Below, what passeth her ability, When she is ta'en to heav'n." By words like these Admonish'd, I the question urg'd no more; And of the spirit humbly sued alone T' instruct me of its state. "'Twixt either shore Of Italy, nor distant from thy land, A stony ridge ariseth, in such sort, The thunder doth not lift his voice so high, They call it Catria: at whose foot a cell Is sacred to the lonely Eremite, For worship set apart and holy rites." A third time thus it spake; then added: "There So firmly to God's service I adher'd, That with no costlier viands than the juice Of olives, easily I pass'd the heats Of summer and the winter frosts, content In heav'n-ward musings. Rich were the returns And fertile, which that cloister once was us'd To render to these heavens: now 't is fall'n Into a waste so empty, that ere long Detection must lay bare its vanity Pietro Damiano there was I yclept: Pietro the sinner, when before I dwelt Beside the Adriatic, in the house Of our blest Lady. Near upon my close Of mortal life, through much importuning I was constrain'd to wear the hat that still From bad to worse it shifted.--Cephas came; He came, who was the Holy Spirit's vessel, Barefoot and lean, eating their bread, as chanc'd, At the first table. Modern Shepherd's need Those who on either hand may prop and lead them, So burly are they grown: and from behind Others to hoist them. Down the palfrey's sides Spread their broad mantles, so as both the beasts Are cover'd with one skin. O patience! thou That lookst on this and doth endure so long." I at those accents saw the splendours down From step to step alight, and wheel, and wax, Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round this They came, and stay'd them; uttered them a shout So loud, it hath no likeness here: nor I Wist what it spake, so deaf'ning was the thunder. CANTO XXII Astounded, to the guardian of my steps I turn'd me, like the chill, who always runs Thither for succour, where he trusteth most, And she was like the mother, who her son Beholding pale and breathless, with her voice Soothes him, and he is cheer'd; for thus she spake, Soothing me: "Know'st not thou, thou art in heav'n? And know'st not thou, whatever is in heav'n, Is holy, and that nothing there is done But is done zealously and well? Deem now, What change in thee the song, and what my smile had wrought, since thus the shout had pow'r to move thee. In which couldst thou have understood their prayers, The vengeance were already known to thee, Which thou must witness ere thy mortal hour, The sword of heav'n is not in haste to smite, Nor yet doth linger, save unto his seeming, Who in desire or fear doth look for it. But elsewhere now l bid thee turn thy view; So shalt thou many a famous spirit behold." Mine eyes directing, as she will'd, I saw A hundred little spheres, that fairer grew By interchange of splendour. I remain'd, As one, who fearful of o'er-much presuming, Abates in him the keenness of desire, Nor dares to question, when amid those pearls, One largest and most lustrous onward drew, That it might yield contentment to my wish; And from within it these the sounds I heard. "If thou, like me, beheldst the charity That burns amongst us, what thy mind conceives, Were utter'd. But that, ere the lofty bound Thou reach, expectance may not weary thee, I will make answer even to the thought, Which thou hast such respect of. In old days, That mountain, at whose side Cassino rests, Was on its height frequented by a race Deceived and ill dispos'd: and I it was, Who thither carried first the name of Him, Who brought the soul-subliming truth to man. And such a speeding grace shone over me, That from their impious worship I reclaim'd The dwellers round about, who with the world Were in delusion lost. These other flames, The spirits of men contemplative, were all Enliven'd by that warmth, whose kindly force Gives birth to flowers and fruits of holiness. Here is Macarius; Romoaldo here: And here my brethren, who their steps refrain'd Within the cloisters, and held firm their heart." I answ'ring, thus; "Thy gentle words and kind, And this the cheerful semblance, I behold Not unobservant, beaming in ye all, Have rais'd assurance in me, wakening it Full-blossom'd in my bosom, as a rose Before the sun, when the consummate flower Has spread to utmost amplitude. Of thee Therefore entreat I, father! to declare If I may gain such favour, as to gaze Upon thine image, by no covering veil'd." "Brother!" he thus rejoin'd, "in the last sphere Expect completion of thy lofty aim, For there on each desire completion waits, And there on mine: where every aim is found Perfect, entire, and for fulfillment ripe. There all things are as they have ever been: For space is none to bound, nor pole divides, Our ladder reaches even to that clime, And so at giddy distance mocks thy view. Thither the Patriarch Jacob saw it stretch Its topmost round, when it appear'd to him With angels laden. But to mount it now None lifts his foot from earth: and hence my rule Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves; The walls, for abbey rear'd, turned into dens, The cowls to sacks choak'd up with musty meal. Foul usury doth not more lift itself Against God's pleasure, than that fruit which makes The hearts of monks so wanton: for whate'er Is in the church's keeping, all pertains. To such, as sue for heav'n's sweet sake, and not To those who in respect of kindred claim, Or on more vile allowance. Mortal flesh Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not From the oak's birth, unto the acorn's setting. His convent Peter founded without gold Or silver; I with pray'rs and fasting mine; And Francis his in meek humility. And if thou note the point, whence each proceeds, Then look what it hath err'd to, thou shalt find The white grown murky. Jordan was turn'd back; And a less wonder, then the refluent sea, May at God's pleasure work amendment here." So saying, to his assembly back he drew: And they together cluster'd into one, Then all roll'd upward like an eddying wind. The sweet dame beckon'd me to follow them: And, by that influence only, so prevail'd Over my nature, that no natural motion, Ascending or descending here below, Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. So, reader, as my hope is to return Unto the holy triumph, for the which I ofttimes wail my sins, and smite my breast, Thou hadst been longer drawing out and thrusting Thy finger in the fire, than I was, ere The sign, that followeth Taurus, I beheld, And enter'd its precinct. O glorious stars! O light impregnate with exceeding virtue! To whom whate'er of genius lifteth me Above the vulgar, grateful I refer; With ye the parent of all mortal life Arose and set, when I did first inhale The Tuscan air; and afterward, when grace Vouchsaf'd me entrance to the lofty wheel That in its orb impels ye, fate decreed My passage at your clime. To you my soul Devoutly sighs, for virtue even now To meet the hard emprize that draws me on. "Thou art so near the sum of blessedness," Said Beatrice, "that behooves thy ken Be vigilant and clear. And, to this end, Or even thou advance thee further, hence Look downward, and contemplate, what a world Already stretched under our feet there lies: So as thy heart may, in its blithest mood, Present itself to the triumphal throng, Which through the' etherial concave comes rejoicing." I straight obey'd; and with mine eye return'd Through all the seven spheres, and saw this globe So pitiful of semblance, that perforce It moved my smiles: and him in truth I hold For wisest, who esteems it least: whose thoughts Elsewhere are fix'd, him worthiest call and best. I saw the daughter of Latona shine Without the shadow, whereof late I deem'd That dense and rare were cause. Here I sustain'd The visage, Hyperion! of thy sun; And mark'd, how near him with their circle, round Move Maia and Dione; here discern'd Jove's tempering 'twixt his sire and son; and hence Their changes and their various aspects Distinctly scann'd. Nor might I not descry Of all the seven, how bulky each, how swift; Nor of their several distances not learn. This petty area (o'er the which we stride So fiercely), as along the eternal twins I wound my way, appear'd before me all, Forth from the havens stretch'd unto the hills. Then to the beauteous eyes mine eyes return'd. CANTO XXIII E'en as the bird, who midst the leafy bower Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the night, With her sweet brood, impatient to descry Their wished looks, and to bring home their food, In the fond quest unconscious of her toil: She, of the time prevenient, on the spray, That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze Expects the sun; nor ever, till the dawn, Removeth from the east her eager ken; So stood the dame erect, and bent her glance Wistfully on that region, where the sun Abateth most his speed; that, seeing her Suspense and wand'ring, I became as one, In whom desire is waken'd, and the hope Of somewhat new to come fills with delight. Short space ensued; I was not held, I say, Long in expectance, when I saw the heav'n Wax more and more resplendent; and, "Behold," Cried Beatrice, "the triumphal hosts Of Christ, and all the harvest reap'd at length Of thy ascending up these spheres." Meseem'd, That, while she spake her image all did burn, And in her eyes such fullness was of joy, And I am fain to pass unconstrued by. As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles, In peerless beauty, 'mid th' eternal nympus, That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound In bright pre-eminence so saw I there, O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew Their radiance as from ours the starry train: And through the living light so lustrous glow'd The substance, that my ken endur'd it not. O Beatrice! sweet and precious guide! Who cheer'd me with her comfortable words! "Against the virtue, that o'erpow'reth thee, Avails not to resist. Here is the might, And here the wisdom, which did open lay The path, that had been yearned for so long, Betwixt the heav'n and earth." Like to the fire, That, in a cloud imprison'd doth break out Expansive, so that from its womb enlarg'd, It falleth against nature to the ground; Thus in that heav'nly banqueting my soul Outgrew herself; and, in the transport lost. Holds now remembrance none of what she was. "Ope thou thine eyes, and mark me: thou hast seen Things, that empower thee to sustain my smile." I was as one, when a forgotten dream Doth come across him, and he strives in vain To shape it in his fantasy again, Whenas that gracious boon was proffer'd me, Which never may be cancel'd from the book, Wherein the past is written. Now were all Those tongues to sound, that have on sweetest milk Of Polyhymnia and her sisters fed And fatten'd, not with all their help to boot, Unto the thousandth parcel of the truth, My song might shadow forth that saintly smile, flow merely in her saintly looks it wrought. And with such figuring of Paradise The sacred strain must leap, like one, that meets A sudden interruption to his road. But he, who thinks how ponderous the theme, And that 't is lain upon a mortal shoulder, May pardon, if it tremble with the burden. The track, our ventrous keel must furrow, brooks No unribb'd pinnace, no self-sparing pilot. "Why doth my face," said Beatrice, "thus Enamour thee, as that thou dost not turn Unto the beautiful garden, blossoming Beneath the rays of Christ? Here is the rose, Wherein the word divine was made incarnate; And here the lilies, by whose odour known The way of life was follow'd." Prompt I heard Her bidding, and encounter once again The strife of aching vision. As erewhile, Through glance of sunlight, stream'd through broken cloud, Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen, Though veil'd themselves in shade; so saw I there Legions of splendours, on whom burning rays Shed lightnings from above, yet saw I not The fountain whence they flow'd. O gracious virtue! Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up Thou didst exalt thy glory to give room To my o'erlabour'd sight: when at the name Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke Both morn and eve, my soul, with all her might Collected, on the goodliest ardour fix'd. And, as the bright dimensions of the star In heav'n excelling, as once here on earth Were, in my eyeballs lively portray'd, Lo! from within the sky a cresset fell, Circling in fashion of a diadem, And girt the star, and hov'ring round it wheel'd. Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, And draws the spirit most unto itself, Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder, Compar'd unto the sounding of that lyre, Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays The floor of heav'n, was crown'd. "Angelic Love I am, who thus with hov'ring flight enwheel The lofty rapture from that womb inspir'd, Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so, Lady of Heav'n! will hover; long as thou Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere." Such close was to the circling melody: And, as it ended, all the other lights Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name. The robe, that with its regal folds enwraps The world, and with the nearer breath of God Doth burn and quiver, held so far retir'd Its inner hem and skirting over us, That yet no glimmer of its majesty Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes Unequal to pursue the crowned flame, That rose and sought its natal seed of fire; And like to babe, that stretches forth its arms For very eagerness towards the breast, After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd Their wavy summits all the fervent band, Through zealous love to Mary: then in view There halted, and "Regina Coeli" sang So sweetly, the delight hath left me never. O what o'erflowing plenty is up-pil'd In those rich-laden coffers, which below Sow'd the good seed, whose harvest now they keep. Here are the treasures tasted, that with tears Were in the Babylonian exile won, When gold had fail'd them. Here in synod high Of ancient council with the new conven'd, Under the Son of Mary and of God, Victorious he his mighty triumph holds, To whom the keys of glory were assign'd. CANTO XXIV "O ye! in chosen fellowship advanc'd To the great supper of the blessed Lamb, Whereon who feeds hath every wish fulfill'd! If to this man through God's grace be vouchsaf'd Foretaste of that, which from your table falls, Or ever death his fated term prescribe; Be ye not heedless of his urgent will; But may some influence of your sacred dews Sprinkle him. Of the fount ye alway drink, Whence flows what most he craves." Beatrice spake, And the rejoicing spirits, like to spheres On firm-set poles revolving, trail'd a blaze Of comet splendour; and as wheels, that wind Their circles in the horologe, so work The stated rounds, that to th' observant eye The first seems still, and, as it flew, the last; E'en thus their carols weaving variously, They by the measure pac'd, or swift, or slow, Made me to rate the riches of their joy. From that, which I did note in beauty most Excelling, saw I issue forth a flame So bright, as none was left more goodly there. Round Beatrice thrice it wheel'd about, With so divine a song, that fancy's ear Records it not; and the pen passeth on And leaves a blank: for that our mortal speech, Nor e'en the inward shaping of the brain, Hath colours fine enough to trace such folds. "O saintly sister mine! thy prayer devout Is with so vehement affection urg'd, Thou dost unbind me from that beauteous sphere." Such were the accents towards my lady breath'd From that blest ardour, soon as it was stay'd: To whom she thus: "O everlasting light Of him, within whose mighty grasp our Lord Did leave the keys, which of this wondrous bliss He bare below! tent this man, as thou wilt, With lighter probe or deep, touching the faith, By the which thou didst on the billows walk. If he in love, in hope, and in belief, Be steadfast, is not hid from thee: for thou Hast there thy ken, where all things are beheld In liveliest portraiture. But since true faith Has peopled this fair realm with citizens, Meet is, that to exalt its glory more, Thou in his audience shouldst thereof discourse." Like to the bachelor, who arms himself, And speaks not, till the master have propos'd The question, to approve, and not to end it; So I, in silence, arm'd me, while she spake, Summoning up each argument to aid; As was behooveful for such questioner, And such profession: "As good Christian ought, Declare thee, What is faith?" Whereat I rais'd My forehead to the light, whence this had breath'd, Then turn'd to Beatrice, and in her looks Approval met, that from their inmost fount I should unlock the waters. "May the grace, That giveth me the captain of the church For confessor," said I, "vouchsafe to me Apt utterance for my thoughts!" then added: "Sire! E'en as set down by the unerring style Of thy dear brother, who with thee conspir'd To bring Rome in unto the way of life, Faith of things hop'd is substance, and the proof Of things not seen; and herein doth consist Methinks its essence,"--"Rightly hast thou deem'd," Was answer'd: "if thou well discern, why first He hath defin'd it, substance, and then proof." "The deep things," I replied, "which here I scan Distinctly, are below from mortal eye So hidden, they have in belief alone Their being, on which credence hope sublime Is built; and therefore substance it intends. And inasmuch as we must needs infer From such belief our reasoning, all respect To other view excluded, hence of proof Th' intention is deriv'd." Forthwith I heard: "If thus, whate'er by learning men attain, Were understood, the sophist would want room To exercise his wit." So breath'd the flame Of love: then added: "Current is the coin Thou utter'st, both in weight and in alloy. But tell me, if thou hast it in thy purse." "Even so glittering and so round," said I, "I not a whit misdoubt of its assay." Next issued from the deep imbosom'd splendour: "Say, whence the costly jewel, on the which Is founded every virtue, came to thee." "The flood," I answer'd, "from the Spirit of God Rain'd down upon the ancient bond and new,-- Here is the reas'ning, that convinceth me So feelingly, each argument beside Seems blunt and forceless in comparison." Then heard I: "Wherefore holdest thou that each, The elder proposition and the new, Which so persuade thee, are the voice of heav'n?" "The works, that follow'd, evidence their truth;" I answer'd: "Nature did not make for these The iron hot, or on her anvil mould them." "Who voucheth to thee of the works themselves," Was the reply, "that they in very deed Are that they purport? None hath sworn so to thee." "That all the world," said I, "should have been turn'd To Christian, and no miracle been wrought, Would in itself be such a miracle, The rest were not an hundredth part so great. E'en thou wentst forth in poverty and hunger To set the goodly plant, that from the vine, It once was, now is grown unsightly bramble." That ended, through the high celestial court Resounded all the spheres. "Praise we one God!" In song of most unearthly melody. And when that Worthy thus, from branch to branch, Examining, had led me, that we now Approach'd the topmost bough, he straight resum'd; "The grace, that holds sweet dalliance with thy soul, So far discreetly hath thy lips unclos'd That, whatsoe'er has past them, I commend. Behooves thee to express, what thou believ'st, The next, and whereon thy belief hath grown." "O saintly sire and spirit!" I began, "Who seest that, which thou didst so believe, As to outstrip feet younger than thine own, Toward the sepulchre? thy will is here, That I the tenour of my creed unfold; And thou the cause of it hast likewise ask'd. And I reply: I in one God believe, One sole eternal Godhead, of whose love All heav'n is mov'd, himself unmov'd the while. Nor demonstration physical alone, Or more intelligential and abstruse, Persuades me to this faith; but from that truth It cometh to me rather, which is shed Through Moses, the rapt Prophets, and the Psalms. The Gospel, and that ye yourselves did write, When ye were gifted of the Holy Ghost. In three eternal Persons I believe, Essence threefold and one, mysterious league Of union absolute, which, many a time, The word of gospel lore upon my mind Imprints: and from this germ, this firstling spark, The lively flame dilates, and like heav'n's star Doth glitter in me." As the master hears, Well pleas'd, and then enfoldeth in his arms The servant, who hath joyful tidings brought, And having told the errand keeps his peace; Thus benediction uttering with song Soon as my peace I held, compass'd me thrice The apostolic radiance, whose behest Had op'd lips; so well their answer pleas'd. CANTO XXV If e'er the sacred poem that hath made Both heav'n and earth copartners in its toil, And with lean abstinence, through many a year, Faded my brow, be destin'd to prevail Over the cruelty, which bars me forth Of the fair sheep-fold, where a sleeping lamb The wolves set on and fain had worried me, With other voice and fleece of other grain I shall forthwith return, and, standing up At my baptismal font, shall claim the wreath Due to the poet's temples: for I there First enter'd on the faith which maketh souls Acceptable to God: and, for its sake, Peter had then circled my forehead thus. Next from the squadron, whence had issued forth The first fruit of Christ's vicars on the earth, Toward us mov'd a light, at view whereof My Lady, full of gladness, spake to me: "Lo! lo! behold the peer of mickle might, That makes Falicia throng'd with visitants!" As when the ring-dove by his mate alights, In circles each about the other wheels, And murmuring cooes his fondness; thus saw I One, of the other great and glorious prince, With kindly greeting hail'd, extolling both Their heavenly banqueting; but when an end Was to their gratulation, silent, each, Before me sat they down, so burning bright, I could not look upon them. Smiling then, Beatrice spake: "O life in glory shrin'd!" Who didst the largess of our kingly court Set down with faithful pen! let now thy voice Of hope the praises in this height resound. For thou, who figur'st them in shapes, as clear, As Jesus stood before thee, well can'st speak them." "Lift up thy head, and be thou strong in trust: For that, which hither from the mortal world Arriveth, must be ripen'd in our beam." Such cheering accents from the second flame Assur'd me; and mine eyes I lifted up Unto the mountains that had bow'd them late With over-heavy burden. "Sith our Liege Wills of his grace that thou, or ere thy death, In the most secret council, with his lords Shouldst be confronted, so that having view'd The glories of our court, thou mayst therewith Thyself, and all who hear, invigorate With hope, that leads to blissful end; declare, What is that hope, how it doth flourish in thee, And whence thou hadst it?" Thus proceeding still, The second light: and she, whose gentle love My soaring pennons in that lofty flight Escorted, thus preventing me, rejoin'd: Among her sons, not one more full of hope, Hath the church militant: so 't is of him Recorded in the sun, whose liberal orb Enlighteneth all our tribe: and ere his term Of warfare, hence permitted he is come, From Egypt to Jerusalem, to see. The other points, both which thou hast inquir'd, Not for more knowledge, but that he may tell How dear thou holdst the virtue, these to him Leave I; for he may answer thee with ease, And without boasting, so God give him grace." Like to the scholar, practis'd in his task, Who, willing to give proof of diligence, Seconds his teacher gladly, "Hope," said I, "Is of the joy to come a sure expectance, Th' effect of grace divine and merit preceding. This light from many a star visits my heart, But flow'd to me the first from him, who sang The songs of the Supreme, himself supreme Among his tuneful brethren. 'Let all hope In thee,' so speak his anthem, 'who have known Thy name;' and with my faith who know not that? From thee, the next, distilling from his spring, In thine epistle, fell on me the drops So plenteously, that I on others shower The influence of their dew." Whileas I spake, A lamping, as of quick and vollied lightning, Within the bosom of that mighty sheen, Play'd tremulous; then forth these accents breath'd: "Love for the virtue which attended me E'en to the palm, and issuing from the field, Glows vigorous yet within me, and inspires To ask of thee, whom also it delights; What promise thou from hope in chief dost win." "Both scriptures, new and ancient," I reply'd; "Propose the mark (which even now I view) For souls belov'd of God. Isaias saith, That, in their own land, each one must be clad In twofold vesture; and their proper lands this delicious life. In terms more full, And clearer far, thy brother hath set forth This revelation to us, where he tells Of the white raiment destin'd to the saints." And, as the words were ending, from above, "They hope in thee," first heard we cried: whereto Answer'd the carols all. Amidst them next, A light of so clear amplitude emerg'd, That winter's month were but a single day, Were such a crystal in the Cancer's sign. Like as a virgin riseth up, and goes, And enters on the mazes of the dance, Though gay, yet innocent of worse intent, Than to do fitting honour to the bride; So I beheld the new effulgence come Unto the other two, who in a ring Wheel'd, as became their rapture. In the dance And in the song it mingled. And the dame Held on them fix'd her looks: e'en as the spouse Silent and moveless. "This is he, who lay Upon the bosom of our pelican: This he, into whose keeping from the cross The mighty charge was given." Thus she spake, Yet therefore naught the more remov'd her Sight From marking them, or ere her words began, Or when they clos'd. As he, who looks intent, And strives with searching ken, how he may see The sun in his eclipse, and, through desire Of seeing, loseth power of sight: so I Peer'd on that last resplendence, while I heard: "Why dazzlest thou thine eyes in seeking that, Which here abides not? Earth my body is, In earth: and shall be, with the rest, so long, As till our number equal the decree Of the Most High. The two that have ascended, In this our blessed cloister, shine alone With the two garments. So report below." As when, for ease of labour, or to shun Suspected peril at a whistle's breath, The oars, erewhile dash'd frequent in the wave, All rest; the flamy circle at that voice So rested, and the mingling sound was still, Which from the trinal band soft-breathing rose. I turn'd, but ah! how trembled in my thought, When, looking at my side again to see Beatrice, I descried her not, although Not distant, on the happy coast she stood. CANTO XXVI With dazzled eyes, whilst wond'ring I remain'd, Forth of the beamy flame which dazzled me, Issued a breath, that in attention mute Detain'd me; and these words it spake: "'T were well, That, long as till thy vision, on my form O'erspent, regain its virtue, with discourse Thou compensate the brief delay. Say then, Beginning, to what point thy soul aspires: "And meanwhile rest assur'd, that sight in thee Is but o'erpowered a space, not wholly quench'd: Since thy fair guide and lovely, in her look Hath potency, the like to that which dwelt In Ananias' hand." I answering thus: "Be to mine eyes the remedy or late Or early, at her pleasure; for they were The gates, at which she enter'd, and did light Her never dying fire. My wishes here Are centered; in this palace is the weal, That Alpha and Omega, is to all The lessons love can read me." Yet again The voice which had dispers'd my fear, when daz'd With that excess, to converse urg'd, and spake: "Behooves thee sift more narrowly thy terms, And say, who level'd at this scope thy bow." "Philosophy," said I, ''hath arguments, And this place hath authority enough 'T' imprint in me such love: for, of constraint, Good, inasmuch as we perceive the good, Kindles our love, and in degree the more, As it comprises more of goodness in 't. The essence then, where such advantage is, That each good, found without it, is naught else But of his light the beam, must needs attract The soul of each one, loving, who the truth Discerns, on which this proof is built. Such truth Learn I from him, who shows me the first love Of all intelligential substances Eternal: from his voice I learn, whose word Is truth, that of himself to Moses saith, 'I will make all my good before thee pass.' Lastly from thee I learn, who chief proclaim'st, E'en at the outset of thy heralding, In mortal ears the mystery of heav'n." "Through human wisdom, and th' authority Therewith agreeing," heard I answer'd, "keep The choicest of thy love for God. But say, If thou yet other cords within thee feel'st That draw thee towards him; so that thou report How many are the fangs, with which this love Is grappled to thy soul." I did not miss, To what intent the eagle of our Lord Had pointed his demand; yea noted well Th' avowal, which he led to; and resum'd: "All grappling bonds, that knit the heart to God, Confederate to make fast our clarity. The being of the world, and mine own being, The death which he endur'd that I should live, And that, which all the faithful hope, as I do, To the foremention'd lively knowledge join'd, Have from the sea of ill love sav'd my bark, And on the coast secur'd it of the right. As for the leaves, that in the garden bloom, My love for them is great, as is the good Dealt by th' eternal hand, that tends them all." I ended, and therewith a song most sweet Rang through the spheres; and "Holy, holy, holy," Accordant with the rest my lady sang. And as a sleep is broken and dispers'd Through sharp encounter of the nimble light, With the eye's spirit running forth to meet The ray, from membrane on to the membrane urg'd; And the upstartled wight loathes that he sees; So, at his sudden waking, he misdeems Of all around him, till assurance waits On better judgment: thus the saintly came Drove from before mine eyes the motes away, With the resplendence of her own, that cast Their brightness downward, thousand miles below. Whence I my vision, clearer shall before, Recover'd; and, well nigh astounded, ask'd Of a fourth light, that now with us I saw. And Beatrice: "The first diving soul, That ever the first virtue fram'd, admires Within these rays his Maker." Like the leaf, That bows its lithe top till the blast is blown; By its own virtue rear'd then stands aloof; So I, the whilst she said, awe-stricken bow'd. Then eagerness to speak embolden'd me; And I began: "O fruit! that wast alone Mature, when first engender'd! Ancient father! That doubly seest in every wedded bride Thy daughter by affinity and blood! Devoutly as I may, I pray thee hold Converse with me: my will thou seest; and I, More speedily to hear thee, tell it not." It chanceth oft some animal bewrays, Through the sleek cov'ring of his furry coat. The fondness, that stirs in him and conforms His outside seeming to the cheer within: And in like guise was Adam's spirit mov'd To joyous mood, that through the covering shone, Transparent, when to pleasure me it spake: "No need thy will be told, which I untold Better discern, than thou whatever thing Thou holdst most certain: for that will I see In Him, who is truth's mirror, and Himself Parhelion unto all things, and naught else To him. This wouldst thou hear; how long since God Plac'd me high garden, from whose hounds She led me up in this ladder, steep and long; What space endur'd my season of delight; Whence truly sprang the wrath that banish'd me; And what the language, which I spake and fram'd Not that I tasted of the tree, my son, Was in itself the cause of that exile, But only my transgressing of the mark Assign'd me. There, whence at thy lady's hest The Mantuan mov'd him, still was I debarr'd This council, till the sun had made complete, Four thousand and three hundred rounds and twice, His annual journey; and, through every light In his broad pathway, saw I him return, Thousand save sev'nty times, the whilst I dwelt Upon the earth. The language I did use Was worn away, or ever Nimrod's race Their unaccomplishable work began. For naught, that man inclines to, ere was lasting, Left by his reason free, and variable, As is the sky that sways him. That he speaks, Is nature's prompting: whether thus or thus, She leaves to you, as ye do most affect it. Ere I descended into hell's abyss, El was the name on earth of the Chief Good, Whose joy enfolds me: Eli then 't was call'd And so beseemeth: for, in mortals, use Is as the leaf upon the bough; that goes, And other comes instead. Upon the mount Most high above the waters, all my life, Both innocent and guilty, did but reach From the first hour, to that which cometh next (As the sun changes quarter), to the sixth." CANTO XXVII Then "Glory to the Father, to the Son, And to the Holy Spirit," rang aloud Throughout all Paradise, that with the song My spirit reel'd, so passing sweet the strain: And what I saw was equal ecstasy; One universal smile it seem'd of all things, Joy past compare, gladness unutterable, Imperishable life of peace and love, Exhaustless riches and unmeasur'd bliss. Before mine eyes stood the four torches lit; And that, which first had come, began to wax In brightness, and in semblance such became, As Jove might be, if he and Mars were birds, And interchang'd their plumes. Silence ensued, Through the blest quire, by Him, who here appoints Vicissitude of ministry, enjoin'd; When thus I heard: "Wonder not, if my hue Be chang'd; for, while I speak, these shalt thou see All in like manner change with me. My place He who usurps on earth (my place, ay, mine, Which in the presence of the Son of God Is void), the same hath made my cemetery A common sewer of puddle and of blood: The more below his triumph, who from hence Malignant fell." Such colour, as the sun, At eve or morning, paints an adverse cloud, Then saw I sprinkled over all the sky. And as th' unblemish'd dame, who in herself Secure of censure, yet at bare report Of other's failing, shrinks with maiden fear; So Beatrice in her semblance chang'd: And such eclipse in heav'n methinks was seen, When the Most Holy suffer'd. Then the words Proceeded, with voice, alter'd from itself So clean, the semblance did not alter more. "Not to this end was Christ's spouse with my blood, With that of Linus, and of Cletus fed: That she might serve for purchase of base gold: But for the purchase of this happy life Did Sextus, Pius, and Callixtus bleed, And Urban, they, whose doom was not without Much weeping seal'd. No purpose was of our That on the right hand of our successors Part of the Christian people should be set, And part upon their left; nor that the keys, Which were vouchsaf'd me, should for ensign serve Unto the banners, that do levy war On the baptiz'd: nor I, for sigil-mark Set upon sold and lying privileges; Which makes me oft to bicker and turn red. In shepherd's clothing greedy wolves below Range wide o'er all the pastures. Arm of God! Why longer sleepst thou? Caorsines and Gascona Prepare to quaff our blood. O good beginning To what a vile conclusion must thou stoop! But the high providence, which did defend Through Scipio the world's glory unto Rome, Will not delay its succour: and thou, son, Who through thy mortal weight shall yet again Return below, open thy lips, nor hide What is by me not hidden." As a Hood Of frozen vapours streams adown the air, What time the she-goat with her skiey horn Touches the sun; so saw I there stream wide The vapours, who with us had linger'd late And with glad triumph deck th' ethereal cope. Onward my sight their semblances pursued; So far pursued, as till the space between From its reach sever'd them: whereat the guide Celestial, marking me no more intent On upward gazing, said, "Look down and see What circuit thou hast compass'd." From the hour When I before had cast my view beneath, All the first region overpast I saw, Which from the midmost to the bound'ry winds; That onward thence from Gades I beheld The unwise passage of Laertes' son, And hitherward the shore, where thou, Europa! Mad'st thee a joyful burden: and yet more Of this dim spot had seen, but that the sun, A constellation off and more, had ta'en His progress in the zodiac underneath. Then by the spirit, that doth never leave Its amorous dalliance with my lady's looks, Back with redoubled ardour were mine eyes Led unto her: and from her radiant smiles, Whenas I turn'd me, pleasure so divine Did lighten on me, that whatever bait Or art or nature in the human flesh, Or in its limn'd resemblance, can combine Through greedy eyes to take the soul withal, Were to her beauty nothing. Its boon influence From the fair nest of Leda rapt me forth, And wafted on into the swiftest heav'n. What place for entrance Beatrice chose, I may not say, so uniform was all, Liveliest and loftiest. She my secret wish Divin'd; and with such gladness, that God's love Seem'd from her visage shining, thus began: "Here is the goal, whence motion on his race Starts; motionless the centre, and the rest All mov'd around. Except the soul divine, Place in this heav'n is none, the soul divine, Wherein the love, which ruleth o'er its orb, Is kindled, and the virtue that it sheds; One circle, light and love, enclasping it, As this doth clasp the others; and to Him, Who draws the bound, its limit only known. Measur'd itself by none, it doth divide Motion to all, counted unto them forth, As by the fifth or half ye count forth ten. The vase, wherein time's roots are plung'd, thou seest, Look elsewhere for the leaves. O mortal lust! That canst not lift thy head above the waves Which whelm and sink thee down! The will in man Bears goodly blossoms; but its ruddy promise Is, by the dripping of perpetual rain, Made mere abortion: faith and innocence Are met with but in babes, each taking leave Ere cheeks with down are sprinkled; he, that fasts, While yet a stammerer, with his tongue let loose Gluts every food alike in every moon. One yet a babbler, loves and listens to His mother; but no sooner hath free use Of speech, than he doth wish her in her grave. So suddenly doth the fair child of him, Whose welcome is the morn and eve his parting, To negro blackness change her virgin white. "Thou, to abate thy wonder, note that none Bears rule in earth, and its frail family Are therefore wand'rers. Yet before the date, When through the hundredth in his reck'ning drops Pale January must be shor'd aside From winter's calendar, these heav'nly spheres Shall roar so loud, that fortune shall be fain To turn the poop, where she hath now the prow; So that the fleet run onward; and true fruit, Expected long, shall crown at last the bloom!" CANTO XXVII So she who doth imparadise my soul, Had drawn the veil from off our pleasant life, And bar'd the truth of poor mortality; When lo! as one who, in a mirror, spies The shining of a flambeau at his back, Lit sudden ore he deem of its approach, And turneth to resolve him, if the glass Have told him true, and sees the record faithful As note is to its metre; even thus, I well remember, did befall to me, Looking upon the beauteous eyes, whence love Had made the leash to take me. As I turn'd; And that, which, in their circles, none who spies, Can miss of, in itself apparent, struck On mine; a point I saw, that darted light So sharp, no lid, unclosing, may bear up Against its keenness. The least star we view From hence, had seem'd a moon, set by its side, As star by side of star. And so far off, Perchance, as is the halo from the light Which paints it, when most dense the vapour spreads, There wheel'd about the point a circle of fire, More rapid than the motion, which first girds The world. Then, circle after circle, round Enring'd each other; till the seventh reach'd Circumference so ample, that its bow, Within the span of Juno's messenger, lied scarce been held entire. Beyond the sev'nth, Follow'd yet other two. And every one, As more in number distant from the first, Was tardier in motion; and that glow'd With flame most pure, that to the sparkle' of truth Was nearest, as partaking most, methinks, Of its reality. The guide belov'd Saw me in anxious thought suspense, and spake: "Heav'n, and all nature, hangs upon that point. The circle thereto most conjoin'd observe; And know, that by intenser love its course Is to this swiftness wing'd." To whom I thus: "It were enough; nor should I further seek, Had I but witness'd order, in the world Appointed, such as in these wheels is seen. But in the sensible world such diff'rence is, That is each round shows more divinity, As each is wider from the centre. Hence, If in this wondrous and angelic temple, That hath for confine only light and love, My wish may have completion I must know, Wherefore such disagreement is between Th' exemplar and its copy: for myself, Contemplating, I fail to pierce the cause." "It is no marvel, if thy fingers foil'd Do leave the knot untied: so hard 't is grown For want of tenting." Thus she said: "But take," She added, "if thou wish thy cure, my words, And entertain them subtly. Every orb Corporeal, doth proportion its extent Unto the virtue through its parts diffus'd. The greater blessedness preserves the more. The greater is the body (if all parts Share equally) the more is to preserve. Therefore the circle, whose swift course enwheels The universal frame answers to that, Which is supreme in knowledge and in love Thus by the virtue, not the seeming, breadth Of substance, measure, thou shalt see the heav'ns, Each to the' intelligence that ruleth it, Greater to more, and smaller unto less, Suited in strict and wondrous harmony." As when the sturdy north blows from his cheek A blast, that scours the sky, forthwith our air, Clear'd of the rack, that hung on it before, Glitters; and, With his beauties all unveil'd, The firmament looks forth serene, and smiles; Such was my cheer, when Beatrice drove With clear reply the shadows back, and truth Was manifested, as a star in heaven. And when the words were ended, not unlike To iron in the furnace, every cirque Ebullient shot forth scintillating fires: And every sparkle shivering to new blaze, In number did outmillion the account Reduplicate upon the chequer'd board. Then heard I echoing on from choir to choir, "Hosanna," to the fixed point, that holds, And shall for ever hold them to their place, From everlasting, irremovable. Musing awhile I stood: and she, who saw by inward meditations, thus began: "In the first circles, they, whom thou beheldst, Are seraphim and cherubim. Thus swift Follow their hoops, in likeness to the point, Near as they can, approaching; and they can The more, the loftier their vision. Those, That round them fleet, gazing the Godhead next, Are thrones; in whom the first trine ends. And all Are blessed, even as their sight descends Deeper into the truth, wherein rest is For every mind. Thus happiness hath root In seeing, not in loving, which of sight Is aftergrowth. And of the seeing such The meed, as unto each in due degree Grace and good-will their measure have assign'd. The other trine, that with still opening buds In this eternal springtide blossom fair, Fearless of bruising from the nightly ram, Breathe up in warbled melodies threefold Hosannas blending ever, from the three Transmitted. hierarchy of gods, for aye Rejoicing, dominations first, next then Virtues, and powers the third. The next to whom Are princedoms and archangels, with glad round To tread their festal ring; and last the band Angelical, disporting in their sphere. All, as they circle in their orders, look Aloft, and downward with such sway prevail, That all with mutual impulse tend to God. These once a mortal view beheld. Desire In Dionysius so intently wrought, That he, as I have done rang'd them; and nam'd Their orders, marshal'd in his thought. From him Dissentient, one refus'd his sacred read. But soon as in this heav'n his doubting eyes Were open'd, Gregory at his error smil'd Nor marvel, that a denizen of earth Should scan such secret truth; for he had learnt Both this and much beside of these our orbs, From an eye-witness to heav'n's mysteries." CANTO XXIX No longer than what time Latona's twins Cover'd of Libra and the fleecy star, Together both, girding the' horizon hang, In even balance from the zenith pois'd, Till from that verge, each, changing hemisphere, Part the nice level; e'en so brief a space Did Beatrice's silence hold. A smile Bat painted on her cheek; and her fix'd gaze Bent on the point, at which my vision fail'd: When thus her words resuming she began: "I speak, nor what thou wouldst inquire demand; For I have mark'd it, where all time and place Are present. Not for increase to himself Of good, which may not be increas'd, but forth To manifest his glory by its beams, Inhabiting his own eternity, Beyond time's limit or what bound soe'er To circumscribe his being, as he will'd, Into new natures, like unto himself, Eternal Love unfolded. Nor before, As if in dull inaction torpid lay. For not in process of before or aft Upon these waters mov'd the Spirit of God. Simple and mix'd, both form and substance, forth To perfect being started, like three darts Shot from a bow three-corded. And as ray In crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire, E'en at the moment of its issuing; thus Did, from th' eternal Sovran, beam entire His threefold operation, at one act Produc'd coeval. Yet in order each Created his due station knew: those highest, Who pure intelligence were made: mere power The lowest: in the midst, bound with strict league, Intelligence and power, unsever'd bond. Long tract of ages by the angels past, Ere the creating of another world, Describ'd on Jerome's pages thou hast seen. But that what I disclose to thee is true, Those penmen, whom the Holy Spirit mov'd In many a passage of their sacred book Attest; as thou by diligent search shalt find And reason in some sort discerns the same, Who scarce would grant the heav'nly ministers Of their perfection void, so long a space. Thus when and where these spirits of love were made, Thou know'st, and how: and knowing hast allay'd Thy thirst, which from the triple question rose. Ere one had reckon'd twenty, e'en so soon Part of the angels fell: and in their fall Confusion to your elements ensued. The others kept their station: and this task, Whereon thou lookst, began with such delight, That they surcease not ever, day nor night, Their circling. Of that fatal lapse the cause Was the curst pride of him, whom thou hast seen Pent with the world's incumbrance. Those, whom here Thou seest, were lowly to confess themselves Of his free bounty, who had made them apt For ministries so high: therefore their views Were by enlight'ning grace and their own merit Exalted; so that in their will confirm'd They stand, nor feel to fall. For do not doubt, But to receive the grace, which heav'n vouchsafes, Is meritorious, even as the soul With prompt affection welcometh the guest. Now, without further help, if with good heed My words thy mind have treasur'd, thou henceforth This consistory round about mayst scan, And gaze thy fill. But since thou hast on earth Heard vain disputers, reasoners in the schools, Canvas the' angelic nature, and dispute Its powers of apprehension, memory, choice; Therefore, 't is well thou take from me the truth, Pure and without disguise, which they below, Equivocating, darken and perplex. "Know thou, that, from the first, these substances, Rejoicing in the countenance of God, Have held unceasingly their view, intent Upon the glorious vision, from the which Naught absent is nor hid: where then no change Of newness with succession interrupts, Remembrance there needs none to gather up Divided thought and images remote "So that men, thus at variance with the truth Dream, though their eyes be open; reckless some Of error; others well aware they err, To whom more guilt and shame are justly due. Each the known track of sage philosophy Deserts, and has a byway of his own: So much the restless eagerness to shine And love of singularity prevail. Yet this, offensive as it is, provokes Heav'n's anger less, than when the book of God Is forc'd to yield to man's authority, Or from its straightness warp'd: no reck'ning made What blood the sowing of it in the world Has cost; what favour for himself he wins, Who meekly clings to it. The aim of all Is how to shine: e'en they, whose office is To preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep, And pass their own inventions off instead. One tells, how at Christ's suffering the wan moon Bent back her steps, and shadow'd o'er the sun With intervenient disk, as she withdrew: Another, how the light shrouded itself Within its tabernacle, and left dark The Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew. Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears, Bandied about more frequent, than the names Of Bindi and of Lapi in her streets. The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, return From pasture, fed with wind: and what avails For their excuse, they do not see their harm? Christ said not to his first conventicle, 'Go forth and preach impostures to the world,' But gave them truth to build on; and the sound Was mighty on their lips; nor needed they, Beside the gospel, other spear or shield, To aid them in their warfare for the faith. The preacher now provides himself with store Of jests and gibes; and, so there be no lack Of laughter, while he vents them, his big cowl Distends, and he has won the meed he sought: Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the while Of that dark bird which nestles in his hood, They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said. Which now the dotards hold in such esteem, That every counterfeit, who spreads abroad The hands of holy promise, finds a throng Of credulous fools beneath. Saint Anthony Fattens with this his swine, and others worse Than swine, who diet at his lazy board, Paying with unstamp'd metal for their fare. "But (for we far have wander'd) let us seek The forward path again; so as the way Be shorten'd with the time. No mortal tongue Nor thought of man hath ever reach'd so far, That of these natures he might count the tribes. What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal'd With finite number infinite conceals. The fountain at whose source these drink their beams, With light supplies them in as many modes, As there are splendours, that it shines on: each According to the virtue it conceives, Differing in love and sweet affection. Look then how lofty and how huge in breadth The' eternal might, which, broken and dispers'd Over such countless mirrors, yet remains Whole in itself and one, as at the first." CANTO XXX Noon's fervid hour perchance six thousand miles From hence is distant; and the shadowy cone Almost to level on our earth declines; When from the midmost of this blue abyss By turns some star is to our vision lost. And straightway as the handmaid of the sun Puts forth her radiant brow, all, light by light, Fade, and the spangled firmament shuts in, E'en to the loveliest of the glittering throng. Thus vanish'd gradually from my sight The triumph, which plays ever round the point, That overcame me, seeming (for it did) Engirt by that it girdeth. Wherefore love, With loss of other object, forc'd me bend Mine eyes on Beatrice once again. If all, that hitherto is told of her, Were in one praise concluded, 't were too weak To furnish out this turn. Mine eyes did look On beauty, such, as I believe in sooth, Not merely to exceed our human, but, That save its Maker, none can to the full Enjoy it. At this point o'erpower'd I fail, Unequal to my theme, as never bard Of buskin or of sock hath fail'd before. For, as the sun doth to the feeblest sight, E'en so remembrance of that witching smile Hath dispossess my spirit of itself. Not from that day, when on this earth I first Beheld her charms, up to that view of them, Have I with song applausive ever ceas'd To follow, but not follow them no more; My course here bounded, as each artist's is, When it doth touch the limit of his skill. She (such as I bequeath her to the bruit Of louder trump than mine, which hasteneth on, Urging its arduous matter to the close), Her words resum'd, in gesture and in voice Resembling one accustom'd to command: "Forth from the last corporeal are we come Into the heav'n, that is unbodied light, Light intellectual replete with love, Love of true happiness replete with joy, Joy, that transcends all sweetness of delight. Here shalt thou look on either mighty host Of Paradise; and one in that array, Which in the final judgment thou shalt see." As when the lightning, in a sudden spleen Unfolded, dashes from the blinding eyes The visive spirits dazzled and bedimm'd; So, round about me, fulminating streams Of living radiance play'd, and left me swath'd And veil'd in dense impenetrable blaze. Such weal is in the love, that stills this heav'n; For its own flame the torch this fitting ever! No sooner to my list'ning ear had come The brief assurance, than I understood New virtue into me infus'd, and sight Kindled afresh, with vigour to sustain Excess of light, however pure. I look'd; And in the likeness of a river saw Light flowing, from whose amber-seeming waves Flash'd up effulgence, as they glided on 'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring, Incredible how fair; and, from the tide, There ever and anon, outstarting, flew Sparkles instinct with life; and in the flow'rs Did set them, like to rubies chas'd in gold; Then, as if drunk with odors, plung'd again Into the wondrous flood; from which, as one Re'enter'd, still another rose. "The thirst Of knowledge high, whereby thou art inflam'd, To search the meaning of what here thou seest, The more it warms thee, pleases me the more. But first behooves thee of this water drink, Or ere that longing be allay'd." So spake The day-star of mine eyes; then thus subjoin'd: "This stream, and these, forth issuing from its gulf, And diving back, a living topaz each, With all this laughter on its bloomy shores, Are but a preface, shadowy of the truth They emblem: not that, in themselves, the things Are crude; but on thy part is the defect, For that thy views not yet aspire so high." Never did babe, that had outslept his wont, Rush, with such eager straining, to the milk, As I toward the water, bending me, To make the better mirrors of mine eyes In the refining wave; and, as the eaves Of mine eyelids did drink of it, forthwith Seem'd it unto me turn'd from length to round, Then as a troop of maskers, when they put Their vizors off, look other than before, The counterfeited semblance thrown aside; So into greater jubilee were chang'd Those flowers and sparkles, and distinct I saw Before me either court of heav'n displac'd. O prime enlightener! thou who crav'st me strength On the high triumph of thy realm to gaze! Grant virtue now to utter what I kenn'd, There is in heav'n a light, whose goodly shine Makes the Creator visible to all Created, that in seeing him alone Have peace; and in a circle spreads so far, That the circumference were too loose a zone To girdle in the sun. All is one beam, Reflected from the summit of the first, That moves, which being hence and vigour takes, And as some cliff, that from the bottom eyes Its image mirror'd in the crystal flood, As if 't admire its brave appareling Of verdure and of flowers: so, round about, Eyeing the light, on more than million thrones, Stood, eminent, whatever from our earth Has to the skies return'd. How wide the leaves Extended to their utmost of this rose, Whose lowest step embosoms such a space Of ample radiance! Yet, nor amplitude Nor height impeded, but my view with ease Took in the full dimensions of that joy. Near or remote, what there avails, where God Immediate rules, and Nature, awed, suspends Her sway? Into the yellow of the rose Perennial, which in bright expansiveness, Lays forth its gradual blooming, redolent Of praises to the never-wint'ring sun, As one, who fain would speak yet holds his peace, Beatrice led me; and, "Behold," she said, "This fair assemblage! stoles of snowy white How numberless! The city, where we dwell, Behold how vast! and these our seats so throng'd Few now are wanting here! In that proud stall, On which, the crown, already o'er its state Suspended, holds thine eyes--or ere thyself Mayst at the wedding sup,--shall rest the soul Of the great Harry, he who, by the world Augustas hail'd, to Italy must come, Before her day be ripe. But ye are sick, And in your tetchy wantonness as blind, As is the bantling, that of hunger dies, And drives away the nurse. Nor may it be, That he, who in the sacred forum sways, Openly or in secret, shall with him Accordant walk: Whom God will not endure I' th' holy office long; but thrust him down To Simon Magus, where Magna's priest Will sink beneath him: such will be his meed." CANTO XXXI In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then Before my view the saintly multitude, Which in his own blood Christ espous'd. Meanwhile That other host, that soar aloft to gaze And celebrate his glory, whom they love, Hover'd around; and, like a troop of bees, Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, Now, clustering, where their fragrant labour glows, Flew downward to the mighty flow'r, or rose From the redundant petals, streaming back Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold; The rest was whiter than the driven snow. And as they flitted down into the flower, From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, Whisper'd the peace and ardour, which they won From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast Interposition of such numerous flight Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, Wherever merited, celestial light Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. All there, who reign in safety and in bliss, Ages long past or new, on one sole mark Their love and vision fix'd. O trinal beam Of individual star, that charmst them thus, Vouchsafe one glance to gild our storm below! If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roam'd, (Where helice, forever, as she wheels, Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son) Stood in mute wonder 'mid the works of Rome, When to their view the Lateran arose In greatness more than earthly; I, who then From human to divine had past, from time Unto eternity, and out of Florence To justice and to truth, how might I choose But marvel too? 'Twixt gladness and amaze, In sooth no will had I to utter aught, Or hear. And, as a pilgrim, when he rests Within the temple of his vow, looks round In breathless awe, and hopes some time to tell Of all its goodly state: e'en so mine eyes Cours'd up and down along the living light, Now low, and now aloft, and now around, Visiting every step. Looks I beheld, Where charity in soft persuasion sat, Smiles from within and radiance from above, And in each gesture grace and honour high. So rov'd my ken, and its general form All Paradise survey'd: when round I turn'd With purpose of my lady to inquire Once more of things, that held my thought suspense, But answer found from other than I ween'd; For, Beatrice, when I thought to see, I saw instead a senior, at my side, Rob'd, as the rest, in glory. Joy benign Glow'd in his eye, and o'er his cheek diffus'd, With gestures such as spake a father's love. And, "Whither is she vanish'd?" straight I ask'd. "By Beatrice summon'd," he replied, "I come to aid thy wish. Looking aloft To the third circle from the highest, there Behold her on the throne, wherein her merit Hath plac'd her." Answering not, mine eyes I rais'd, And saw her, where aloof she sat, her brow A wreath reflecting of eternal beams. Not from the centre of the sea so far Unto the region of the highest thunder, As was my ken from hers; and yet the form Came through that medium down, unmix'd and pure, "O Lady! thou in whom my hopes have rest! Who, for my safety, hast not scorn'd, in hell To leave the traces of thy footsteps mark'd! For all mine eyes have seen, I, to thy power And goodness, virtue owe and grace. Of slave, Thou hast to freedom brought me; and no means, For my deliverance apt, hast left untried. Thy liberal bounty still toward me keep. That, when my spirit, which thou madest whole, Is loosen'd from this body, it may find Favour with thee." So I my suit preferr'd: And she, so distant, as appear'd, look'd down, And smil'd; then tow'rds th' eternal fountain turn'd. And thus the senior, holy and rever'd: "That thou at length mayst happily conclude Thy voyage (to which end I was dispatch'd, By supplication mov'd and holy love) Let thy upsoaring vision range, at large, This garden through: for so, by ray divine Kindled, thy ken a higher flight shall mount; And from heav'n's queen, whom fervent I adore, All gracious aid befriend us; for that I Am her own faithful Bernard." Like a wight, Who haply from Croatia wends to see Our Veronica, and the while 't is shown, Hangs over it with never-sated gaze, And, all that he hath heard revolving, saith Unto himself in thought: "And didst thou look E'en thus, O Jesus, my true Lord and God? And was this semblance thine?" So gaz'd I then Adoring; for the charity of him, Who musing, in the world that peace enjoy'd, Stood lively before me. "Child of grace!" Thus he began: "thou shalt not knowledge gain Of this glad being, if thine eyes are held Still in this depth below. But search around The circles, to the furthest, till thou spy Seated in state, the queen, that of this realm Is sovran." Straight mine eyes I rais'd; and bright, As, at the birth of morn, the eastern clime Above th' horizon, where the sun declines; To mine eyes, that upward, as from vale To mountain sped, at th' extreme bound, a part Excell'd in lustre all the front oppos'd. And as the glow burns ruddiest o'er the wave, That waits the sloping beam, which Phaeton Ill knew to guide, and on each part the light Diminish'd fades, intensest in the midst; So burn'd the peaceful oriflame, and slack'd On every side the living flame decay'd. And in that midst their sportive pennons wav'd Thousands of angels; in resplendence each Distinct, and quaint adornment. At their glee And carol, smil'd the Lovely One of heav'n, That joy was in the eyes of all the blest. Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich, As is the colouring in fancy's loom, 'T were all too poor to utter the least part Of that enchantment. When he saw mine eyes Intent on her, that charm'd him, Bernard gaz'd With so exceeding fondness, as infus'd Ardour into my breast, unfelt before. CANTO XXXII Freely the sage, though wrapt in musings high, Assum'd the teacher's part, and mild began: "The wound, that Mary clos'd, she open'd first, Who sits so beautiful at Mary's feet. The third in order, underneath her, lo! Rachel with Beatrice. Sarah next, Judith, Rebecca, and the gleaner maid, Meek ancestress of him, who sang the songs Of sore repentance in his sorrowful mood. All, as I name them, down from deaf to leaf, Are in gradation throned on the rose. And from the seventh step, successively, Adown the breathing tresses of the flow'r Still doth the file of Hebrew dames proceed. For these are a partition wall, whereby The sacred stairs are sever'd, as the faith In Christ divides them. On this part, where blooms Each leaf in full maturity, are set Such as in Christ, or ere he came, believ'd. On th' other, where an intersected space Yet shows the semicircle void, abide All they, who look'd to Christ already come. And as our Lady on her glorious stool, And they who on their stools beneath her sit, This way distinction make: e'en so on his, The mighty Baptist that way marks the line (He who endur'd the desert and the pains Of martyrdom, and for two years of hell, Yet still continued holy), and beneath, Augustin, Francis, Benedict, and the rest, Thus far from round to round. So heav'n's decree Forecasts, this garden equally to fill. With faith in either view, past or to come, Learn too, that downward from the step, which cleaves Midway the twain compartments, none there are Who place obtain for merit of their own, But have through others' merit been advanc'd, On set conditions: spirits all releas'd, Ere for themselves they had the power to choose. And, if thou mark and listen to them well, Their childish looks and voice declare as much. "Here, silent as thou art, I know thy doubt; And gladly will I loose the knot, wherein Thy subtle thoughts have bound thee. From this realm Excluded, chalice no entrance here may find, No more shall hunger, thirst, or sorrow can. A law immutable hath establish'd all; Nor is there aught thou seest, that doth not fit, Exactly, as the finger to the ring. It is not therefore without cause, that these, O'erspeedy comers to immortal life, Are different in their shares of excellence. Our Sovran Lord--that settleth this estate In love and in delight so absolute, That wish can dare no further--every soul, Created in his joyous sight to dwell, With grace at pleasure variously endows. And for a proof th' effect may well suffice. And 't is moreover most expressly mark'd In holy scripture, where the twins are said To, have struggled in the womb. Therefore, as grace Inweaves the coronet, so every brow Weareth its proper hue of orient light. And merely in respect to his prime gift, Not in reward of meritorious deed, Hath each his several degree assign'd. In early times with their own innocence More was not wanting, than the parents' faith, To save them: those first ages past, behoov'd That circumcision in the males should imp The flight of innocent wings: but since the day Of grace hath come, without baptismal rites In Christ accomplish'd, innocence herself Must linger yet below. Now raise thy view Unto the visage most resembling Christ: For, in her splendour only, shalt thou win The pow'r to look on him." Forthwith I saw Such floods of gladness on her visage shower'd, From holy spirits, winging that profound; That, whatsoever I had yet beheld, Had not so much suspended me with wonder, Or shown me such similitude of God. And he, who had to her descended, once, On earth, now hail'd in heav'n; and on pois'd wing. "Ave, Maria, Gratia Plena," sang: To whose sweet anthem all the blissful court, From all parts answ'ring, rang: that holier joy Brooded the deep serene. "Father rever'd: Who deign'st, for me, to quit the pleasant place, Wherein thou sittest, by eternal lot! Say, who that angel is, that with such glee Beholds our queen, and so enamour'd glows Of her high beauty, that all fire he seems." So I again resorted to the lore Of my wise teacher, he, whom Mary's charms Embellish'd, as the sun the morning star; Who thus in answer spake: "In him are summ'd, Whatever of buxomness and free delight May be in Spirit, or in angel, met: And so beseems: for that he bare the palm Down unto Mary, when the Son of God Vouchsaf'd to clothe him in terrestrial weeds. Now let thine eyes wait heedful on my words, And note thou of this just and pious realm The chiefest nobles. Those, highest in bliss, The twain, on each hand next our empress thron'd, Are as it were two roots unto this rose. He to the left, the parent, whose rash taste Proves bitter to his seed; and, on the right, That ancient father of the holy church, Into whose keeping Christ did give the keys Of this sweet flow'r: near whom behold the seer, That, ere he died, saw all the grievous times Of the fair bride, who with the lance and nails Was won. And, near unto the other, rests The leader, under whom on manna fed Th' ungrateful nation, fickle and perverse. On th' other part, facing to Peter, lo! Where Anna sits, so well content to look On her lov'd daughter, that with moveless eye She chants the loud hosanna: while, oppos'd To the first father of your mortal kind, Is Lucia, at whose hest thy lady sped, When on the edge of ruin clos'd thine eye. "But (for the vision hasteneth so an end) Here break we off, as the good workman doth, That shapes the cloak according to the cloth: And to the primal love our ken shall rise; That thou mayst penetrate the brightness, far As sight can bear thee. Yet, alas! in sooth Beating thy pennons, thinking to advance, Thou backward fall'st. Grace then must first be gain'd; Her grace, whose might can help thee. Thou in prayer Seek her: and, with affection, whilst I sue, Attend, and yield me all thy heart." He said, And thus the saintly orison began. CANTO XXXIII "O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son, Created beings all in lowliness Surpassing, as in height, above them all, Term by th' eternal counsel pre-ordain'd, Ennobler of thy nature, so advanc'd In thee, that its great Maker did not scorn, Himself, in his own work enclos'd to dwell! For in thy womb rekindling shone the love Reveal'd, whose genial influence makes now This flower to germin in eternal peace! Here thou to us, of charity and love, Art, as the noon-day torch: and art, beneath, To mortal men, of hope a living spring. So mighty art thou, lady! and so great, That he who grace desireth, and comes not To thee for aidance, fain would have desire Fly without wings. Nor only him who asks, Thy bounty succours, but doth freely oft Forerun the asking. Whatsoe'er may be Of excellence in creature, pity mild, Relenting mercy, large munificence, Are all combin'd in thee. Here kneeleth one, Who of all spirits hath review'd the state, From the world's lowest gap unto this height. Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring grace For virtue, yet more high to lift his ken Toward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne'er Coveted sight, more fondly, for myself, Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer, (And pray they be not scant) that thou wouldst drive Each cloud of his mortality away; That on the sovran pleasure he may gaze. This also I entreat of thee, O queen! Who canst do what thou wilt! that in him thou Wouldst after all he hath beheld, preserve Affection sound, and human passions quell. Lo! Where, with Beatrice, many a saint Stretch their clasp'd hands, in furtherance of my suit!" The eyes, that heav'n with love and awe regards, Fix'd on the suitor, witness'd, how benign She looks on pious pray'rs: then fasten'd they On th' everlasting light, wherein no eye Of creature, as may well be thought, so far Can travel inward. I, meanwhile, who drew Near to the limit, where all wishes end, The ardour of my wish (for so behooved), Ended within me. Beck'ning smil'd the sage, That I should look aloft: but, ere he bade, Already of myself aloft I look'd; For visual strength, refining more and more, Bare me into the ray authentical Of sovran light. Thenceforward, what I saw, Was not for words to speak, nor memory's self To stand against such outrage on her skill. As one, who from a dream awaken'd, straight, All he hath seen forgets; yet still retains Impression of the feeling in his dream; E'en such am I: for all the vision dies, As 't were, away; and yet the sense of sweet, That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart. Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unseal'd; Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lost The Sybil's sentence. O eternal beam! (Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?) Yield me again some little particle Of what thou then appearedst, give my tongue Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, Unto the race to come, that shall not lose Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught Of memory in me, and endure to hear The record sound in this unequal strain. Such keenness from the living ray I met, That, if mine eyes had turn'd away, methinks, I had been lost; but, so embolden'd, on I pass'd, as I remember, till my view Hover'd the brink of dread infinitude. O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav'st Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken On th' everlasting splendour, that I look'd, While sight was unconsum'd, and, in that depth, Saw in one volume clasp'd of love, whatever The universe unfolds; all properties Of substance and of accident, beheld, Compounded, yet one individual light The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw The universal form: for that whenever I do but speak of it, my soul dilates Beyond her proper self; and, till I speak, One moment seems a longer lethargy, Than five-and-twenty ages had appear'd To that emprize, that first made Neptune wonder At Argo's shadow darkening on his flood. With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, Wond'ring I gaz'd; and admiration still Was kindled, as I gaz'd. It may not be, That one, who looks upon that light, can turn To other object, willingly, his view. For all the good, that will may covet, there Is summ'd; and all, elsewhere defective found, Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe's That yet is moisten'd at his mother's breast. Not that the semblance of the living light Was chang'd (that ever as at first remain'd) But that my vision quickening, in that sole Appearance, still new miracles descry'd, And toil'd me with the change. In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd methought, Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound: And, from another, one reflected seem'd, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem'd fire, breath'd equally from both. Oh speech How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth! Yet this to what I saw Is less than little. Oh eternal light! Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyself Sole understood, past, present, or to come! Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in thee Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mus'd; For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: steadfastly I therefore por'd upon the view. As one Who vers'd in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not; e'en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How plac'd: but the flight was not for my wing; Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And in the spleen unfolded what it sought. Here vigour fail'd the tow'ring fantasy: But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the Love impell'd, That moves the sun in heav'n and all the stars. 
615	----	Orlando Furioso ("Orlando Enraged") By Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533) Translated by William Stewart Rose This electronic edition was edited, proofed, and prepared by Douglas B. Killings (DeTroyes@AOL.COM), July, 1995. Additional corrections made September, 1995. NOTE: Please let the preparer know of any textual errors that you find; this edition has been proofed once, but I am finding additional errors all the time. INTRODUCTION: This work is a continuation of the "Orlando Innamorato" of Matteo Maria Boiardo, which was left unfinished upon the author's death in 1494. It begins more or less at the point where Boiardo left it. This is a brief synopsis of Boiardo's work, omitting most of the numerous digressions and incidental episodes associated with these events: To the court of King Charlemagne comes Angelica (daughter to the king of Cathay, or India) and her brother Argalia. Angelica is the most beautiful woman any of the Peers have ever seen, and all want her. However, in order to take her as wife they must first defeat Argalia in combat. The two most stricken by her are Orlando and Ranaldo ("Rinaldo" in Rose). When Argalia falls to the heathen knight Ferrau, Angelica flees -- with Orlando and Ranaldo in hot pursuit. Along the way, both Angelica and Ranaldo drink magic waters -- Angelica is filled with a burning love for Ranaldo, but Ranaldo is now indifferent. Eventually, Orlando and Ranaldo arrive at Angelica's castle. Others also gather at Angelica's castle, including Agricane, King of Tartary; Sacripant, King of Circassia; Agramante, King of Africa and Marfisa ("Marphisa" in Rose), an Asian warrior-Queen. Except for Orlando and Ranaldo, all are heathen. Meanwhile, France is threatened by heathen invaders. Led by King Gradasso of Sericana (whose principal reason for going to war is to obtain Orlando's sword, Durindana) and King Rodomonte of Sarzia, a Holy War between Pagans and Christians ensues. Ranaldo leaves Angelica's castle, and Angelica and a very love-sick (but very chaste and proper) Orlando, set out for France in search of him. Again the same waters as before are drunk from, but this time in reverse -- Ranaldo now burns for Angelica, but Angelica is now indifferent. Ranaldo and Orlando now begin to fight over her, but King Charlemagne (fearing the consequences if his two best knights kill each other in combat) intervenes and promises Angelica to whichever of the two fights the best against the heathen; he leaves her in the care of Duke Namus. Orlando and Ranaldo arrive in Paris just in time to repulse an attack by Agramante. Namus' camp is overrun by the heathen. Angelica escapes, with Ranaldo in pursuit. Also in pursuit is Ferrau, who (because he had defeated Argalia) considers Angelica his. It is at this point that the poem breaks off. While the Orlando-Ranaldo-Angelica triangle is going on, the stories of other knights and their loves are mixed in. Most important of these is that of the female knight Bradamante (sister of Ranaldo), who falls in love with a very noble heathen knight named Ruggiero ("Rogero" in Rose). Ruggiero, who is said to be a descendent of Alexander the Great and Hector, also falls in love with Bradamante, but because they are fighting on opposite sides it is felt that their love is hopeless. Nevertheless, it is prophecised that they shall wed and found the famous Este line, who shall rise to become one of the major families of Medieval and Renaissance Italy (it is worth noting that the Estes where the patrons of both Boiardo and Ariosto). Opposed to this prophecy is Atlantes, an African wizard who seeks to derail fate and keep Ruggiero from becoming a Christian. By the end of the poem, Ruggiero is imprisoned in Atlantes' castle. However, Bradamante (who has decided to follow her heart) is in pursuit of her love, and is not too far away. It is the Bradamante-Ruggiero story that eventually takes center stage in Ariosto's work. Other characters of importance: Astolfo, a Peer and friend of Orlando, who is kidnaped by the evil witch Morgana and her sister Alcina; Mandricardo, a fierce but hot-headed heathen; and a young knight named Brandimarte, who falls in love with (and wins the heart of) the beautiful Fiordelisa ("Flordelice" in Rose). All play major or semi-major roles in the events of Ariosto's poem. --DBK ***************************************************************** CANTO 1 ARGUMENT Angelica, whom pressing danger frights, Flies in disorder through the greenwood shade. Rinaldo's horse escapes: he, following, fights Ferrau, the Spaniard, in a forest glade. A second oath the haughty paynim plights, And keeps it better than the first he made. King Sacripant regains his long-lost treasure; But good Rinaldo mars his promised pleasure. I OF LOVES and LADIES, KNIGHTS and ARMS, I sing, Of COURTESIES, and many a DARING FEAT; And from those ancient days my story bring, When Moors from Afric passed in hostile fleet, And ravaged France, with Agramant their king, Flushed with his youthful rage and furious heat, Who on king Charles', the Roman emperor's head Had vowed due vengeance for Troyano dead. II In the same strain of Roland will I tell Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme, On whom strange madness and rank fury fell, A man esteemed so wise in former time; If she, who to like cruel pass has well Nigh brought my feeble wit which fain would climb And hourly wastes my sense, concede me skill And strength my daring promise to fulfil. III Good seed of Hercules, give ear and deign, Thou that this age's grace and splendour art, Hippolitus, to smile upon his pain Who tenders what he has with humble heart. For though all hope to quit the score were vain, My pen and pages may pay the debt in part; Then, with no jealous eye my offering scan, Nor scorn my gifts who give thee all I can. IV And me, amid the worthiest shalt thou hear, Whom I with fitting praise prepare to grace, Record the good Rogero, valiant peer, The ancient root of thine illustrious race. Of him, if thou wilt lend a willing ear, The worth and warlike feats I shall retrace; So thou thy graver cares some little time Postponing, lend thy leisure to my rhyme. V Roland, who long the lady of Catay, Angelica, had loved, and with his brand Raised countless trophies to that damsel gay, In India, Median, and Tartarian land, Westward with her had measured back his way; Where, nigh the Pyrenees, with many a band Of Germany and France, King Charlemagne Had camped his faithful host upon the plain. VI To make King Agramant, for penance, smite His cheek, and rash Marsilius rue the hour; This, when all trained with lance and sword to fight, He led from Africa to swell his power; That other when he pushed, in fell despite, Against the realm of France Spain's martial flower. 'Twas thus Orlando came where Charles was tented In evil hour, and soon the deed repented. VII For here was seized his dame of peerless charms, (How often human judgment wanders wide)! Whom in long warfare he had kept from harms, From western climes to eastern shores her guide In his own land, 'mid friends and kindred arms, Now without contest severed from his side. Fearing the mischief kindled by her eyes, From him the prudent emperor reft the prize. VIII For bold Orlando and his cousin, free Rinaldo, late contended for the maid, Enamored of that beauty rare; since she Alike the glowing breast of either swayed. But Charles, who little liked such rivalry, And drew an omen thence of feebler aid, To abate the cause of quarrel, seized the fair, And placed her in Bavarian Namus' care. IX Vowing with her the warrior to content, Who in that conflict, on that fatal day, With his good hand most gainful succour lent, And slew most paynims in the martial fray. But counter to his hopes the battle went, And his thinned squadrons fled in disarray; Namus, with other Christian captains taken, And his pavilion in the rout forsaken. X There, lodged by Charles, that gentle bonnibel, Ordained to be the valiant victor's meed, Before the event had sprung into her sell, And from the combat turned in time of need; Presaging wisely Fortune would rebel That fatal day against the Christian creed: And, entering a thick wood, discovered near, In a close path, a horseless cavalier. XI With shield upon his arm, in knightly wise, Belted and mailed, his helmet on his head; The knight more lightly through the forest hies Than half-clothed churl to win the cloth of red. But not from cruel snake more swiftly flies The timid shepherdess, with startled tread, Than poor Angelica the bridle turns When she the approaching knight on foot discerns. XII This was that Paladin, good Aymon's seed, Who Mount Albano had in his command; And late Baiardo lost, his gallant steed, Escaped by strange adventure from his hand. As soon as seen, the maid who rode at speed The warrior knew, and, while yet distant, scanned The angelic features and the gentle air Which long had held him fast in Cupid's snare. XIII The affrighted damsel turns her palfrey round, And shakes the floating bridle in the wind; Nor in her panic seeks to choose her ground, Nor open grove prefers to thicket blind. But reckless, pale and trembling, and astound, Leaves to her horse the devious way to find. He up and down the forest bore the dame, Till to a sylvan river's bank he came. XIV Here stood the fierce Ferrau in grisly plight, Begrimed with dust, and bathed with sweat and blood Who lately had withdrawn him from the fight, To rest and drink at that refreshing flood: But there had tarried in his own despite, Since bending from the bank, in hasty mood, He dropped his helmet in the crystal tide, And vainly to regain the treasure tried. XV Thither at speed she drives, and evermore In her wild panic utters fearful cries; And at the voice, upleaping on the shore, The Saracen her lovely visage spies. And, pale as is her cheek, and troubled sore, Arriving, quickly to the warrior's eyes (Though many days no news of her had shown) The beautiful Angelica is known. XVI Courteous, and haply gifted with a breast As warm as either of the cousins two; As bold, as if his brows in steel were dressed, The succour which she sought he lent, and drew His faulchion, and against Rinaldo pressed, Who saw with little fear the champion true. Not only each to each was known by sight, But each had proved in arms his foeman's might. XVII Thus, as they are, on foot the warriors vie In cruel strife, and blade to blade oppose; No marvel plate or brittle mail should fly, When anvils had not stood the deafening blows. It now behoves the palfrey swift to ply His feet; for while the knights in combat close, Him vexed to utmost speed, with goading spurs, By waste or wood the frighted damsel stirs. XVIII After the two had struggled long to throw Each other in the strife, and vainly still; Since neither valiant warrior was below His opposite in force and knightly skill: The first to parley with his Spanish foe Was the good master of Albano's hill (As one within whose raging breast was pent A reckless fire which struggled for a vent). XIX "Thou think'st," he said, "to injure me alone, But know thou wilt thyself as much molest: For if we fight because yon rising sun This raging heat has kindled in thy breast. What were thy gain, and what the guerdon won, Though I should yield my life, or stoop my crest; If she shall never be thy glorious meed, Who flies, while vainly we in battle bleed? XX "Then how much better, since our stake's the same, Thou, loving like myself, should'st mount and stay To wait this battle's end, the lovely dame, Before she fly yet further on her way. The lady taken, we repeat our claim With naked faulchion to that peerless prey: Else by long toil I see not what we gain But simple loss and unrequited pain." XXI The peer's proposal pleased the paynim well. And so their hot contention was foregone; And such fair truce replaced that discord fell, So mutual wrongs forgot and mischief done; That for departure seated in his sell, On foot the Spaniard left not Aymon's son; But him to mount his courser's crupper prayed; And both united chased the royal maid. XXII Oh! goodly truth in cavaliers of old! Rivals they were, to different faith were bred. Not yet the weary warriors' wounds were cold -- Still smarting from those strokes so fell and dread. Yet they together ride by waste and wold, And, unsuspecting, devious dingle thread. Them, while four spurs infest his foaming sides, Their courser brings to where the way divides. XXIII And now the warlike pair at fault, for they Knew not by which she might her palfrey goad, (Since both, without distinction, there survey The recent print of hoofs on either road), Commit the chase to fortune. By this way The paynim pricked, by that Rinaldo strode. But fierce Ferrau, bewildered in the wood, Found himself once again where late he stood. XXIV Beside the water, where he stoop'd to drink, And dropt the knightly helmet, -- to his cost, Sunk in the stream; and since he could not think Her to retrieve, who late his hopes had crossed. He, where the treasure fell, descends the brink Of that swift stream, and seeks the morion lost. But the casque lies so bedded in the sands, 'Twill ask no light endeavour at his hands. XXV A bough he severs from a neighbouring tree, And shreds and shapes the branch into a pole: With this he sounds the stream, and anxiously Fathoms, and rakes, and ransacks shelf and hole. While angered sore at heart, and restless, he So lingered, where the troubled waters roll, Breast-high, from the mid river rose upright, The apparition of an angry knight. XXVI Armed at all points he was, except his head, And in his better hand a helmet bore: The very casque, which in the river's bed Ferrau sought vainly, toiling long and sore. Upon the Spanish knight he frowned, and said: "Thou traitor to thy word, thou perjured Moor, Why grieve the goodly helmet to resign, Which, due to me long since, is justly mine? XXVII "Remember, pagan, when thine arm laid low The brother of Angelica. That knight Am I; -- thy word was plighted then to throw After my other arms his helmet bright. If Fortune now compel thee to forego The prize, and do my will in thy despite, Grieve not at this, but rather grieve that thou Art found a perjured traitor to thy vow. XXVIII "But if thou seek'st a helmet, be thy task To win and wear it more to thy renown. A noble prize were good Orlando's casque; Rinaldo's such, or yet a fairer crown; Almontes', or Mambrino's iron masque: Make one of these, by force of arms, thine own. And this good helm will fitly be bestowed Where (such thy promise) it has long been owed." XXIX Bristled the paynim's every hair at view Of that grim shade, uprising from the tide, And vanished was his fresh and healthful hue, While on his lips the half-formed accents died. Next hearing Argalia, whom he slew, (So was the warrior hight) that stream beside, Thus his unknightly breach of promise blame, He burned all over, flushed with rage and shame. XXX Nor having time his falsehood to excuse, And knowing well how true the phantom's lore, Stood speechless; such remorse the words infuse. Then by Lanfusa's life the warrior swore, Never in fight, or foray would he use Helmet but that which good Orlando bore From Aspramont, where bold Almontes paid His life a forfeit to the Christian blade. XXXI And this new vow discharged more faithfully Than the vain promise which was whilom plight; And from the stream departing heavily, Was many days sore vexed and grieved in sprite; And still intent to seek Orlando, he Roved wheresoe'er he hoped to find the knight. A different lot befel Rinaldo; who Had chanced another pathway to pursue. XXXII For far the warrior fared not, ere he spied, Bounding across the path, his gallant steed, And, "Stay, Bayardo mine," Rinaldo cried, "Too cruel care the loss of thee does breed." The horse for this returned not to his side, Deaf to his prayer, but flew with better speed. Furious, in chase of him, Rinaldo hies. But follow we Angelica, who flies. XXXIII Through dreary woods and dark the damsel fled, By rude unharboured heath and savage height, While every leaf or spray that rustled, bred (Of oak, or elm, or beech), such new affright, She here and there her foaming palfrey sped By strange and crooked paths with furious flight; And at each shadow, seen in valley blind, Or mountain, feared Rinaldo was behind. XXXIV As a young roe or fawn of fallow deer, Who, mid the shelter of its native glade, Has seen a hungry pard or tiger tear The bosom of its bleeding dam, dismayed, Bounds, through the forest green in ceaseless fear Of the destroying beast, from shade to shade, And at each sapling touched, amid its pangs, Believes itself between the monster's fangs, XXXV One day and night, and half the following day, The damsel wanders wide, nor whither knows; Then enters a deep wood, whose branches play, Moved lightly by the freshening breeze which blows. Through this two clear and murmuring rivers stray: Upon their banks a fresher herbage grows; While the twin streams their passage slowly clear, Make music with the stones, and please the ear. XXXVI Weening removed the way by which she wends, A thousand miles from loathed Rinaldo's beat, To rest herself a while the maid intends, Wearied with that long flight and summer's heat. She from her saddle 'mid spring flowers descends And takes the bridle from her courser fleet. And loose along the river lets him pass, Roving the banks in search of lusty grass. XXXVII Behold! at hand a thicket she surveys Gay with the flowering thorn and vermeil rose: The tuft reflected in the stream which strays Beside it, overshadowing oaks enclose. Hollow within, and safe from vulgar gaze, It seemed a place constructed for repose; With bows so interwoven, that the light Pierced not the tangled screen, far less the sight. XXXVIII Within soft moss and herbage form a bed; And to delay and rest the traveller woo. 'Twas there her limbs the weary damsel spread, Her eye-balls bathed in slumber's balmy dew. But little time had eased her drooping head, Ere, as she weened, a courser's tramp she knew. Softly she rises, and the river near, Armed cap-a-pie, beholds a cavalier. XXXIX If friend or foe, she nothing comprehends, (So hope and fear her doubting bosom tear) And that adventure's issue mute attends, Nor even with a sigh disturbs the air. The cavalier upon the bank descends; And sits so motionless, so lost in care, (His visage propt upon his arm) to sight Changed into senseless stone appeared the knight. XL Pensive, above an hour, with drooping head, He rested mute, ere he began his moan; And then his piteous tale of sorrow said, Lamenting in so soft and sweet a tone, He in a tiger's breast had pity bred, Or with his mournful wailings rent a stone. And so he sighed and wept; like rivers flowed His tears, his bosom like an Aetna glowed. XLI "Thought which now makes me burn, now freeze with hate, Which gnaws my heart and rankles at its root! What's left to me," he said, "arrived too late, While one more favoured bears away the fruit? Bare words and looks scarce cheered my hopeless state, And the prime spoils reward another's suit. Then since for me nor fruit nor blossom hangs, Why should I longer pine in hopeless pangs? XLII "The virgin has her image in the rose Sheltered in garden on its native stock, Which there in solitude and safe repose, Blooms unapproached by sheperd or by flock. For this earth teems, and freshening water flows, And breeze and dewy dawn their sweets unlock: With such the wistful youth his bosom dresses. With such the enamored damsel braids her tresses. XLIII "But wanton hands no sooner this displace From the maternal stem, where it was grown, Than all is withered; whatsoever grace It found with man or heaven; bloom, beauty, gone. The damsel who should hold in higher place Than light or life the flower which is her own, Suffering the spoiler's hand to crop the prize, Forfeits her worth in every other's eyes. XLIV "And be she cheap with all except the wight On whom she did so large a boon bestow. Ah! false and cruel Fortune! foul despite! While others triumph, I am drown'd in woe. And can it be that I such treasure slight? And can I then my very life forego? No! let me die; 'twere happiness above A longer life, if I must cease to love." XLV If any ask who made this sorrowing, And pour'd into the stream so many tears, I answer, it was fair Circassia's king, That Sacripant, oppressed with amorous cares. Love is the source from which his troubles spring, The sole occasion of his pains and fears; And he to her a lover's service paid, Now well remembered by the royal maid. XLVI He for her sake from Orient's farthest reign Roved thither, where the sun descends to rest; For he was told in India, to his pain, That she Orlando followed to the west. He after learned in France that Charlemagne Secluded from that champion and the rest, As a fit guerdon, mewed her for the knight Who should protect the lilies best in fight. XLVII The warrior in the field had been, and viewed, Short time before, king Charlemagne's disgrace; And vainly had Angelica pursued, Nor of the damsel's footsteps found a trace. And this is what the weeping monarch rued, And this he so bewailed in doleful case: Hence, into words his lamentations run, Which might for pity stop the passing sun. XLVIII While Sacripant laments him in this plight, And makes a tepid fountain of his eyes; And, what I deem not needful to recite, Pours forth yet other plaints and piteous cries; Propitious Fortune will his lady bright Should hear the youth lament him in such wise: And thus a moment compassed what, without Such chance, long ages had not brought about. XLIX With deep attention, while the warrior weeps, She marks the fashion of the grief and tears And words of him, whose passion never sleeps; Nor this the first confession which she hears. But with his plaint her heart no measure keeps, Cold as the column which the builder rears. Like haughty maid, who holds herself above The world, and deems none worthy of her love. L But her from harm amid those woods to keep, The damsel weened she might his guidance need; For the poor drowning caitiff, who, chin-deep, Implores not help, is obstinate indeed. Nor will she, if she let the occasion sleep, Find escort that will stand her in such stead: For she that king by long experience knew Above all other lovers, kind and true. LI But not the more for this the maid intends To heal the mischief which her charms had wrought, And for past ills to furnish glad amends In that full bliss by pining lover sought. To keep the king in play are all her ends, His help by some device or fiction bought, And having to her purpose taxed his daring, To reassume as wont her haughty bearing. LII An apparition bright and unforeseen, She stood like Venus or Diana fair, In solemn pageant, issuing on the scene From out of shadowy wood or murky lair. And "Peace be with you," cried the youthful queen, "And God preserve my honour in his care, Nor suffer that you blindly entertain Opinion of my fame so false and vain!" LIII Not with such wonderment a mother eyes, With such excessive bliss the son she mourned As dead, lamented still with tears and sighs, Since the thinned files without her boy returned. -- Not such her rapture as the king's surprise And ecstasy of joy when he discerned The lofty presence, cheeks of heavenly hue, And lovely form which broke upon his view. LIV He, full of fond and eager passion, pressed Towards his Lady, his Divinity; And she now clasped the warrior to her breast, Who in Catay had haply been less free. And now again the maid her thoughts addressed Towards her native land and empery: And feels, with hope revived, her bosom beat Shortly to repossess her sumptuous seat. LV Her chances all to him the damsel said, Since he was eastward sent to Sericane By her to seek the martial monarch's aid, Who swayed the sceptre of that fair domain; And told how oft Orlando's friendly blade Had saved her from dishonour, death, and pain; And how she so preserved her virgin flower Pure as it blossomed in her natal hour. LVI Haply the tale was true; yet will not seem Likely to one of sober sense possessed: But Sacripant, who waked from worser dream, In all without a cavil acquiesced: Since love, who sees without one guiding gleam, Spies in broad day but that which likes him best: For one sign of the afflicted man's disease Is to give ready faith to things which please. LVII "If good Anglante's lord the prize forbore, Nor seized the fair occasion when he might, The loss be his, if Fortune never more Him to enjoy so fair a prize invite. To imitate that lord of little lore I think not," said, apart, Circassa's knight. "To quit such proffered good, and, to my shame, Have but myself on after-thought to blame. LVIII "No! I will pluck the fresh and morning rose, Which, should I tarry, may be overblown. To woman, (this my own experience shows), No deed more sweet or welcome can be done. Then, whatsoever scorn the damsel shows, Though she awhile may weep and make her moan, I will, unchecked by anger, false or true, Or sharp repulse, my bold design pursue." LIX This said, he for the soft assault prepares, When a loud noise within the greenwood shade Beside him, rang in his astounded ears, And sore against his will the monarch stayed. He donned his helm (his other arms he wears), Aye wont to rove in steel, with belted blade, Replaced the bridle on his courser fleet, Grappled his lance, and sprang into his seat. LX With the bold semblance of a valiant knight, Behold a warrior threads the forest hoar. The stranger's mantle was of snowy white, And white alike the waving plume he wore. Balked of his bliss, and full of fell despite, The monarch ill the interruption bore, And spurred his horse to meet him in mid space, With hate and fury glowing in his face. LXI Him he defies to fight, approaching nigh, And weens to make him stoop his haughty crest: The other knight, whose worth I rate as high, His warlike prowess puts to present test; Cuts short his haughty threats and angry cry, And spurs, and lays his levelled lance in rest. In tempest wheels Circassia's valiant peer, And at his foeman's head each aims his spear. LXII Not brindled bulls or tawny lions spring To forest warfare with such deadly will As those two knights, the stranger and the king. Their spears alike the opposing bucklers thrill: The solid ground, at their encountering, Trembles from fruitful vale to naked hill: And well it was the mail in which they dressed Their bodies was of proof, and saved the breast. LXIII Nor swerved the chargers from their destined course; Who met like rams, and butted head to head. The warlike Saracen's ill-fated horse, Well valued while alive, dropt short and dead: The stranger's, too, fell senseless; but perforce Was roused by rowel from his grassy bed. That of the paynim king, extended straight, Lay on his battered lord with all his weight. LXIV Upright upon his steed, the knight unknown, Who at the encounter horse and rider threw, Deeming enough was in the conflict done, Cares not the worthless warfare to renew; But endlong by the readiest path is gone, And measures, pricking frith and forest through, A mile, or little less, in furious heat, Ere the foiled Saracen regains his feet. LXV As the bewildered and astonished clown Who held the plough (the thunder storm o'erpast) There, where the deafening bolt had beat him down, Nigh his death-stricken cattle, wakes aghast, And sees the distant pine without its crown, Which he saw clad in leafy honours last; So rose the paynim knight with troubled face, The maid spectatress of the cruel case. LXVI He sighs and groans, yet not for mischief sore Endured in wounded arm or foot which bled; But for mere shame, and never such before Or after, dyed his cheek so deep a red, And if he rued his fall, it grieved him more His dame should lift him from his courser dead. He speechless had remained, I ween, if she Had not his prisoned tongue and voice set free. LXVII "Grieve not," she said, "sir monarch, for thy fall; But let the blame upon thy courser be! To whom more welcome had been forage, stall, And rest, than further joust and jeopardy; And well thy foe the loser may I call, (Who shall no glory gain) for such is he Who is the first to quit his ground, if aught Angelica of fighting fields be taught." LXVIII While she so seeks the Saracen to cheer, Behold a messenger with pouch and horn, On panting hackney! -- man and horse appear With the long journey, weary and forlorn. He questions Sacripant, approaching near, Had he seen warrior pass, by whom were borne A shield and crest of white; in search of whom Through the wide forest pricked the weary groom. LXIX King Sacripant made answer, "As you see, He threw me here, and went but now his way: Then tell the warrior's name, that I may be Informed whose valour foiled me in the fray." To him the groom, -- "That which you ask of me I shall relate to you without delay: Know that you were in combat prostrate laid By the tried valour of a gentle maid. LXX "Bold is the maid; but fairer yet than bold, Nor the redoubted virgin's name I veil: 'Twas Bradamant who marred what praise of old Your prowess ever won with sword and mail." This said, he spurred again, his story told, And left him little gladdened by the tale. He recks not what he says or does, for shame, And his flushed visage kindles into flame. LXXI After the woeful warrior long had thought Upon his cruel case, and still in vain, And found a woman his defeat had wrought, For thinking but increased the monarch's pain, He climbed the other horse, nor spake he aught; But silently uplifted from the plain, Upon the croup bestowed that damsel sweet, Reserved to gladder use in safer seat. LXXII Two miles they had not rode before they hear The sweeping woods which spread about them, sound With such loud crash and trample, far and near, The forest seemed to tremble all around; And shortly after see a steed appear, With housings wrought in gold and richly bound; Who clears the bush and stream, with furious force And whatsoever else impedes his course. LXXIII "Unless the misty air," the damsel cries, "And boughs deceive my sight, yon noble steed Is, sure, Bayardo, who before us flies, And parts the wood with such impetuous speed. -- Yes, 'tis Bayardo's self I recognize. How well the courser understands our need! Two riders ill a foundered jade would bear, But hither speeds the horse to end that care." LXXIV The bold Circassian lighted, and applied His hand to seize him by the flowing rein, Who, swiftly turning, with his heels replied, For he like lightning wheeled upon the plain. Woe to the king! but that he leaps aside, For should he smite, he would not lash in vain. Such are his bone and sinew, that the shock Of his good heels had split a metal rock. LXXV Then to the maid he goes submissively, With gentle blandishment and humble mood; As the dog greets his lord with frolic glee, Whom, some short season past, he had not viewed. For good Bayardo had in memory Albracca, where her hands prepared his food, What time the damsel loved Rinaldo bold; Rinaldo, then ungrateful, stern, and cold. LXXVI With her left hand she takes him by the bit, And with the other pats his sides and chest: While the good steed (so marvellous his wit), Lamb-like, obeyed the damsel and caressed. Meantime the king, who sees the moment fit, Leapt up, and with his knees the courser pressed. While on the palfrey, eased of half his weight, The lady left the croup, and gained the seat. LXXVII Then, as at hazard, she directs her sight, Sounding in arms a man on foot espies, And glows with sudden anger and despite; For she in him the son of Aymon eyes. Her more than life esteems the youthful knight, While she from him, like crane from falcon, flies. Time was the lady sighed, her passion slighted; 'Tis now Rinaldo loves, as ill requited. LXXVIII And this effect two different fountains wrought, Whose wonderous waters different moods inspire. Both spring in Arden, with rare virtue fraught: This fills the heart with amorous desire: Who taste that other fountain are untaught Their love, and change for ice their former fire. Rinaldo drank the first, and vainly sighs; Angelica the last, and hates and flies. LXXIX Mixed with such secret bane the waters glide, Which amorous care convert to sudden hate; The maid no sooner had Rinaldo spied, Than on her laughing eyes deep darkness sate: And with sad mien and trembling voice she cried To Sacripant, and prayed him not to wait The near approach of the detested knight, But through the wood with her pursue his flight. LXXX To her the Saracen, with anger hot: "Is knightly worship sunk so low in me, That thou should'st hold my valour cheap, and not Sufficient to make yonder champion flee? Already are Albracca's fights forgot, And that dread night I singly stood for thee? That night when I, though naked, was thy shield Against King Agrican and all his field?" LXXXI She answers not, and knows not in her fear What 'tis she does; Rinaldo is too nigh: And from afar that furious cavalier Threats the bold Saracen with angry cry, As soon as the known steed and damsel dear, Whose charms such flame had kindled, meet his eye. But what ensued between the haughty pair I in another canto shall declare. CANTO 2 ARGUMENT A hermit parts, by means of hollow sprite, The two redoubted rivals' dangerous play; Rinaldo goes where Love and Hope invite, But is dispatched by Charles another way; Bradamont, seeking her devoted knight, The good Rogero, nigh becomes the prey Of Pinabel, who drops the damsel brave Into the dungeon of a living grave. I Injurious love, why still to mar accord Between desires has been thy favourite feat? Why does it please thee so, perfidious lord, Two hearts should with a different measure beat? Thou wilt not let me take the certain ford, Dragging me where the stream is deep and fleet. Her I abandon who my love desires, While she who hates, respect and love inspires. II Thou to Rinaldo show'st the damsel fair, While he seems hideous to that gentle dame; And he, who when the lady's pride and care, Paid back with deepest hate her amorous flame, Now pines, himself, the victim of despair, Scorned in his turn, and his reward the same. By the changed damsel in such sort abhorred, She would choose death before that hated lord. III He to the Pagan cries: "Forego thy theft, And down, false felon, from that pilfer'd steed; I am not wont to let my own be reft. And he who seeks it dearly pays the deed. More -- I shall take from thee yon lovely weft; To leave thee such a prize were foul misdeed; And horse and maid, whose worth outstrips belief, Were ill, methinks, relinquished to a thief." IV "Thou liest," the haughty Saracen retorts, As proud, and burning with as fierce a flame, "A thief thyself, if Fame the truth reports: But let good deeds decide our dubious claim, With whom the steed or damsel fair assorts: Best proved by valiant deeds: though, for the dame, That nothing is so precious, I with thee (Search the wide world throughout) may well agree." V As two fierce dogs will somtimes stand at gaze, Whom hate or other springs of strife inspire, And grind their teeth, while each his foe surveys With sidelong glance and eyes more red than fire, Then either falls to bites, and hoarsely bays, While their stiff bristles stand on end with ire: So from reproach and menace to the sword Pass Sacripant and Clermont's angry lord. VI Thus kindling into wrath the knights engage: One is on foot, the other on his horse: Small gain to this; for inexperienced page Would better rein his charger in the course. For such Baiardo's sense, he will not wage War with his master, or put out his force. For voice, nor hand, nor manage, will he stir, Rebellious to the rein or goading spur. VII He, when the king would urge him, takes the rest, Or, when he curbs him, runs in giddy rings; And drops his head beneath his spreading chest, And plays his spine, and runs an-end and flings. And now the furious Saracen distressed, Sees 'tis no time to tame the beast, and springs, With one hand on the pummel, to the ground; Clear of the restless courser at a bound. VIII As soon as Sacripant, with well-timed leap, Is from the fury of Bayardo freed, You may believe the battle does not sleep Between those champions, matched in heart and deed. Their sounding blades such changeful measure keep, The hammer-strokes of Vulcan with less speed Descend in that dim cavern, where he heats, And Jove's red thunders on his anvil beats. IX Sometimes they lunge, then feign the thrust and parry: Deep masters of the desperate game they play; Or rise upon the furious stroke, and carry Their swords aloft, or stoop and stand at bay. Again they close, again exhausted tarry; Now hide, now show themselves, and now give way, And where one knight an inch of ground has granted, His foeman's foot upon that inch is planted. X When, lo! Rinaldo, now impatient grown, Strikes full at Sacripant with lifted blade; And he puts forth his buckler made of bone, And well with strong and stubborn steel inlaid: Though passing thick, Fusberta cleaves it: groan Greenwood, and covert close, and sunny glade. The paynim's arm rings senseless with the blow, And steel and bone, like ice, in shivers go. XI When the fair damsel saw, with timid eye, Such ruin follow from the faulchion's sway, She, like the criminal, whose doom is nigh, Changed her fair countenance through sore dismay, And deemed that little time was left to fly If she would not be that Rinaldo's prey, Rinaldo loathed by her as much, as he Doats on the scornful damsel miserably. XII So turned her horse into the gloomy chase, And drove him through rough path and tangled ally And oftentimes bent back her bloodless face, And saw Rinaldo from each thicket sally. Nor flying long had urged the frantic race, Before she met a hermit in a valley. Devotion in his aspect was expressed, And his long beard descended on his breast. XIII Wasted he was as much by fasts as age, And on an ass was mounted, slow and sure; His visage warranted that never sage Had conscience more precise or passing pure. Though in his arteries time had stilled the rage Of blood, and spake him feeble and demure, At sight of the delighted damsel, he Was inly stirred for very charity. XIV The lady prayed that kindly friar, that he Would straight conduct her to some haven near, For that she from the land of France might flee, And never more of loathed Rinaldo hear. The hermit, who was skilled in sorcery, Ceased not to soothe the gentle damsel's fear. And with the promise of deliverance, shook His pocket, and drew forth a secret book. XV This opened, quick and mighty marvel wrought; For not a leaf is finished by the sage, Before a spirit, by his bidding brought, Waits his command in likeness of a page: He, by the magic writ constrained and taught, Hastes where the warriors face to face engage, In the cool shade -- but not in cool disport -- And steps between, and stops their battle short. XVI "In courtesy," he cried, "let either show What his foe's death to either can avail, And what the guerdon conquest will bestow On him who in the battle shall prevail, If Roland, though he has not struck a blow, Or snapt in fight a single link of mail, To Paris-town conveys the damsel gay, Who has engaged you in this bitter fray. XVII "Within an easy mile I saw the peer Pricking to Paris with that lady bright; Riding, in merry mood, with laugh and jeer, And mocking at your fierce and fruitless fight. Sure it were better, while they yet are near, To follow peer and damsel in their flight: For should he once in Paris place his prize The lady never more shall meet your eyes." XVIII You might have seen those angry cavaliers Change at the demon's tale for rage and shame; And curse themselves as wanting eyes and ears, To let their rival cheat them of the dame. Towards his horse the good Rinaldo steers, Breathing forth piteous sighs which seem of flame; And, if he joins Orlando -- ere they part -- Swears in his fury he will have his heart. XIX So, passing where the prompt Bayardo stood, Leaps on his back, and leaves, as swift as wind, Without farewell, his rival in the wood; Much less invites him to a seat behind. The goaded charger, in his heat of blood, Forces whate'er his eager course confined, Ditch, river, tangled thorn, or marble block; He swims the river, and he clears the rock. XX Let it not, sir, sound strangely in your ear Rinaldo took the steed thus readily, So long and vainly followed far and near; For he, endued with reasoning faculty, Had not in vice lured on the following peer, But fled before his cherished lord, that he Might guide him whither went the gentle dame, For whom, as he had heard, he nursed a flame. XXI For when Angelica, in random dread, From the pavilion winged her rapid flight, Bayardo marked the damsel as she fled, His saddle lightened of Mount Alban's knight; Who then on foot an equal combat sped, Matched with a baron of no meaner might; And chased the maid by woods, and floods, and strands, In hopes to place her in the warrior's hands. XXII And, with desire to bring him to the maid, Gallopped before him still with rampant play; But would not let his master mount, afraid That he might make him take another way. So luring on Rinaldo through the shade, Twice brought him to his unexpected prey; Twice foiled in his endeavour: once by bold Ferrau; then Sacripant, as lately told. XXIII Now good Bayardo had believed the tiding Of that fair damsel, which produced the accord; And in the devil's cunning tale confiding, Renewed his wonted service to his lord. Behold Rinaldo then in fury riding, And pushing still his courser Paris-ward! Though he fly fast, the champion's wishes go Faster; and wind itself had seemed too slow. XXIV At night Rinaldo rests his steed, with pain To meet Anglante's lord he burned so sore; And lent such credit to the tidings vain Of the false courier of that wizard hoar: And that day and the next, with flowing rein, Rode, till the royal city rose before His eyes; where Charlemagne had taken post, With the sad remnant of his broken host. XXV He, for he fears the Afric king's pursuit, And sap and siege, upon his vassals calls To gather in fresh victual, and recruit And cleanse their ditches, and repair their walls. And what may best annoy the foes, and suit For safety, without more delay forestalls; And plans an embassy to England, thence To gather fresher forces for defence. XXVI For he is bent again to try the fate Of arms in tented field, though lately shamed; And send Rinaldo to the neighbouring state Of Britain, which was after England named. Ill liked the Paladin to cross the strait; Not that the people or the land he blamed, But that King Charles was sudden; nor a day Would grant the valiant envoy for delay. XXVII Rinaldo never executed thing Less willingly, prevented in his quest Of that fair visage he was following, Whose charms his heart had ravished from his breast. Yet, in obediance to the christian king, Prepared himself to do the royal hest. To Calais the good envoy wends with speed, And the same day embarks himself and steed. XXVIII And there, in scorn of cautious pilot's skill (Such his impatience to regain his home), Launched on the doubtful sea, which boded ill, And rolled its heavy billows, white with foam. The wind, enraged that he opposed his will, Stirred up the waves; and, 'mid the gathering gloom, So the loud storm and tempest's fury grew, That topmast-high the flashing waters flew. XXIX The watchful mariners, in wary sort, Haul down the mainsail, and attempt to wear; And would put back in panic to the port, Whence, in ill hour, they loosed with little care. -- "Not so," exclaims the wind, and stops them short, "So poor a penance will not pay the dare." And when they fain would veer, with fiercer roar Pelts back their reeling prow and blusters more. XXX Starboard and larboard bears the fitful gale, And never for a thought its ire assuages; While the strained vessel drives with humble sail Before the billows, as the tempest rages. But I, who still pursue a varying tale, Must leave awhile the Paladin, who wages A weary warfare with the wind and flood; To follow a fair virgin of his blood. XXXI I speak of that famed damsel, by whose spear O'erthrown, King Sacripant on earth was flung; The worthy sister of the valiant peer, From Beatrix and good Duke Aymon sprung. By daring deeds and puissance no less dear To Charlemagne and France: Since proved among The first, her prowess, tried by many a test, Equal to good Rinaldo's shone confessed. XXXII A cavalier was suitor to the dame, Who out of Afric passed with Agramant; Rogero was his valiant father's name, His mother was the child of Agolant. And she, who not of bear or lion came, Disdained not on the Child her love to plant, Though cruel Fortune, ill their wishes meeting, Had granted to the pair a single greeting. XXXIII Alone thenceforth she sought her lover (he Was named of him to whom he owed his birth), And roved as safe as if in company Of thousands, trusting in her single worth. She having made the king of Circassy Salute the visage of old mother earth, Traversed a wood, and that wood past, a mountain; And stopt at length beside a lovely fountain. XXXIV Through a delicious mead the fountain-rill, By ancient trees o'ershaded, glides away; And him whose ear its pleasing murmurs fill, Invites to drink, and on its banks to stay; On the left side a cultivated hill Excludes the fervors of the middle day. As first the damsel thither turns her eyes, A youthful cavalier she seated spies; XXXV A cavalier, who underneath the shade, Seems lost, as in a melancholy dream; And on the bank, which gaudy flowers displayed, Reposing, overhangs the crystal stream. His horse beneath a spreading beech is laid, And from a bough the shield and helmet gleam. While his moist eyes, and sad and downcast air, Speak him the broken victim of despair. XXXVI Urged by the passion lodged in every breast, A restless curiosity to know Of others' cares, the gentle maid addressed The knight, and sought the occasion of his woe. And he to her his secret grief confessed, Won by her gentle speech and courteous show, And by that gallant bearing, which at sight, Prepared who saw her for nimble knight. XXXVII "Fair sir, a band of horse and foot," he said, "I brought to Charlemagne; and thither pressed, Where he an ambush for Marsilius spread, Descending from the Pyrenean crest; And in my company a damsel led, Whose charms with fervid love had fired my breast. When, as we journey by Rhone's current, I A rider on a winged courser spy. XXXVIII "The robber, whether he were man or shade, Or goblin damned to everlasting woe, As soon as he beheld my dear-loved maid, Like falcon, who, descending, aims its blow, Sank in a thought and rose; and soaring, laid Hands on his prize, and snatched her from below. So quick the rape, that all appeared a dream, Until I heard in air the damsel's scream. XXXIX "The ravening kite so swoops and plunders, when Hovering above the shelterd yard, she spies A helpless chicken near unwatchful hen, Who vainly dins the thief with after cries. I cannot reach the mountain-robber's den, Compassed with cliffs, or follow one who flies. Besides, way-foundered is my weary steed, Who 'mid these rocks has wasted wind and speed. XL "But I, like one who from his bleeding side Would liefer far have seen his heart out-torn, Left my good squadrons masterless, to ride Along the cliffs, and passes least forlorn; And took the way (love served me for a guide) Where it appeared the ruthless thief had born, Ascending to his den, the lovely prey, What time he snatched my hope and peace away. XLI "Six days I rode, from morn to setting sun, By horrid cliff, by bottom dark and drear; And giddy precipice, where path was none, Nor sign, nor vestiges of man were near. At last a dark and barren vale I won, Where caverned mountains and rude cliffs appear; Where in the middle rose a rugged block, With a fair castle planted on the rock. XLII "From far it shone like flame, and seemed not dight Of marble or of brick; and in my eye More wonderful the work, more fair to sight The walls appeared, as I approached more nigh. I, after, learned that it was built by sprite Whom potent fumes had raised and sorcery: Who on this rock its towers of steel did fix, Case-hardened in the stream and fire of Styx. XLIII "Each polished turret shines with such a ray That it defies the mouldering rust and rain: The robber scours the country night and day, And after harbours in this sure domain. Nothing is safe which he would bear away; Pursued with curses and with threats in vain. There (fruitless every hope to foil his art) The felon keeps my love, oh! say my heart. XLIV "Alas! what more is left me but to eye Her prison on that cliff's aerial crest? Like the she-fox, who hears her offspring cry, Standing beneath the ravening eagle's nest; And since she has not wings to rise and fly, Runs round the rugged rock with hopeless quest. So inaccessible the wild dominion To whatsoever has not plume and pinion. XLV "While I so lingered where those rocks aspire, I saw a dwarf guide two of goodly strain; Whose coming added hope to my desire (Alas! desire and hope alike were vain) Both barons bold, and fearful in their ire: The one Gradasso, King of Sericane, The next, of youthful vigour, was a knight, Prized in the Moorish court, Rogero hight. XLVI "The dwarf exclaimed, `These champions will assay Their force with him who dwells on yonder steep, And by such strange and unattempted way Spurs the winged courser from his mountain-keep.' And I to the approaching warriors say, `Pity, fair sirs, the cruel loss I weep, And, as I trust, yon daring spoiler slain, Give my lost lady to my arms again.' XLVII "Then how my love was ravished I make known, Vouching with bitter tears my deep distress. They proffer aid, and down the path of stone Which winds about the craggy mountain, press. While I, upon the summit left alone, Look on, and pray to God for their success. Beneath the wily wizard's castle strong Extends a little plain, two bow-shots long. XLVIII "Arrived beneath the craggy keep, the two Contend which warrior shall begin the fight. When, whether the first lot Gradasso drew, Or young Rogero held the honor light, The King of Sericane his bugle blew, And the rock rang and fortress on the height; And, lo! apparelled for the fearful course, The cavalier upon his winged horse! XLIX "Upwards, by little and by little, springs The winged courser, as the pilgrim crane Finds not at first his balance and his wings, Running and scarcely rising from the plain; But when the flock is launched and scattered, flings His pinions to the wind, and soars amain. So straight the necromancer's upward flight, The eagle scarce attempts so bold a height. L "When it seems fit, he wheels his courser round, Who shuts his wings, and falling from the sky, Shoots like a well trained falcon to the ground, Who sees the quarry, duck or pigeon, fly: So, through the parting air, with whizzing sound, With rested lance, he darted from on high; And while Gradasso scarcely marks the foe He hears him swooping near, and feels the blow. LI "The wizard on Gradasso breaks his spear, He wounds the empty air, with fury vain. This in the feathered monster breeds no fear; Who to a distance shifts, and swoops again. While that encounter made the Alfana rear, Thrown back upon her haunches, on the plain. The Alfana that the Indian monarch rode, The fairest was that ever man bestrode. LII "Up to the starry sphere with swift ascent The wizard soars, then pounces from the sky, And strikes the young Rogero, who, intent Upon Gradasso, deems no danger nigh. Beneath the wizard's blow the warrior bent, Which made some deal his generous courser ply; And when to smite the shifting foe he turned, Him in the sky, and out of reach discerned. LIII "His blows Rogero, now Gradasso, bruise On forehead, bosom, back, or flanks, between; While he the warrior's empty blows eschews, Shifting so quickly that he scarce is seen. Now this, now that, the wizard seems to choose, The monster makes such spacious rings and clean, While the enchanter so deceives the knights, They view him not, and know not whence he smites. LIV "Between the two on earth and him o' the sky, Until that hour the warfare lasted there, Which, spreading wide its veil of dusky dye, Throughout the world, discolours all things fair. What I beheld, I say; I add not, I, A tittle to the tale; yet scarcely dare To tell to other what I stood and saw; So strange it seems, so passing Nature's law. LV "Well covered in a goodly silken case, He, the celestial warrior, bore his shield; But why delayed the mantle to displace I know not, and its lucid orb concealed. Since this no sooner blazes in his face, Than his foe tumbles dazzled on the field; And while he, like a lifeless body, lies, Becomes the necromancer's helpless prize. LVI "LIke carbuncle, the magic buckler blazed, No glare was ever seen which shone so bright: Nor could the warriors choose but fall, amazed And blinded by the clear and dazzling light. I, too, that from a distant mountain gazed, Fell senseless; and when I regained my sight, After long time, saw neither knights nor page, Nor aught beside a dark and empty stage. LVII "This while the fell enchanter, I supposed, Dragged both the warriors to his prison-cell; And by strange virtue of the shield disclosed, I from my hope and they from freedom fell: And thus I to the turrets, which enclosed My heart, departing, bade a last farewell. Now sum my griefs, and say if love combine Other distress or grief to match with mine." LVIII The knight relapsed into his first disease, After his melancholy tale was done. This was Count Pinabel, the Maganzese, Anselmo d'Altaripa's faithless son. He, where the blood ran foul through all degrees, Disdained to be the only virtuous one; Nor played a simple part among the base, Passing in vice the villains of his race. LIX With aspect changing still, the beauteous dame Hears what the mournful Maganzese narrates; And, at first mention of Rogero's name, Her radiant face with eager joy dilates. But, full of pity, kindles into flame As Pinabel his cruel durance states. Nor finds she, though twice told, the story stale; But makes him oft repeat and piece his tale. LX And, after, when she deemed that all was clear, Cried to the knight, "Repose upon my say. To thee may my arrival well be dear, And thou as fortunate account this day. Straight wend me to the keep, sir cavalier, Which holds a jewel of so rich a ray: Nor shalt thou grudge thy labour and thy care, If envious Fortune do but play me fair." LXI The knight replied, "Then nought to me remains But that I yonder mountain-passes show; And sure 'tis little loss to lose my pains, Where every thing is lost I prize below. But you would climb yon cliffs, and for your gains Will find a prison-house, and be it so! Whate'er betide you, blame yourself alone; You go forewarned to meet a fate foreshown." LXII So said, the cavalier remounts his horse, And serves the gallant damsel as a guide; Who is prepared Rogero's gaol to force, Or to be slain, or in his prison stied. When lo! a messenger, in furious course, Called to the dame to stay, and rode and cried. This was the post who told Circassa's lord What valiant hand had stretched him on the sward. LXIII The courier, who so plied his restless heel, News of Narbonne and of Montpelier bore: How both had raised the standard of Castile, All Acquamorta siding with the Moor; And how Marseilles' disheartened men appeal To her, who should protect her straightened shore; And how, through him, her citizens demand Counsel and comfort at their captain's hand. LXIV This goodly town, with many miles of plain, Which lie 'twixt Var and Rhone, upon the sea, To her was given by royal Charlemagne: Such trust he placed in her fidelity. Still wont with wonder on the tented plain The prowess of that valiant maid to see. And now the panting courier, as I said, Rode from Marseilles to ask the lady's aid. LXV Whether or not she should the call obey, The youthful damsel doubts some little space; Strong in one balance Fame and Duty weigh, But softer thoughts both Fame and Duty chase: And she, at length, resolved the emprize to assay, And free Rogero from the enchanted place: Or, should her valour in the adventure fail, Would with the cherished lover share his jail. LXVI And did with such excuse that post appay, He was contented on her will to wait: Then turned the bridle to resume her way With Pinabel, who seemed no whit elate. Since of that line he knows the damsel gay, Held in such open and such secret hate; And future trouble to himself foresees, Were he detected as a Maganzese. LXVII For 'twixt Maganza's and old Clermont's line There was an ancient and a deadly feud: And oft to blows the rival houses came, And oft in civil blood their hands embrued. And hence some treason to this gentle dame In his foul heart, the wicked County brewed; Or, as the first occasion served, would stray Out of the road, and leave her by the way. LXVIII And so the traitor's troubled fancy rack Fear, doubt, and his own native, rancorous mood, That unawares he issued from the track, And found himself within a gloomy wood: Where a rough mountain reared its shaggy back, Whose stony peak above the forest stood; The daughter of Dodona's duke behind, Dogging his footsteps through the thicket blind. LXIX He, when he saw himself within the brake, Thought to abandon his unweeting foe; And to the dame -- " 'Twere better that we make For shelter ere the gathering darkness grow; And, yonder mountain past, (save I mistake) A tower is seated in the vale below. Do you expect me then, while from the peak I measure the remembered place I seek." LXX So said, he pushed his courser up the height Of that lone mountain; in his evil mind Revolving, as he went, some scheme or sleight To rid him of the gentle dame behind. When lo! a rocky cavern met his sight, Amid those precipices dark and blind: Its sides descended thirty yards and more, Worked smooth, and at the bottom was a door. LXXI A void was at the bottom, where a wide Portal conducted to an inner room: From thence a light shone out on every side, As of a torch illumining the gloom. Fair Bradamant pursued her faithless guide, Suspended there, and pondering on her doom: And came upon the felon where he stood, Fearing lest she might lose him in the wood. LXXII When her approach the County's first intent Made vain, the wily traitor sought to mend His toils, and some new stratagem invent To rid her thence, or bring her to her end. And so to meet the approaching lady went, And showed the cave, and prayed her to ascend; And said that in its bottom he had seen A gentle damsel of bewitching mien. LXXIII Who, by her lovely semblance and rich vest, Appeared a lady of no mean degree; But melancholy, weeping, and distressed, As one who pined there in captivity: And that when he towards the entrance pressed, To learn who that unhappy maid might be, One on the melancholy damsel flew, And her within that inner cavern drew. LXXIV The beauteous Bradamant, who was more bold Than wary, gave a ready ear; and, bent To help the maid, imprisoned in that hold, Sought but the means to try the deep descent. Then, looking round, descried an elm-tree old, Which furnished present means for her intent: And from the tree, with boughs and foliage stored, Lopt a long branch, and shaped it with her sword. LXXV The severed end she to the count commended, Then, grasping it, hung down that entrance steep. With her feet foremost, by her arms suspended: When asking if she had the skill to leap, The traitor, with a laugh, his hands extended. And plunged his helpless prey into the deep. "And thus," exclaimed the ruffian, "might I speed With thee each sucker of thy cursed seed!" LXXVI But not, as was the will of Pinabel, Such cruel lot fair Bradamant assayed; For striking on the bottom of the cell, The stout elm-bough so long her weight upstayed, That, though it split and splintered where it fell, It broked her fall, and saved the gentle maid. Some while astounded there the lady lay, As the ensuing canto will display. CANTO 3 ARGUMENT Restored to sense, the beauteous Bradamant Finds sage Melissa in the vaulted tomb, And hears from her of many a famous plant And warrior, who shall issue from her womb. Next, to release Rogero from the haunt Of old Atlantes, learns how from the groom, Brunello hight, his virtuous ring to take; And thus the knight's and others' fetters break. I Who will vouchsafe me voice that shall ascend As high as I would raise my noble theme? Who will afford befitting words, and lend Wings to my verse, to soar the pitch I scheme? Since fiercer fire for such illustrious end, Than what was wont, may well my song beseem. For this fair portion to my lord is due Which sings the sires from whom his lineage grew. II Than whose fair line, 'mid those by heavenly grace Chosen to minister this earth below, You see not, Phoebus, in your daily race, One that in peace or war doth fairer show; Nor lineage that hath longer kept its place; And still shall keep it, if the lights which glow Within me, but aright inspire my soul, While the blue heaven shall turn about the pole. III But should I seek at full its worth to blaze, Not mine were needful, but that noble lyre Which sounded at your touch the thunderer's praise, What time the giants sank in penal fire. Yet should you instruments, more fit to raise The votive work, bestow, as I desire, All labour and all thought will I combine, To shape and shadow forth the great design. IV Till when, this chisel may suffice to scale The stone, and give my lines a right direction; And haply future study may avail, To bring the stubborn labour to perfection. Return we now to him, to whom the mail Of hawberk, shield, and helm, were small protection: I speak of Pinabel the Maganzeze, Who hopes the damsel's death, whose fall he sees. V The wily traitor thought that damsel sweet Had perished on the darksome cavern's floor, And with pale visages hurried his retreat From that, through him contaminated door. And, thence returning, clomb into his seat: Then, like one who a wicked spirit bore, To add another sin to evil deed, Bore off with him the warlike virgin's steed. VI Leave we sometime the wretch who, while he layed Snares for another, wrought his proper doom; And turn we to the damsel he betrayed, Who had nigh found at once her death and tomb. She, after rising from the rock, dismayed At her shrewd fall, and gazing through the gloom, Beheld and passed that inner door, which gave Entrance to other and more spacious cave. VII For the first cavern in a second ended, Fashioned in form of church, and large and square; With roof by cunning architect extended On shafts of alabaster rich and rare. The flame of a clear-burning lamp ascended Before the central altar; and the glare, Illuminating all the space about, Shone through the gate, and lit the cave without. VIII Touched with the sanctifying thoughts which wait On worthy spirit in a holy place, She prays with eager lips, and heart elate, To the Disposer of all earthly grace: And, kneeling, hears a secret wicket grate In the opposing wall; whence, face to face, A woman issuing forth, the maid addresses, Barefoot, ungirt, and with dishevelled tresses. IX "O generous Bradamant," the matron cried, "Know thine arrival in this hallowed hold Was not unauthorized of heavenly guide: And the prophetic ghost of Merlin told, Thou to this cave shouldst come by path untried, Which covers the renowned magician's mould. And here have I long time awaited thee, To tell what is the heavens' pronounced decree. X "This is the ancient memorable cave Which Merlin, that enchanter sage, did make: Thou may'st have heard how that magician brave Was cheated by the Lady of the Lake. Below, beneath the cavern, is the grave Which holds his bones; where, for that lady's sake, His limbs (for such her will) the wizard spread. Living he laid him there, and lies there dead. XI "Yet lives the spirit of immortal strain; Lodged in the enchanter's corpse, till to the skies The trumpet call it, or to endless pain, As it with dove or raven's wing shall rise. Yet lives the voice, and thou shalt hear how plain From its sepulchral case of marble cries: Since this has still the past and future taught To every wight that has its counsel sought. XII "Long days have passed since I from distant land My course did to this cemetery steer, That in the solemn mysteries I scanned, Merlin to me the truth should better clear; And having compassed the design I planned, A month beyond, for thee, have tarried here; Since Merlin, still with certain knowledge summing Events, prefixed this moment for thy coming." XIII The daughter of Duke Aymon stood aghast, And silent listened to the speech; while she Knew not, sore marvelling at all that passed, If 'twere a dream or a reality. At length, with modest brow, and eyes down cast, Replied (like one that was all modesty), "And is this wrought for me? and have I merit Worthy the workings of prophetic spirit?" XIV And full of joy the adventure strange pursues, Moving with ready haste behind the dame, Who brings her to the sepulchre which mews The bones and spirit, erst of Merlin's name. The tomb, of hardest stone which masons use, Shone smooth and lucid, and as red as flame. So that although no sun-beam pierced the gloom, Its splendour lit the subterraneous room. XV Whether it be the native operation O certain stones, to shine like torch i' the dark, Or whether force of spell or fumigation, (A guess that seems to come more near the mark) Or sign made under mystic constellation, The blaze that came from the sepulchral ark Discovered sculpture, colour, gems, and gilding, And whatsoever else adorned the building. XVI Scarcely had Bradamant above the sill Lifter her foot, and trod the secret cave, When the live spirit, in clear tones that thrill, Addressed the martial virgin from the grave; "May Fortune, chaste and noble maid, fulfil Thine every wish!" exclaimed the wizard brave. "Since from thy womb a princely race shall spring, Whose name through Italy and earth shall ring. XVII "The noble blood derived from ancient Troy, Mingling in thee its two most glorious streams, Shall be the ornament, and flower, and joy Of every lineage on which Phoebus beams, Where genial stars lend warmth, or cold annoy, Where Indus, Tagus, Nile, or Danube gleams; And in thy progeny and long drawn line Shall marquises, counts, dukes and Caesers shine. XVIII "Captains and cavaliers shall spring from thee, Who both by knightly lance and prudent lore, Shall once again to widowed Italy Her ancient praise and fame in arms restore; And in her realms just lords shall seated be, (Such Numa and Augustus were of yore), Who with their government, benign and sage, Shall re-create on earth the golden age. XIX "Then, that the will of Heaven be duly brought To a fair end through thee, in fitting date, Which from the first to bless thy love has wrought, And destined young Rogero for thy mate, Let nothing interpose to break that thought, But boldly tread the path perscribed by fate; Nor let aught stay thee till the thief be thrown By thy good lance, who keeps thee from thine own." XX Here Merlin ceased, that for the solemn feat Melissa might prepare with fitting spell, To show bold Bradamant, in aspect meet, The heirs who her illustrious race should swell. Hence many sprites she chose; but from what seat Evoked, I know not, or if called from hell; And gathered in one place (so bade the dame), In various garb and guise the shadows came. XXI This done, into the church she called the maid, Where she had drawn a magic ring, as wide As might contain the damsel, prostrate laid; With the full measure of a palm beside. And on her head, lest spirit should invade, A pentacle for more assurance tied. So bade her hold her peace, and stand and look, Then read, and schooled the demons from her book. XXII Lo! forth of that first cave what countless swarm Presses upon the circle's sacred round, But, when they would the magic rampart storm, Finds the way barred as if by fosse or mound; Then back the rabble turns of various form; And when it thrice with bending march has wound About the circle, troops into the cave, Where stands that beauteous urn, the wizard's grave. XXIII "To tell at large the puissant acts and worth, And name of each who, figured in a sprite, Is present to our eyes before his birth," Said sage Melissa to the damsel bright; "To tell the deeds which they shall act on earth, Were labour not to finish with the night. Hence I shall call few worthies of thy line, As time and fair occasion shall combine. XXIV "See yonder first-born of thy noble breed, Who well reflects thy fair and joyous face; He, first of thine and of Rogero's seed, Shall plant in Italy thy generous race. In him behold who shall distain the mead, And his good sword with blood of Pontier base; The mighty wrong chastised, and traitor's guilt, By whom his princely father's blood was spilt. XXV "By him King Desiderius shall be pressed, The valiant leader of the Lombard horde: And of the fiefs of Calaon and Este; For this imperial Charles shall make him lord. Hubert, thy grandson, comes behind; the best Of Italy, with arms and belted sword: Who shall defend the church from barbarous foes, And more than once assure her safe repose. XXVI "Alberto next, unconquered captain, see, Whose trophies shall so many fanes array. Hugh, the bold son, is with the sire, and he Shall conquer Milan, and the snakes display. Azo, that next approaching form shall be, And, his good brother dead, the Insubri sway. Lo! Albertazo! by whose rede undone, See Berengarius banished, and his son. XXVII "With him shall the imperial Otho join In wedlock worthily his daughter fair. And lo! another Hugh! O noble line! O! sire succeeded by an equal heir! He, thwarting with just cause their ill design, Shall thrash the Romans' pride who overbear; Shall from their hands the sovereign pontiff take, With the third Otho, and their leaguer break. XXVIII "See Fulke, who to his brother will convey All his Italian birth-right, and command To take a mighty dukedom far away From his fair home, in Almayn's northern land. There he the house of Saxony shall stay, And prop the ruin with his saving hand; This in his mother's right he shall possess, And with his progeny maintain and bless. XXIX "More famed for courtesy than warlike deed, Azo the second, he who next repairs! Bertoldo and Albertazo are his seed: And, lo! the father walkes between his heirs. By Parma's walls I see the Germans bleed, Their second Henry quelled; such trophy bears The one renowned in story's future page: The next shall wed Matilda, chaste and sage. XXX "His virtues shall deserve so fair a flower, (And in his age, I wot, no common grace) To hold the half of Italy in dower, With that descendent of first Henry's race. Rinaldo shall succeed him in his power, Pledge of Bertoldo's wedded love, and chase Fierce Frederick Barbarossa's hireling bands, Saving the church from his rapacious hands. XXXI "Another Azo rules Verona's town, With its fair fields; and two great chiefs this while (One wears the papal, one the imperial crown), The baron, Marquis of Ancona style. But to show all who rear the gonfalon Of the consistory, amid that file, Were task too long; as long to tell each deed Achieved for Rome by thy devoted seed. XXXII "See Fulke and Obyson, more Azos, Hughs! Both Henrys! -- mark the father and his boy. Two Guelphs: the first fair Umbria's land subdues, And shall Spoleto's ducal crown enjoy. Behold the princely phantom that ensues, Shall turn fair Italy's long grief to joy; I speak of the fifth Azo of thy strain, By whom shall Ezelin be quelled and slain. XXXIII "Fierce Ezelin, that most inhuman lord, Who shall be deemed by men a child of hell. And work such evil, thinning with the sword Who in Ausonia's wasted cities dwell; Rome shall no more her Anthony record, Her Marius, Sylla, Nero, Cajus fell. And this fifth Azo shall to scathe and shame Put Frederick, second Caeser of the name. XXXIV "He, with his better sceptre well contented, Shall rule the city, seated by the streams, Where Phoebus to his plaintive lyre lamented The son, ill-trusted with the father's beams; Where Cygnus spread his pinions, and the scented Amber was wept, as fabling poet dreams. To him such honour shall the church decree; Fit guerdon of his works, and valour's fee. XXXV "But does no laurel for his brother twine, Aldobrandino, who will carry cheer To Rome (when Otho, with the Ghibelline, Into the troubled capital strikes fear), And make the Umbri and Piceni sign Their shame, and sack the cities far and near; Then hopeless to relieve the sacred hold, Sue to the neighbouring Florentine for gold: XXXVI "And trust a noble brother to his hands, Boasting no dearer pledge, the pact to bind: And next, victorious o'er the German bands, Give his triumphant ensigns to the wind: To the afflicted church restore her lands, And take due vengeance of Celano's kind. Then die, cut off in manhood's early flower, Beneath the banners of the Papal power? XXXVII "He, dying, leaves his brother Azo heir Of Pesaro and fair Ancona's reign, And all the cities which 'twixt Tronto are, And green Isauro's stream, from mount to main; With other heritage, more rich and rare, Greatness of mind, and faith without a strain. All else is Fortune's in this mortal state; But Virtue soars beyond her love and hate. XXXVIII "In good Rinaldo equal worth shall shine, (Such is the promise of his early fire) If such a hope of thine exalted line. Dark Fate and Fortune wreck not in their ire. Alas! from Naples in this distant shrine, Naples, where he is hostage for his sire, His dirge is heard: A stripling of thy race, Young Obyson, shall fill his grandsire's place. XXXIX "This lord to his dominion shall unite Gay Reggio, joined to Modena's bold land. And his redoubted valour lend such light, The willing people call him to command. Sixth of the name, his Azo rears upright The church's banner in his noble hand: Fair Adria's fief to him in dower shall bring The child of second Charles, Sicilia's king. XL "Behold in yonder friendly group agreed. Many fair princes of illustrious name; Obyson, Albert famed for pious deed, Aldobrandino, Nicholas the lame. But we may pass them by, for better speed, Faenza conquered, and their feats and fame; With Adria (better held and surer gain) Which gives her title to the neighbouring main: XLI "And that fair town, whose produce is the rose, The rose which gives it name in Grecian speech: That, too, which fishy marshes round enclose, And Po's two currents threat with double breach; Whose townsmen loath the lazy calm's repose, And pray that stormy waves may lash the beach. I pass, mid towns and towers, a countless store, Argenta, Lugo, and a thousand more. XLII "See Nicholas, whom in his tender age, The willing people shall elect their lord; He who shall laugh to scorn the civil rage Of the rebellious Tideus and his horde; Whose infantine delight shall be to wage The mimic fight, and sweat with spear and sword: And through the discipline such nurture yields, Shall flourish as the flower of martial fields. XLIII "By him rebellious plans are overthrown, And turned upon the rash contriver's head; And so each stratagem of warfare blown, That vainly shall the cunning toils be spread. To the third Otho this too late is known, Of Parma and the pleasant Reggio dread; Who shall by him be spoiled in sudden strife, Of his possessions and his wretched life. XLIV "And still the fair dominion shall increase, And without wrong its spreading bounds augment; Nor its glad subjects violate the peace, Unless provoked some outrage to resent, And hence its wealth and welfare shall not cease; And the Divine Disposer be content To let it flourish (such his heavenly love!) While the celestial spheres revolve above. XLV "Lo! Lionel! lo! Borse great and kind! First duke of thy fair race, his realm's delight; Who reigns secure, and shall more triumphs find In peace, than warlike princes win in fight. Who struggling Fury's hands shall tie behind Her back, and prison Mars, removed from sight. His fair endeavours bent to bless and stay The people, that his sovereign rule obey. XLVI "Lo! Hercules, who may reproach his neighbour, With foot half burnt, and halting gait and slow, That at Budrio, with protecting sabre, He saved his troops from fatal overthrow; Not that, for guerdon of his glorious labour, He should distress and vex him as a foe; Chased into Barco. It were hard to say, If most he shine in peace or martial fray. XLVII "Lucania, Puglia, and Calabria's strand, Shall with the rumour of his prowess ring: Where he shall strive in duel, hand to hand, And gain the praise of Catalonia's king. Him, with the wisest captains of the land His worth shall class; such fame his actions bring; And he the fief shall win like valiant knight, Which thirty years before was his of right. XLVIII "To him his grateful city owes a debt, The greatest subjects to their lord can owe; Not that he moves her from a marsh, to set Her stones, where Ceres' fruitful treasures grow. Nor that he shall enlarge her bounds, nor yet That he shall fence her walls against the foe; Nor that he theatre and dome repairs, And beautifies her streets and goodly squares; XLIX "Not that he keeps his lordship well defended From the winged lions' claws and fierce attacks; Nor that, when Gallic ravage is extended, And the invader all Italia sacks, His happy state alone is unoffended; Unharassed, and ungalled by toll or tax. Not for these blessings I recount, and more His grateful realm shall Hercules adore; L "So much as that from him shall spring a pair Of brothers, leagued no less by love than blood; Who shall be all that Leda's children were; The just Alphonso, Hippolite the good. And as each twin resigned the vital air His fellow to redeem from Stygian flood, So each of these would gladly spend his breath, And for his brother brave perpetual death. LI "In these two princes' excellent affection, Their happy lieges more assurance feel, Than if their noble town, for its protection, Were girded twice by Vulcan's works of steel. And so Alphonso in his good direction, Justice, with knowledge and with love, shall deal, Astrea shall appear returned from heaven, To this low earth to varying seasons given. LII "Well is it that his wisdom shines as bright As his good sire's, nor is his valour less; Since here usurping Venice arms for fight, And her full troops his scanty numbers press, There she (I know not if more justly hight Mother or stepmother) brings new distress; But, if a mother, scarce to him more mild Than Progue or Medea to her child. LIII "This chief, what time soever he shall go Forth with his faithful crew, by night or day, By water or by land, will shame the foe, With memorable rout and disarray; And this too late Romagna's sons shall know. Led against former friends in bloody fray, Who shall bedew the campaign with their blood, By Santern, Po, and Zaniolus' flood. LIV "This shall the Spaniard know, to his dismay, 'Mid the same bounds, whom papal gold shall gain, Who shall from him Bastia win and slay, With cruel rage, her hapless Castellain, The city taken; but shall dearly pay; His crime, the town retrieved, and victor slain: Since in the rescued city not a groom Is left alive, to bear the news to Rome. LV " 'Tis he, who with his counsel and his lance, Shall win the honours of Romagna's plain, And open to the chivalry of France The victory over Julius, leagued with Spain. Paunch-deep in human blood shall steeds advance In that fierce strife, and struggle through the slain, 'Mid crowded fields, which scarce a grace supply, Where Greek, Italian, Frank, and Spaniard die. LVI "Lo! who in priestly vesture clad, is crowned With purple hat, conferred in hallowed dome! 'Tis he, the wise, the liberal, the renowned Hippolitus, great cardinal of Rome; Whose actions shall in every region sound, Where'er the honoured muse shall find a home: To whose glad era, by indulgent heaven, As to Augustus' is a Maro given. LVII "His deeds adorn his race, as from his car The glorious sun illumes the subject earth More than the silver moon or lesser star; So far all others he transcends in worth. I see this captain, ill bested for war, Go forth afflicted, and return in mirth: Backed by few foot, and fewer cavaliers, He homeward barks, and fifteen gallies steers. LVIII "Two Sigismonds, the first, the second, see; To these Alphonso's five good sons succeed; Whose glories spread o'er seas and land shall be. The first shall wed a maid of France's seed. This is the second Hercules; and he, (That you may know their every name and deed), Hippolitus; who with the light shall shine, Of his wise uncle, gilding all his line. LIX "Francis the third comes next; the other two Alphonsos both; -- but yet again I say, Thy line through all its branches to pursue, Fair virgin, would too long protract thy stay; And Phoebus, many times, to mortal view, Would quench and light again the lamp of day. Then, with thy leave, 'tis time the pageant cease, And I dismiss the shades and hold my peace." LX So with the lady's leave the volume closed, Whose precepts to her will the spirits bent. And they, where Merlin's ancient bones reposed, From the first cavern disappearing, went. Then Bradamant her eager lips unclosed, Since the divine enchantress gave consent; "And who," she cried, "that pair of sorrowing mien, Alphonso and Hippolitus between? LXI "Sighing, those youths advanced amid the show, Their brows with shame and sorrow overcast, With downward look, and gait subdued and slow: I saw the brothers shun them as they passed." Melissa heard the dame with signs of woe, And thus, with streaming eyes, exclaim'd at last: "Ah! luckless youths, with vain illusions fed, Whither by wicked men's bad counsel led! LXII "O, worthy seed of Hercules the good, Let not their guilt beyond thy love prevail; Alas! the wretched pair are of thy blood, So many prevailing pity turn the scale!" And in a sad and softer tone pursued, "I will not further press the painful tale. Chew on fair fancy's food: Nor deem unmeet I will not with a bitter chase the sweet. LXIII "Soon as to-morrow's sun shall gild the skies With his first light, myself the way will show To where the wizard knight Rogero sties; And built with polished steel the ramparts glow: So long as through deep woods thy journey lies, Till, at the sea arrived, I shall bestow Such new instructions for the future way, That thou no more shalt need Melissa's stay." LXIV All night the maid reposes in the cave, And the best part in talk with Merlin spends; While with persuasive voice the wizard grave To her Rogero's honest love commends; Till from the vault goes forth that virgin brave, As through the sky the rising sun ascends, By path, long space obscure on either side, The weird woman still her faithful guide. LXV They gain a hidden glen, which heights inclose, And mountains inaccessible to man: And they all day toil on, without repose, Where precipices frowned and torrents ran. And (what may some diversion interpose) Sweet subjects of discourse together scan, In conference, which best might make appear The rugged road less dismal and severe. LXVI Of these the greater portion served to guide (Such the wise woman's scope) the warlike dame; And teach by what device might be untied Rogero's gyves, if stedfast were her flame. "If thou wert Mars himself, or Pallas," cried The sage Melissa, "though with thee there came More than King Charles or Agramant command, Against the wizard foe thou could'st not stand. LXVII "Besides that it is walled about with steel, And inexpugnable his tower, and high; Besides that his swift horse is taught to wheel, And caracol and gallop in mid sky, He bears a mortal shield of power to seal, As soon as 'tis exposed, the dazzled eye; And so invades each sense, the splendour shed, That he who sees the blaze remains as dead. LXVIII "And lest to shut thine eyes, thou should'st suppose Might serve, contending with the wizard knight; How would'st thou know, when both in combat close, When he strikes home, or when eschews the fight? But to escape the blaze which blinds his foes, And render vain each necromantic sleight, Have here a speedy mean which cannot miss; Nor can the world afford a way but this. LXIX "King Agramant of Africa a ring. Thieved from an Indian queen by subtle guiles, Has to a baron of his following Consigned, who now precedes us by few miles; Brunello he. Who wears the gift shall bring To nought all sorceries and magic wiles. In thefts and cheats Brunello is as well Instructed, as the sage in charm and spell. LXX "Brunello, he so practised and so sly As now I tell thee, by his king is sent, That he with aid of mother wit may try, And of this ring, well proved in like event, To take Rogero from the castle high; So has he boasted, by the wizard pent: And to his lord such promise did impart, Who has Rogero's presence most at heart. LXXI "That his escape to thee alone may owe, Not to the king, the youthful cavalier, How to release Rogero from his foe And his enchanted cage, prepare to hear. Three days along the shingle shalt thou go, Beside the sea, whose waves will soon appear; Thee the third day shall to a hostel bring, Where he shall come who bears the virtuous ring. LXXII "That thou may'st recognise the man, in height Less than six palms, observe one at this inn Of black and curly hair, the dwarfish wight! Beard overgrown about the cheek and chin; With shaggy brow, swoln eyes, and cloudy sight, A nose close flattened, and a sallow skin; To this, that I may make my sketch complete, Succinctly clad, like courier, goes the cheat. LXXIII "Thy conversation with this man shall turn Upon enchantment, spell, and mystic pact; And thou shalt, in thy talk, appear to yearn To prove the wizard's strength, as is the fact. But, lady, let him not thy knowledge learn Of his good ring, which mars all magic act: He shall propose to bring thee as a guide To the tall castle, whither thou would'st ride. LXXIV "Follow him close, and viewing (for a sign), Now near, the fortress of the enchanter hoar; Let no false pity there thy mind incline To stay the execution of my lore. Give him his death; but let him not divine Thy thought, nor grant him respite; for before Thine eyes, concealed by it, the caitiff slips If once he place the ring between his lips." LXXV Discoursing thus, they came upon the sea Where Garonne near fair Bordeaux meets the tide; Here, fellow travellers no more to be, Some natural tears they drop and then divide. Duke Aymon's child, who slumbers not till she Release her knight, holds on till even-tide: 'Twas then the damsel at a hostel rested, Where Sir Brunello was already guested. LXXVI The maid Brunello knows as soon as found (So was his image on her mind impressed), And asks him whence he came, and whither bound; And he replies and lies, as he is pressed. The dame, who is forewarned, and knows her ground, Feigns too as well as he, and lies her best: And changes sex and sect, and name and land, And her quick eye oft glances at his hand; LXXVII Oft glances at his resless hand, in fear That he might undetected make some prize; Nor ever lets the knave approach too near, Well knowing his condition: In this guise The couple stand together, when they hear A sudden sound: but what that sound implies I, sir, shall tell hereafter with its cause; But first shall break my song with fitting pause. CANTO 4 ARGUMENT The old Atlantes suffers fatal wreck, Foiled by the ring, and young Rogero freed, Who soars in air till he appears a speck, Mounted upon the wizard's winged steed. Obediant to the royal Charles's beck, He who had followed Love's imperious lead, Rinaldo, disembarks on British land, And saves Genevra, doomed to stake and brand. I Though an ill mind appear in simulation, And, for the most, such quality offends; 'Tis plain that this in many a situation Is found to further beneficial ends, And save from blame, and danger, and vexation; Since we converse not always with our friends, In this, less clear than clouded, mortal life, Beset with snares, and full of envious strife. II If after painful proof we scarcely find A real friend, through various chances sought, To whom we may communicate our mind, Keeping no watch upon our wandering thought; What should the young Rogero's lady kind Do with Brunello, not sincere, but fraught With treasons manifold, and false and tainted, As by the good enchantress truly painted? III She feigns as well with that deceitful scout; (Fitting with him the father of all lies) Watches his thievish hands in fear and doubt; And follows every motion with her eyes. When lo! a mighty noise is heard without! "O mighty mother! king of heaven!" she cries, "What thing is this I hear?" and quickly springs Towards the place from whence the larum rings, IV And sees the host and all his family, Where, one to door, and one to window slips, With eyes upturned and gazing at the sky, As if to witness comet or eclipse. And there the lady views, with wondering eye, What she had scarce believed from other's lips, A feathered courser, sailing through the rack, Who bore an armed knight upon his back. V Broad were his pinions, and of various hue; Seated between, a knight the saddle pressed, Clad in steel arms, which wide their radiance threw, His wonderous course directed to the west: There dropt among the mountains lost to view. And this was, as that host informed his guest, (And true the tale) a sorcerer, who made Now farther, now more near, his frequent raid. VI "He, sometimes towering, soars into the skies; Then seems, descending, but to skim the ground: And of all beauteous women makes a prize, Who, to their mischief, in these parts are found. Hence, whether in their own or other's eyes, Esteemed as fair, the wretched damsels round, (And all in fact the felon plunders) hine; As fearing of the sun to be descried. VII "A castle on the Pyrenean height The necromancer keeps, the work of spell." (The host relates) "of steel, so fair and bright, All nature cannot match the wonderous shell. There many cavaliers, to prove their might, Have gone, but none returned the tale to tell. So that I doubt, fair sir, the thief enthralls Or slays whoever in the encounter falls." VIII The watchful maid attends to every thing, Glad at her heart, and trusting to complete (What she shall compass by the virtuous ring) The downfall of the enchanter and his seat. Then to the host -- "A guide I pray thee bring, Who better knows than me the thief's retreat. So burns my heart. (nor can I choose but go) To strive in battle with this wizard foe." IX "It shall not need," exclaimed the dwarfish Moor, "For I, myself, will serve you as a guide; Who have the road set down, with other lore, So that you shall rejoice with me to ride." He meant the ring, but further hint forbore; Lest dearly he the avowed should abide. And she to him -- "Your guidance gives me pleasure." Meaning by this she hoped to win his treasure. X What useful was to say, she said, and what Might hurt her with the Saracen, concealed. Well suited to her ends, the host had got A palfrey, fitting for the road or field. She bought the steed, and as Aurora shot Her rosy rays, rode forth with spear and shield: And maid and courier through a valley wind, Brunello now before and now behind. XI From wood to wood, from mount to mountain hoar, They clomb a summit, which in cloudless sky Discovers France and Spain, and either shore. As from a peak of Apennine the eye May Tuscan and Sclavonian sea explore, There, whence we journey to Camaldoli. Then through a rugged path and painful wended, Which thence into a lowly vale descended. XII A rock from that deep valley's centre springs; Bright walls of steel about its summit go: And this as high that airy summit flings, As it leaves all the neighbouring cliffs below. He may not scale the height who has not wings, And vainly would each painful toil bestow. "Lo! where his prisoners!" Sir Brunello cries, "Ladies and cavaliers, the enchanter sties." XIII Scarped smooth upon four parts, the mountain bare Seemed fashioned with the plumb, by builder's skill Nor upon any side was path or stair, Which furnished man the means to climb the hill. The castle seemed the very nest and lair Of animal, supplied with plume and quill. And here the damsel knows 'tis time to slay The wily dwarf, and take the ring away. XIV But deems it foul, with blood of man to stain Unarmed and of so base a sort, her brand; For well, without his death, she may obtain The costly ring; and so suspends her hand. Brunello, off his guard, with little pain, She seized, and strongly bound with girding band: Then to a lofty fir made fast the string; But from his finger first withdrew the ring. XV Neither by tears, nor groans, nor sound of woe, To move the stedfast maid the dwarf had power: She down the rugged hill descended slow, Until she reached the plain beneath the tower. Then gave her bugle breath, the keep below, To call the castled wizard to the stower: And when the sound was finished, threatening cried, And called him to the combat and defied. XVI Not long within his gate the enchanter stayed, After he heard the voice and bugle ring. Against the foe, who seemed a man, arrayed In arms, with him the horse is on the wing. But his appearance well consoled the maid, Who, with small cause for fear, beheld him bring Nor mace, nor rested lance, nor bitting sword, Wherewith the corselet might be bruised or gored. XVII On his left arm alone his shield he took, Covered all o'er with silk of crimson hue; In his right-hand he held an open book, Whence, as the enchanter read, strange wonder grew: For often times, to sight, the lance he shook; And flinching eyelids could not hide the view; With tuck or mace he seemed to smite the foe: But sate aloof and had not struck a blow. XVIII No empty fiction wrought by magic lore, But natural was the steed the wizard pressed; For him a filly to griffin bore; Hight hippogryph. In wings and beak and crest, Formed like his sire, as in the feet before; But like the mare, his dam, in all the rest. Such on Riphaean hills, though rarely found, Are bred, beyond the frozen ocean's bound. XIX Drawn by enchantment from his distant lair, The wizard thought but how to tame the foal; And, in a month, instructed him to bear Saddle and bit, and gallop to the goal; And execute on earth or in mid air, All shifts of manege, course and caracole; He with such labour wrought. This only real, Where all the rest was hollow and ideal. XX This truth by him with fictions was combined, Whose sleight passed red for yellow, black for white: But all his vain enchantments could not blind The maid, whose virtuous ring assured her sight: Yet she her blows discharges at the wind; And spurring here and there prolongs the fight. So drove or wheeled her steed, and smote at nought, And practised all she had before been taught. XXI When she sometime had fought upon her horse, She from the courser on her feet descends: To compass and more freely put in force, As by the enchantress schooled, her wily ends. The wizard, to display his last resource, Unweeting the defence, towards her wends. He bares the shield, secure to blind his foe, And by the magic light, astonished, throw. XXII The shield might have been shown at first, nor he Needed to keep the cavaliers at bay; But that he loved some master-stroke to see, Achieved by lance or sword in single fray. As with the captive mouse, in sportive glee, The wily cat is sometimes seen to play; Till waxing wroth, or weary of her prize, She bites, and at a snap the prisoner dies. XXIII To cat and mouse, in battles fought before, I liken the magician and his foes; But the comparison holds good no more: For, with the ring, the maid against him goes; Firm and attentive still, and watching sore, Lest upon her the wizard should impose: And as she sees him bare the wondrous shield, Closes her eyes and falls upon the field. XXIV Not that the shining metal could offend, As wont those others, from its cover freed; But so the damsel did, to make descend The vain enchanter from his wondrous steed. Nor was in ought defeated of her end; For she no sooner on the grassy mead Had laid her head, than wheeling widely round, The flying courser pitched upon the ground. XXV Already cased again, the shield was hung, By the magician, at his sadle bow. He lights and seeks her, who like wolf among The bushes, couched in thicket, waits the roe; She without more delay from ambush sprung, As he drew near, and grappled fast the foe. That wretched man, the volume by whose aid He all his battles fought, on earth had laid: XXVI And ran to bind her with a chain, which he, Girt round about him for such a purpose, wore; Because he deemed she was no less to be Mastered and bound than those subdued before. Him hath the dame already flung; by me Excused with reason, if he strove not more. For fearful were the odds between that bold And puissant maid, and warrior weak and old! XXVII Intending to behead the fallen foe, She lifts her conquering hand; but in mid space, When she beholds his visage, stops the blow, As if disdaining a revenge so base. She sees in him, her prowess has laid low, A venerable sire, with sorrowing face; Whose hair and wrinkles speak him, to her guess, Of years six score and ten, or little less. XXVIII "Kill me, for love of God!" (afflicted sore, The old enchanter full of wrath did cry). But the victorious damsel was not more Averse to kill, than he was bent to die. To know who was the necromancer hoar The gentle lady had desire, and why The tower he in that savage place designed, Doing such outrage foul to all mankind. XXIX "Nor I, by malice moved, alas! poor wight," (The weeping necromancer answer made,) "Built the fair castle on the rocky height, Nor yet for rapine ply the robber's trade; But only to redeem a gentle knight From danger sore and death, by love was swayed; Who, as the skies foreshow, in little season, Is doomed to die a Christian, and by treason. XXX "The sun beholds not 'twixt the poles, a Child So excellent as him, and passing fair; Who from his infancy, Rogero styled, (Atlantes I) was tutored by my care. By love of fame and evil stars beguiled, He follows into France Troyano's heir. Him, in my eyes, than son esteemed more dear, I seek to snatch from France and peril near. XXXI "I only built the beauteous keep to be Rogero's dungeon, safely harboured there; Who whilom was subdued in fight by me, As I to-day had hoped thyself to snare, And dames and knights, and more of high degree, Have to this tower conveyed, his lot to share, That with such partners of his prison pent, He might the loss of freedom less lament. XXXII "Save they should seek to break their dungeon's bound, I grant my inmates every other pleasure. For whatsoever in the world is found, Search its four quarters, in this keep I treasure; (Whatever heart can wish or tongue can sound) Cates, brave attire, game, sport, or mirthful measure. My field well sown, I well had reaped my grain. But that thy coming makes my labour vain. XXXIII "Ah! then unless thy heart less beauteous be Than thy sweet face, mar not my pious care; Take my steel buckler, this I give to thee, And take that horse, which flies so fast in air, Nor meddle with my castle more; or free One or two captive friends, the rest forbear -- Or (for I crave but this) release them all, So that Rogero but remain my thrall. XXXIV "Or if disposed to take him from my sight, Before the youth be into France conveyed, Be pleased to free my miserable sprite From its now rotted bark, long decayed." "Prate as thou wilt, I shall restore the knight To liberty," replied the martial maid, "Nor offer shield and courser to resign, Which are not in thy gift, -- already mine. XXXV "Nor were they thine to take or to bestow, Would it appear that such exchange were wise; Thou sayest to save him from what stars foreshow, And cheat an evil influence of the skies Rogero is confined. Thou canst not know, Or knowing, canst not change his destinies: For, if unknown an ill so near to thee, Far less mayest thou another's fate foresee. XXXVI "Seek not thy death from me; for the petition Is made in vain; but if for death thou sigh, Though the whole world refused the requisition, A soul resolved would find the means to die. But ope thy gates to give thy guests dismission Before thine hand the knot of life untie." So spake the scornful dame with angry mock, Speeding her captive still towards the rock. XXXVII Round by the conqueror with the chain he bore, Atlantes walked, the damsel following nigh, Who trusted not to the magician hoar, Although he seemed subdued in port and eye. Nor many paces went the pair, before They at the mountain's foot the cleft espy, With steps by which the rugged hill to round; And climb, till to the castle-gate they wound: XXXVIII Atlantes from the threshold, graved by skill, With characters and wondrous signs, upturned A virtuous stone, where, underneath the sill, Pots, with perpetual fire and secret, burned. The enchanter breaks them; and at once the hill To an inhospitable rock is turned. Nor wall nor tower on any side is seen, As if no castle there had ever been. XXXIX Then from the lady's toils the wizard clears His limbs, as thrush escapes the fowler's snare; With him as well his castle disappears, And leaves the prisoned troop in open air; From their gay lodgings, dames and cavaliers, Unhoused upon that desert, bleak and bare. And many at the freedom felt annoy, Which dispossessed them of such life of joy. XL There is Gradasso, there is Sacripant, There is Prasildo, noble cavalier, Who with Rinaldo came from the Levant; Iroldo, too, Prasildo's friend sincere. And there, at last, the lovely Bradamant Discerns Rogero, long desired and dear; Who, when assured it was that lady, flew With joyful cheer to greet the damsel true; XLI As her he prized before his eyes, his heart, His life; from that day cherished when she stood Uncasqued for him, and from the fight apart; And hence an arrow drank her virgin blood. 'Twere long to tell who launched the cruel dart, And how the lovers wandered in the wood; Now guided by the sun, and now benighted, Here first since that encounter reunited. XLII Now that the stripling sees her here, and knows Alone she freed him from the wizard's nest, He deems, his bosom with such joy overflows, That he is singly fortunate and blest. Thither, where late the damsel conquered, goes The band, descending from the mountain's crest; And finds the hippogryph, who bore the shield, But in its case of crimson silk concealed. XLIII To take him by the rein the lady there Approached, and he stood fast till she was nigh, Then spread his pinions to the liquid air, And at short distance lit, half-mountain high: And, as she follows him with fruitless care, Not longer flight nor shorter will he try. 'Tis thus the raven, on some sandy beach, Lures on the dog, and flits beyond his reach. XLIV Gradasso, Sacripant, Rogero, who With all those other knights below were met, Where'er, they hope he may return, pursue The beast, and up and down, each pass beset. He having led those others, as he flew, Often to rocky height, and bottom wet, Among the rocks of the moist valley dropt, And at short distance from Rogero stopt. XLV This was Atlantes the enchanter's deed, Whose pious wishes still directed were, To see Rogero from his peril freed: This was his only thought, his only care; Who for such end dispatched the winged steed, Him out of Europe by this sleight to bear. Rogero took his bridle, but in vain; For he was restive to the guiding rein. XLVI Now the bold youth from his Frontino flings (Frontino was his gentle courser hight) Then leaps on him who towers in air, and stings And goads his haughty heart with rowels bright. He runs a short career; then upward springs. And through mid ether soars a fairer flight Than hawk, from which the falconer plucks away In time the blinding hood, and points her prey. XLVII When her Rogero the fair dame discerned, In fearful peril, soar so high a strain, She stood long space amazed, ere she returned To her right judgement, and sound wits again: And what she erst of Ganymede had learned, Snatched up to heaven from his paternal reign, Feared might befall the stripling, born through air, As gentle as young Ganymede and fair. XLVIII She on Rogero looks with stedfast eyes As long as feeble sight can serve her use; And in her mind next tracks him through the skies, When sight in vain the cherished youth pursues. And still renewing tears, and groans, and sighs, Will not afford her sorrow peace or truce. After the knight had vanished from her view, Her eyes she on the good Frontino threw. XLIX And lest the courser should become the prey Of the first traveller, who passed the glen, Him will not leave; but thence to bear away Resolves, in trust to see his lord again. The griffin soars, nor can Rogero stay The flying courser; while, beneath his ken, Each peak and promontory sinks in guise, That he discerns not flat from mountain-rise. L After the hippogryph has won such height, That he is lessened to a point, he bends His course for where the sun, with sinking light, When he goes round the heavenly crab, descends; And shoots through air, like well-greased bark and light, Which through the sea a wind propitious sends. Him leave we on his way, who well shall speed, And turn we to Rinaldo in his need. LI Day after day the good Rinaldo fares, Forced by the wind, the spacious ocean through; Now westward borne, and now toward the Bears; For night and day the ceaseless tempest blew. Scotland at last her dusky coast uprears, And gives the Caledonian wood to view; Which, through its shadowy groves of ancient oak, Oft echoes to the champion's sturdy stroke. LII Through this roves many a famous cavalier, Renowned for feat in arms, of British strain; And throng from distant land, or country near, French, Norse, of German knights, a numerous train. Let none, save he be valiant, venture here, Where, seeking glory, death may be his gain. Here Arthur, Galahalt, and Gauvaine fought, And well Sir Launcelot and Tristram wrought. LIII And other worthies of the table round; (Of either table, whether old or new) Whose trophies yet remain upon the ground; Proof of their valiant feats, Rinaldo true Forthwith his armour and Bayardo found, And landed on the woody coast: The crew He bade, with all the haste they might, repair To Berwick's neighbouring port, and wait him there. LIV Without a guide or company he went Through that wide forest; choosing now this way, Now that, now other, as it might present Hope of adventurous quest or hard assay: And, ere the first day's circling sun is spent, The peer is guested in an abbey gray: Which spends much wealth in harbouring those who claim Its shelter, warlike knight or wandering dame. LV The monks and abbot to Mount Alban's peer A goodly welcome in their house accord; Who asked, but not before with savoury cheer He amply had his wearied strength restored, If in that tract, by errant cavalier, Often adventurous quest might be explored, In which a man might prove, by dangerous deed, If blame or glory were his fitting meed. LVI They answered, in those woods he might be sure Many and strange adventures would be found; But deeds, there wrought, were, like the place, obscure, And, for the greater part, not bruited round. "Then seek (they said) a worthier quest, secure Your works will not be buried underground. So that the glorious act achieved, as due, Fame may your peril and your pain pursue. LVII "And if you would your warlike worth assay, Prepare the worthiest enterprize to hear, That, e'er in times of old or present day, Was undertaken by a cavalier. Our monarch's daughter needs some friendly stay, Now sore bested, against a puissant peer: Lurcanio is the doughty baron's name, Who would bereave her both of life and fame. LVIII "Her he before her father does pursue, Perchance yet more for hatred than for right; And vouches, to a gallery she updrew A lover, seen by him, at dead of night. Hence death by fire will be the damsel's due, Such is our law, unless some champion fight On her behalf, and, ere a month go by, (Nigh spent) upon the accuser prove the lie. LIX "Our impious Scottish law, severe and dread, Wills, that a woman, whether low or high Her state, who takes a man into her bed, Except her husband, for the offence shall die. Nor is there hope of ransom for her head, Unless to her defence some warrior hie; And as her champion true, with spear and shield, Maintain her guiltless in the listed field. LX "The king, sore grieving for Geneura bright, For such is his unhappy daughter's name, Proclaims by town and city, that the knight Who shall deliver her from death and shame, He to the royal damsel will unite, With dower, well suited to a royal dame; So that the valiant warrior who has stood In her defence, be come of gentle blood. LXI "But if within a month no knight appear, Or coming, conquer not, the damsel dies. A like emrpize were worthier of your spear Than wandering through these woods in lowly guise. Besides, the eternal trophy you shall rear, You by the deed shall gain a glorious prize, The sweetest flower of all the ladies fair That betwixt Ind and Atlas' pillars are. LXII "And you with wealth and state shall guerdoned be, So that you evermore may live content, And the king's grace, if through your means he see His honour raised anew, now well-nigh spent. Besides, you by the laws of chivalry Are bound to venge the damsel foully shent. For she, whose life is by such treason sought, Is chaste and spotless in the common thought." LXIII Rinaldo mused awhile, and then replied, "And must a gentle damsel die by fire, Because she with a lover's wish complied, And quenched within her arms his fond desire? Cursed be the law by which the dame is tried! Cursed he who would permit a doom so dire! Perish (such fate were just!) who cruel proves! Not she that life bestows on him who loves. LXIV "Or true or false Geneura's tale of shame; If she her lover blessed I little heed: For this my praise the lady well might claim, If manifest were not that gentle deed. My every thought is turned to aid the dame. Grant me but one to guide my steps, and lead Quickly to where the foul accuser stands, I trust in God to loose Geneura's bands. LXV "I will not vouch her guiltless in my thought, In fear to warrant what is false; but I Boldly maintain, in such an act is nought For which the damsel should deserve to die; And ween unjust, or else of wit distraught, Who statutes framed of such severity; Which, as iniquitous, should be effaced, And with a new and better code replaced. LXVI "If like desire, and if an equal flame Move one and the other sex, who warmly press To that soft end of love (their goal the same) Which to the witless crowd seems rank excess; Say why shall woman -- merit scathe or blame, Though lovers, one or more, she may caress; While man to sin with whom he will is free, And meets with praise, not mere impunity? LXVII "By this injurious law, unequal still, On woman is inflicted open wrong; And to demonstrate it a grievous ill, I trust in God, which has been borne too long." To good Rinaldo's sentence, with one will, Deeming their sires unjust, assents the throng, Their sires who such outrageous statute penned, And king, who might, but does not, this amend. LXVIII When the new dawn, with streaks of red and white, Broke in the east, and cleared the hemisphere, Rinaldo took his steed and armour bright: A squire that abbey furnished to the peer. With him, for many leagues and miles, the knight Pricked through the dismal forest dark and drear; While they towards the Scottish city ride, Where the poor damsel's cause is to be tried. LXIX Seeking their way to shorten as they wound, They to the wider track a path preferred; When echoing through the gloomy forest round, Loud lamentations nigh the road were heard. Towards a neighbouring vale, whence came the sound, This his Bayardo, that his hackney spurred; And viewed, between two grisly ruffians there, A girl, who seemed at distance passing fair. LXX But woe begone and weeping was the maid As ever damsel dame, or wight was seen: Hard by the barbarous twain prepared the blade, To deluge with that damsel's blood the green. She to delay her death awhile essayed, Until she pity moved with mournful mien. This when Rinaldo near approaching eyes, He thither drives with threats and furious cries. LXXI The ruffians turn their backs and take to flight As soon as they the distant succour view, And squat within a valley out of sight: Nor cares the good Rinaldo to pursue. To her approaching, sues Mount Alban's knight, To say what on her head such evil drew; And, to save time, commands his squire to stoop, And take the damsel on his horse's croup. LXXII And as the lady nearer he surveyed, Her wise behaviour marked and beauty's bloom; Though her fait countenance was all dismayed, And by the fear of death o'erspread with gloom. Again to know, the gentle knight essayed, Who had prepared for her so fell a doom; And she began to tell in humble tone What to another canto I postpone. CANTO 5 ARGUMENT Lurcanio, by a false report abused, Deemed by Geneura's fault his brother dead, Weening the faithless duke, whom she refused, Was taken by the damsel to her bed; And her before the king and peers accused: But to the session Ariodantes led, Strives with his brother in disguise. In season Rinaldo comes to venge the secret treason. I Among all other animals who prey On earth, or who unite in friendly wise, Whether they mix in peace or moody fray, No male offends his mate. In safety hies The she bear, matched with hers, through forest gray: The lioness beside the lion lies: Wolves, male and female, live in loving cheer; Nor gentle heifer dreads the wilful steer. II What Fury, what abominable Pest Such poison in the human heart has shed, That still 'twixt man and wife, with rage possessed, Injurious words and foul reproach are said? And blows and outrage hase their peace molest, And bitter tears still wash the genial bed; Not only watered by the tearful flood, But often bathed by senseless ire with blood? III Not simply a rank sinner, he appears To outrage nature, and his God to dare, Who his foul hand against a woman rears, Or of her head would harm a single hair. But who what drug the burning entrail sears, Or who for her would knife or noose prepare, No man appears to me, though such to sight He seem, but rather some infernal sprite. IV Such, and no other were those ruffians two, Whom good Rinaldo from the damsel scared, Conducted to these valleys out of view, That none might wot of her so foully snared. I ended where the damsel, fair of hue, To tell the occasion of her scathe prepared, To the good Paladin, who brought release; And in conclusion thus my story piece. V "Of direr deed than ever yet was done," The gentle dame began, "Sir cavalier, In Thebes, Mycene, Argos, or upon Other more savage soil, prepare to hear; And I believe, that if the circling sun To these our Scottish shores approach less near Than other land, 'tis that he would eschew A foul ferocious race that shocks his view. VI "All times have shown that man has still pursued With hair, in every clime, his natural foe; But to deal death to those who seek our good Does from too ill and foul a nature flow. Now, that the truth be better understood, I shall from first to last the occasion show, Why in my tender years, against all right, Those caitiffs would have dome me foul despite. VII " 'Tis fitting you should know, that in the spring Of life, I to the palace made resort; There served long time the daughter of the king, And grew with her in growth, well placed in court. When cruel love, my fortune envying, Willed I should be his follower and his sport; And made, beyond each Scottish lord and knight, Albany's duke find favour in my sight. VIII "And for he seemed to cherish me above All mean; his love a love as ardent bred. We hear, indeed, and see, but do not prove Man's faith, nor is his bosom's purpose read. Believing still, and yielding to my love, I ceased not till I took him to my bed; Nor, of all chambers, in that evil hour, Marked I was in Geneura's priviest bower. IX "Where, hoarded, she with careful privacy Preserved whatever she esteemed most rare; There many times she slept. A gallery From thence projected into the open air. Here oft I made my lover climb to me, And (what he was to mount) a hempen stair, When him I to my longing arms would call, From the projecting balcony let fall. X "For here my passion I as often fed As good Geneura's absence made me bold; Who with the varying season changed her bed, To shun the burning heat or pinching cold, And Albany, unseen and safely sped; For, fronting a dismantled street, and old, Was built that portion of the palace bright; Nor any went that way by day or night. XI "So was for many days and months maintained By us, in secrecy, the amorous game; Still grew by love, and such new vigour gained, I in my inmost bosom felt the flame; And that he little loved, and deeply feigned Weened not, so was I blinded to my shame: Though, in a thousand certain signs betrayed, The faithless knight his base deceit bewrayed. XII "After some days, of fair Geneura he A suitor showed himself; I cannot say If this began before he sighed for me, Or, after, of this love he made assay: But judge, alas! with what supremacy He ruled my heart, how absolute his sway! Since this he owned, and thought no shame to move Me to assist him in his second love. XIII "Unlike what he bore me, he said, indeed, That was not true which he for her displayed; But so pretending love, he hoped to speed, And celebrate due spousals with the maid. He with her royal sire might well succeed, Were she consenting to the boon he prayed; For after our good king, for wealth and birth In all the realm, was none of equal worth. XIV "Me he persuades, if through my ministry He the king's son-in-law elected were, For I must know he next the king would be Advanced as high, as subject could repair, The merit should be mine, and ever he So great a benefit in mind would bear; And he would cherish me above his bride, And more than every other dame beside. XV "I, who to please him was entirely bent, Who never could or would gainsay his will, Upon those days alone enjoy content, When I find means his wishes to fulfil: And snatch at all occasions which present A mode, his praise and merits to instil: And for my lover with all labour strain, And industry, Geneura's love to gain. XVI "With all my heart, in furtherance of his suit, I wrought what could be done, God truly knows; But with Geneura this produced no friut, Nor her to grace my duke could I dispose. For that another love had taken root In her, whose every fond affection flows Towards a gentle knight of courteous lore, Who sought our Scotland from a distant shore: XVII "And with a brother, then right young, to stay In our king's court, came out of Italy: And there of knightly arms made such assay, Was none in Britain more approved than he; Prized by the king, who (no ignoble pay), Rewarding him like his nobility, Bestowed upon the youth, with liberal hand, Burghs, baronies, and castles, woods and land. XVIII "Dear to the monarch, to the daughter still This lord was dearer, Ariodantes hight. Her with affection might his valour fill; But knowledge of his love brought more delight. Nor old Vesuvius, nor Sicilia's hill, Nor Troy-town, ever, with a blaze so bright, Flamed, as with all his heart, the damsel learned, For love of her young Ariodantes burned. XIX "The passion which she bore the lord, preferred And loved with perfect truth and all her heart, Was the occassion I was still unheard; Nor hopeful answer would she e'er impart: And still the more my lover's suit I stirred, And to obtain his guerdon strove with art, Him she would censure still, and ever more Was strengthened in the hate she nursed before. XX "My wayward lover often I excite So vain and bootless an emprize to quit; Nor idly hope to turn her stedfast sprite, Too deeply with another passion smit; And make apparent to the Scottish knight, Ariodantes such a flame had lit In the young damsel's breast, that seas in flood Would not have cooled one whit her boiling blood. XXI "This Polinesso many times had heard From me (for such the Scottish baron's name) Well warranted by sight as well as word, How ill his love was cherished by the dame. To see another to himself preferred Not only quenched the haughty warrior's flame, But the fond love, which in his bosom burned Into despiteful rage and hatred turned. XXII "Between Geneura and her faithful knight Such discord and ill will he schemed to shed, And put betwixt the pair such foul despite. No time should heal the quarrel he had bred; Bringing such scandal on that damsel bright, The stain should cleave to her, alive or dead: Nor, bent to wreck her on this fatal shelf, Counselled with me, or other but himself. XXIII " `Dalinda mine,' he said, his project brewed, (Dalinda is my name) `you needs must know, That from the root although the trunk be hewed, Successive suckers many times will grow. Thus my unhappy passion is renewed, Tenacious still of life, and buds; although Cut off by ill success, with new increase: Nor, till I compass my desire, will cease. XXIV " `Nor hope of pleasure this so much has wrought, As that to compass my design would please; And, if not in effect, at least in thought To thrive, would interpose some little ease. Then every time your bower by me is sought, When in her bed Geneura slumbers, seize What she puts off, and be it still your care To dress yourself in all her daily wear. XXV " `Dispose your locks and deck yourself as she Goes decked; and, as you can, with cunning heed, Imitate her; then to the gallery You, furnished with the corded stair, shall speed: I shall ascend it in the phantasy That you are she, of whom you wear the weed: And hope, that putting on myself this cheat, I in short time shall quench my amorous heat.' XXVI "So said the knight; and I, who was distraught, And all beside myself, was not aware That the design, in which he help besought, Was manifestly but too foul a snare; And in Geneura's clothes disguised, as taught, Let down (so oft I used) the corded stair. Nor I the traitor's foul deceit perceived, Until the deadly mischief was achieved. XXVII "The duke, this while, to Ariodantes' ears Had these, or other words like these, addressed; (For leagued in friendship were the cavaliers, Till, rivals, they pursued this common quest) "I marvel, since you are of all my peers He, whom I must have honoured and caressed, And held in high regard, and cherished still, You should my benefits repay so ill. XXVIII " `I am assured you comprehend and know Mine and Geneura's love, and old accord; And, in legitimate espousal, how I am about to claim her from my lord: Then why disturb my suit, and why bestow Your heart on her who offers no reward? By Heaven, I should respect your claim and place, Were your condition mine, and mine your case.' XXIX " `And I,' cried Ariodantes, `marvel more' (In answer to the Scottish lord) `at you, Since I of her enamoured was, before That gentle damsel ever met your view; And know, you are assured how evermore We two have loved; -- was never love more true -- Are certain she alone would share my lot; And are as well assured she loves you not. XXX " `Why have not I from you the same respect, To which, for friendship past, you would pretend From me; and I should bear you in effect, If your hope stood more fair to gain its end? No less than you, to wed her I expect; And if your fortunes here my wealth transcend, As favoured of the king, as you, above You, am I happy in his daughter's love.' XXXI " `Of what a strange mistake,' (to him replied The duke) `your foolish passion is the root! You think yourself beloved; I, on my side, Believe the same; this try we by the fruit. You of your own proceeding nothing hide, And I will tell the secrets of my suit: And let the man who proves least favoured, yield, Provide himself elsewhere, and quit the field. XXXII " `I am prepared, if such your wish, to swear Nothing of what is told me to reveal; And will that you assure me, for your share, You shall what I recount as well conceal.' Uniting in the pact, the rival pair Their solemn vows upon the Bible seal: And when they had the mutual promise plighted, Ariodantes first his tale recited. XXXIII "Then plainly, and by simple facts averred, How with Geneura stood his suit, avows; And how, engaged by writing and by word, She swore she would not be another's spouse. How, if to him the Scottish king demurred, Virgin austerity she ever vows; And other bridal bond for aye eschewed, To pass her days in barren solitude. XXXIV "Then added, how he hoped by worth, which he Had more than once avouched, with knightly brand, And yet might vouch, to the prosperity And honour of the king, and of his land, To please so well that monarch, as to be By him accounted worthy of the hand Of his fair child, espoused with his consent: Since he in this her wishes would content. XXXV "Then so concludes -- `I stand upon this ground, Nor I intruder fear, encroaching nigh; Nor seek I more; 'tis here my hopes I bound; Nor, striving for Geneura's love, would I Seek surer sign of it than what is found, By God allowed, in wedlock's lawful tie; And other suit were hopeless, am I sure, So excellent she is, and passing pure.' XXXVI "When Ariodantes had, with honest mind, Told what reward he hoped should quit his pain, False Polinesso, who before designed To make Geneura hateful to her swain, Began -- `Alas! you yet are far behind My hopes, and shall confess your own are vain; And say, as I the root shall manifest Of my good fortune, I alone am blest. XXXVII " `With you Geneura feigns, nor pays nor prizes Your passion, which with hopes and words is fed; And, more than this, your foolish love despises: And this to me the damsel oft has said, Of hers I am assured; of no surmises, Vain, worthless words, or idle promise bred. And I to you the fact in trust reveal, Though this I should in better faith conceal. XXXVIII " `There passes not a month, but in that space Three nights, four, six, and often ten, the fair Receives me with that joy in her embrace, Which seems to second so the warmth we share. This you may witness, and shall judge the case; If empty hopes can with my bliss compare. Then since my happier fortune is above Your wishes, yield, and seek another love.' XXXIX " `This will I not believe,' in answer cried Ariodantes, `well assured you lie, And that you have this string of falsehoods tied, To scare me from the dear emprize I try. But charge, so passing foul, you shall abide, And vouch what you have said in arms; for I Not only on your tale place no reliance; But as a traitor hurl you my defiance.' XL "To him rejoined the duke, 'I ween 'twere ill To take the battle upon either part, Since surer mean our purpose may fulfill; And if it please, my proof I can impart.' Ariodantes trembled, and a chill Went through his inmost bones; and sick at heart, Had he in full believed his rival's boast, Would on the spot have yielded up the ghost. XLI "With wounded heart, and faltering voice, pale face, And mouth of gall, he answered, 'When I see Proofs of thy rare adventure, and the grace With which the fair Geneura honours thee, I promise to forego the fruitless chase Of one, to thee so kind, so cold to me. But think not that thy story shall avail, Unless my very eyes confirm the tale.' XLII " `To warn in due time shall be my care.' (Said Polinesso) and so went his way. Two nights were scarecly passed, ere his repair To the known bower was fixed for the assay. And, ready now to spring his secret snare, He sought his rival on the appointed day, And him to hide, the night ensuing, prayed I' the street, which none their habitation made. XLIII "And to the youth a station over-right The balcony, to which he clambered, shows. Ariodantes weened, this while, the knight Would him to seek that hidden place dispose, As one well suited to his fell despite, And, bent to take his life, this ambush chose, Under the false pretence to make him see What seemed a sheer impossibility. XLIV "To go the peer resolved, but in such guise, He should not be with vantage overlaid; And should he be assaulted by surprise, He need not be by fear of death dismay'd. He had a noble brother, bold and wise, First of the court in arms; and on his aid, Lurcanio hight, relied with better heart Than if ten others fought upon his part. XLV "He called him to his side, and willed him take His arms; and to the place at evening led: Yet not his secret purpose would be break; Nor this to him, or other would have read: Him a stone's throw removed he placed, and spake: ` -- Come if thou hearest he cry,' the warrior said; `But as thou lovest me (whatsoe'er befall) Come not and move not, brother, till I call.' XLVI " `Doubt not' (the valiant brother said) `but go'; And thither went that baron silently, And hid within the lonely house, and low, Over against my secret gallery. On the other side approached the fraudful foe, So pleased to work Geneura's infamy; And, while I nothing of the cheat divine, Beneath my bower renews the wonted sign. XLVII "And I in costly robe, in which were set Fair stripes of gold upon a snowy ground, My tresses gathered in a golden net, Shaded with tassels of vermillion round, Mimicking fashions, which were only met In fair Geneura, at the accustomed sound, The gallery mount, constructed in such mode, As upon every side my person showed. XLVIII "This while Lurcanio, either with a view To snares which might beset his brother's feet, Or with the common passion to pursue, And play the spy on other, where the street Was darkest, and its deepest shadows threw, Followed him softly to his dim retreat: And not ten paces from the knight aloof, Bestowed himself beneath the self same roof. XLIX "Suspecting nought, I seek the balcony, In the same habits which I mentioned, dressed; As more than once or twice (still happily) I did before; meanwhile the goodly vest Was in the moonlight clearly seen, and I, In aspect not unlike her, in the rest Resembling much Geneura's shape and cheer, One visage well another might appear. L "So much the more, that there was ample space Between the palace and the ruined row: Hence the two brothers, posted in that place, Were lightly cheated by the lying show. Now put yourself in his unhappy case, And figure what the wretched lover's woe, When Polinesso climbed the stair, which I Cast down to him, and scaled the gallery. LI "Arrived, my arms about his neck I throw, Weening that we unseen of others meet, And kiss his lips and face with loving show, As him I hitherto was wont to greet; And he assayed, with more than wonted glow, Me to caress, to mask his hollow cheat. Led to the shameful spectacle, aghast, That other, from afar, viewed all that passed, LII "And fell into such fit of deep despair, He there resolved to die; and, to that end, Planted the pommel of his falchion bare I' the ground, its point against his breast to bend. Lurcanio, who with marvel by that stair, Saw Polinesso to my bower ascend, But knew not who the wight, with ready speed Sprang forward, when he saw his brother's deed. LIII "And hindered him in that fell agony From turning his own hand against his breast. Had the good youth been later, or less nigh, To his assistance he had vainly pressed. Then, `Wretched brother, what insanity.' (He cried) `your better sense has dispossessed? Die for a woman! rather let her kind Be scattered like the mist before the wind! LIV " `Compass her death! 'tis well deserved; your own Reserve, as due to more illustrious fate. 'Twas well to love, before her fraud was shown, But she, once loved, now more deserves your hate: Since, witnessed by your eyes, to you is known A wanton of what sort you worshipped late. Her fault before the Scottish king to attest, Reserve those arms you turn against your breast.' LV "Ariodantes, so surprised, forewent, Joined by his brother, the design in show; But resolute to die, in his intent Was little shaken: Rising thence to go, He bears away a heart not simply rent, But dead and withered with excess of woe: Yet better comfort to Lurcanio feigns, As if the rage were spent which fired his veins. LVI "The morn ensuing, without further say To his good brother, or to man beside, He from the city took his reckless way With deadly desperation for his guide; Nor, save the duke and knight, for many a day Was there who knew what moved the youth to ride: And in the palace, touching this event, And in the realm, was various sentiment. LVII "But eight days past or more, to Scotland's court A traveller came, and to Geneura he Related tidings of disastrous sort; That Ariodantes perished in the sea: Drowned of his own free will was the report, No wind to blame for the calamity! Since from a rock, which over ocean hung, Into the raging waves he headlong sprung; LVIII " `Who said, before he reached that frowning crest, To me, whom he encountered by the way, Come with me, that your tongue may manifest, And what betides me to Geneura say; And tell her, too, the occasion of the rest, Which you shall witness without more delay; In having seen too much, the occasion lies; Happy had I been born without these eyes!" LIX " `By chance, upon a promontory we Were standing, overright the Irish shore; When, speaking thus on that high headland, he Plunged from a rock amid the watery roar. I saw him leap, and left him in the sea; And, hurrying thence, to you the tidings bore.' Geneura stood amazed, her colour fled, And, at the fearful tale, remained half dead. LX "O God! what said, what did she, when alone, She on her faithful pillow layed her head! She beat her bosom, and she tore her gown, And in despite her golden tresses shed; Repeating often, in bewildered tone, The last sad words which Ariodantes said; -- That the sole source of such despair, and such Disaster, was that he had seen too much. LXI "Wide was the rumour scattered that the peer Had slain himself for grief; nor was the cry By courtly dame, or courtly cavalier, Or by the monarch, heard with tearless eye. But, above all the rest, his brother dear Was whelmed with sorrow of so deep a dye, That, bent to follow him, he well nigh turned His hand against himself, like him he mourned. LXII "And many times repeating in his thought, It was Geneura who his brother slew, Who was to self-destruction moved by nought But her ill deed, which he was doomed to view, So on his mind the thirst of vengeance wrought, And so his grief his season overthrew; That he thought little, graced of each estate, To encounter king and people's common hate; LXIII "And, when the throng was fullest in the hall, Stood up before the Scottish king, and said, `Of having marred my brother's wits withal, Sir king, and him to his destruction led, Your daughter only can I guilty call: For in his inmost soul such sorrow bred The having seen her little chastity, He loathed existence, and preferred to die. LXIV " `He was her lover; and for his intent Was honest, this I seek not, I, to veil; And to deserve her by his valour meant Of thee, if faithful service might avail; But while he stood aloof, and dared but scent The blossoms, he beheld another scale, Scale the forbidden tree with happier boot, And bear away from him the wished-for fruit.' LXV "Then added, how into the gallery came Geneura, and how dropped the corded stair; And how into the chamber of the dame Had climbed a leman of that lady fair; Who, for disguise (he knew not hence his name), Had changed his habits, and concealed his hair; And, in conclusion, vowed that every word So said, he would avouch with lance and sword. LXVI "You may divine how grieves the sire, distraught With woe, when he the accusation hears: As well that what he never could have thought, He of his daughter learns with wondering ears, As that he knows, if succour be not brought By cavalier, that in her cause appears, Who may upon Lurcanio prove the lie, He cannot choose, but doom the maid to die. LXVII "I do not think our Scottish law to you Is yet unknown, which sentences to fire The miserable dame, or damsel, who Grants other than her wedded lord's desire. She dies, unless a champion, good and true, Arm on her side before a month expire; And her against the accuser base maintain Unmeriting such death, and free from stain. LXVIII "The king has made proclaim by town and tower, (For he believes her wronged, his child to free) Her he shall have to wife, with ample dower, Who saves the royal maid from infamy. But each to the other looks, and to this hour No champion yet, 'tis said, appears: for he, Lurcanio, is esteemed so fierce in fight, It seems as he were feared of every knight. "And evil Fate has willed her brother dear, Zerbino, is not here the foe to face; Since many months has roved the cavalier, Proving his matchless worth with spear and mace; For if the valiant champion were more near, (Such is his courage) or in any place, Whither in time the news might be conveyed, He would not fail to bear his sister aid. LXX "The king, mean time, who would the quest pursue, And by more certain proof than combat, try If the accuser's tale be false or true, And she deserve, or merit not, to die, Arrests some ladies of her retinue, That, as he weens, the fact can verify. Whence I foresaw, that if I taken were, Too certain risque the duke and I must share. LXXI "That very night I from the palace flee, And to the duke repair, escaped from court; And, were I taken, make him plainly see How much it either's safety would import: He praised, and bade me of good courage be, And, for his comfort, prayed me to resort To a strong castle which he held hard by; And gave me two to bear me company. LXXII "With what full proofs, sir stranger, you have heard, I of my love assured the Scottish peer; And clearly can discern, if so preferred, That lord was justly bound to hold me dear. Mark, in conclusion, what was my reward; The glorious meed of my great merit hear! And say if woman can expect to earn, However well she love, her love's return. LXXIII "For this perfidious, foul, ungrateful man, At length suspicious of my faith and zeal, And apprehending that his wily plan, In course of time, I haply might reveal, Feigned that meanwhile the monarch's anger ran Too high, he would withdraw me, and conceal Within a fortress of his own, where I (Such was his real end) was doomed to die. LXXIV "For secretly the duke enjoined the guide, Who with me through the gloomy forest went, The worthy guerdon of a faith so tried, To slay me; and had compassed his intent, But for your ready succour, when I cried. Behold! what wages love's poor slaves content." Thus to Rinaldo did Dalinda say, As they together still pursued their way. LXXV Above all other fortune, to the knight Was welcome to have found the gentle maid, Who the whole story of Geneura bright, And her unblemished innocence displayed; And, if he hoped, although accused with right, To furnish the afflicted damsel aid, Persuaded of the calumny's disproof, He with more courage warred in her behoof. LXXVI And for St. Andrew's town, with eager speed, Where was the king with all his family, And where the single fight, in listed mead, Upon his daughter's quarrel, was to be, The good Rinaldo pricked, nor spared his steed, Until, within an easy distance, he Now near the city, met a squire who brought More recent tidings than the damsel taught: LXXVII That thither had repaired a stranger knight, To combat in Geneura's quarrel bent, With ensigns strange, not known of living wight, Since ever close concealed the warrior went; Not, since he had been there, had bared to sight His visage, aye within his helmet pent: And that the very squire who with him came, Swore that he knew not what the stranger's name. LXXVIII Not far they ride before the walls appear, And now before the gate their coursers stand. To advance the sad Dalinda was in fear, Yet followed, trusting in Rinaldo's brand. The gate was shut, and to the porter near, What this implies Rinaldo makes demand: To him was said, the people, one and all, Were trooped to see a fight without the wall: LXXIX Beyond the city, fought upon accord, Between Lurcanio and a stranger knight; Where, on a spacious meadow's level sward, The pair already had begun the fight. The porter opened to Mount Alban's lord, And straight behind the peer the portal hight. Rinaldo through the empty city rode, But in a hostel first the dame bestowed: LXXX And will that she (he will not long delay To seek her there) till his return repose; And quickly to the lists pursued his way, Where the two made that fell exchange of blows, And strove and struggled yet in bloody fray. Lurcanio's heart with vengeful hatred glows Against Geneura; while that other knight As well maintains the quarrel for her right. LXXXI Six knights on foot within the palisade Stand covered with the corslet's iron case; Beneath the Duke of Albany arrayed, Borne on a puissant steed of noble race: Who there, as lord high-constable obeyed, Was keeper of the field and of the place, And joyed Geneura's peril to espy With swelling bosom and exulting eye. LXXXII Rinaldo pierces through the parted swarm, (So wide is felt the good Bayardo's sway,) And he who hears the courser come in storm, Halts not, in his desire to make him way: Above is seen Rinaldo's lofty form, The flower of those who mix in martial fray. He stops his horse before the monarch's chair, While all to hear the paladin repair. LXXXIII "Dread sir," to him the good Rinaldo said, "Let not the pair this combat longer ply; Since whichsoever of the two falls dead, Know, that you let him perish wrongfully: This thinks that he is right, and is misled, Vouches the false, and knows not 'tis a lie: Since that which brought his brother to his end, Moves him in causeless battle contend. LXXXIV "That, in pure gentleness, with little care If what he here maintains be wrong or right, Because he would preserve a maid so fair, Perils his person in the furious fight. To injured innocence I safety bear, And to the evil man its opposite. But first, for love of God, the battle stay; Then list, sir king, to what I shall display." LXXXV So moved the king the grave authority Of one who seemed so worthy, by his cheer, That he made sign the battle should not be Further continued then with sword or spear: To whom, together with his chivalry, And barons of the realm and others near Rinaldo all the treacherous plot displayed, Which Polinesso for Geneura layed. LXXXVI Next that he there in arms would testify The truth of what he vouched, the warrior cried. False Polinesso, called, with troubled eye, Stood forth, but daringly the tale denied. To him the good Rinaldo in reply; "By deeds be now the doubtful quarrel tried." The field was cleared, and, ready armed, the foes, Without more let, in deadly duel close. LXXXVII How was the hope to king and people dear, The proof might show Geneura innocent! All trust that God will make the treason clear, And show she was accused with foul intent: For Polinesso, greedy and severe, And proud was held, and false and fraudulent. So that none there, of all assembled, deemed It marvel, if the knight such fraud had schemed. LXXXVIII False Polinesso, with a mien distressed, A pallid cheek, and heart which thickly beat, At the third trumpet, laid his lance in rest; As well Rinaldo spurred the knight to meet, And levelled at his evil foeman's breast, Eager to finish at a single heat. Nor counter to his wish was the event; Since through the warrior half his weapon went. LXXXIX Him, through his breast, impaled upon the spear, More than six yards beyond his horse he bore. With speed alighted Mount Albano's peer, And, ere he rose, unlaced the helm he wore: But he for mercy prayed with humble cheer, Unfit to strive in joust or warfare more: And, before king and court, with faltering breath, Confessed the fraud which brought him to his death. XC He brings not his confession to a close, And pangs of death the failing accents drown: The prince, who ended saw his daughter's woes, Redeemed from death and scorn, her virtue shown, With more delight and rapture overflows, Than if he, having lost his kingly crown, Then saw it first upon his head replaced; So that he good Rinaldo singly graced. XCI And when, through his uplifted casque displaid, Features, well known before, the king descried, His thanks to God with lifted hands he paid, That he had deigned such succour to provide. That other cavalier, who bared his blade, Unknown of all, upon Geneura's side, And thither came from far, his aid to impart, Looked upon all that passed, and stood apart. XCII Him the good king entreated to declare His name, or, at the least, his visage shew; That he might grace him with such guerdon fair, As to his good intent was justly due. The stranger, after long and earnest prayer, Lifted to covering casque, and bared to view What in the ensuing canto will appear, If you are fain the history to hear. CANTO 6 ARGUMENT Ariodantes has, a worthy meed, With his loved bride, the fief of Albany. Meantime Rogero, on the flying steed, Arrives in false Alcina's empery: There from a myrtle-tree her every deed, A human myrtle hears, and treachery, And thence would go; but they who first withdrew Him from one strife, engage him in a new. I Wretched that evil man who lives in trust His secret sin is safe in his possession! Since, if nought else, the air, the very dust In which the crime is buried, makes confession, And oftentimes his guilt compels the unjust, Though sometime unarraigned in worldly session, To be his own accuser, and bewray, So God has willed, deeds hidden from the day. II The unhappy Polinesso hopes had nursed, Wholly his secret treason to conceal. By taking off Dalinda, who was versed In this, and only could the fact reveal; And adding thus a second to his first Offence, but hurried on the dread appeal, Which haply he had stunned, at least deferred; But he to self-destruction blindly spurred. III And forfeited estate, and life, and love Of friends at once, and honour, which was more. The cavalier unknown, I said above, Long of the king and court entreated sore, At length the covering helmet did remove, And showed a visage often seen before, The cherished face of Ariodantes true, Of late lamented weeping Scotland through; IV Ariodantes, whom with tearful eye His brother and Geneura wept as dead, And king, and people, and nobility: Such light his goodness and his valour shed. The pilgrim therefore might appear to lie In what he of the missing warrior said. Yet was it true that from a headland, he Had seen him plunge into the foaming sea. V But, as it oft befalls despairing wight, Who grisly Death desires till he appear; But loathes what he had sought, on nearer sight; So painful seems the cruel pass and drear. Thus, in the sea engulphed, the wretched knight, Repentant of his deed, was touched with fear; And, matchless both for spirit and for hand, Beat back the billows, and returned to land. VI And, now despising, as of folly bred, The fond desire which did to death impell, Thence, soaked and dripping wet, his way did tread, And halted at a hermit's humble cell: And housed within the holy father's shed, There secretly awhile designed to dwell; Till to his ears by rumour should be voiced, If his Geneura sorrowed or rejoiced. VII At first he heard that, through excess of woe, The miserable damsel well-nigh died: For so abroad the doleful tidings go, 'Twas talked of in the island, far and wide: Far other proof than that deceitful show, Which to his cruel grief he thought he spied! And next against the fair Geneura heard Lurcanio to her sire his charge preferred: VIII Nor for his brother felt less enmity Than was the love he lately bore the maid; For he too foul, and full of cruelty, Esteemed the deed, although for him essayed; And, hearing after, in her jeopardy, That none appeared to lend the damsel aid, Because so puissant was Lurcanio's might, All dreaded an encounter with the knight, IX And that who well the youthful champion knew, Believed he was so wary and discreet, That, had what he related been untrue, He never would have risqued so rash a feat, -- For this the greater part the fight eschew, Fearing in wrongful cause the knight to meet -- Ariodantes (long his doubts are weighed) Will meet his brother in Geneura's aid. X "Alas! (he said) I cannot bear to see Thus by my cause the royal damsel die; My death too bitter and too dread would be, Did I, before my own, her death descry; For still my lady, my divinity She is; -- the light and comfort of my eye. Her, right or wrong, I cannot choose but shield, And for her safety perish in the field. XI "I know I choose the wrong, and be it so! And in the cause shall die: nor this would move; But that, alas! my death, as well I know, Will such a lovely dame's destruction prove, To death I with one only comfort go, That, if her Polinesso bears her love, To her will manifestly be displayed, That hitherto he moves not in her aid. XII "And me, so wronged by her, the maid shall view Encounter death in her defence; and he, My brother, who such flames of discord blew, Shall pay the debt of vengeance due to me. For well I ween to make Lurcanio rue (Informed of the event) his cruelty, Who will have thought to venge me with his brand, And will have slain me with his very hand." XIII He, having this concluded in his thought, Made new provision of arms, steed, and shield; Black was the vest and buckler which he bought, Where green and yellow striped the sable field: By hazard found, with him a squire he brought, A stranger in that country; and, concealed (As is already told) the unhappy knight, Against his brother came, prepared for fight. XV And yielding to his natural inclination, And at the suit of all his court beside, And mostly at Rinaldo's instigation, Assigned the youth the damsel as his bride. Albany's duchy, now in sequestration, Late Polinesso's, who in duel died, Could not be forfeited in happier hour; Since this the monarch made his daughter's dower. XVI Rinaldo for Dalinda mercy won; Who from her fault's due punishment went free. She, satiate of the world, (and this to shun, The damsel so had vowed) to God will flee: And hence, in Denmark's land, to live a nun, Straight from her native Scotland sailed the sea. But it is time Rogero to pursue, Who on his courser posts the welkin through. XVII Although Rogero is of constant mind, Not from his cheek the wonted hues depart. I ween that faster than a leaf i' the wind Fluttered within his breast the stripling's heart. All Europe's region he had left behind In his swift course; and, issuing in that part, Passed by a mighty space, the southern sound Where great Alcides fixed the sailor's bound. XVIII That hippogryph, huge fowl, and strange to sight, Bears off the warrior with such rapid wing, He would have distanced, in his airy flight, The thunder bearing bird of Aether's king: Nor other living creature soars such height, Him in his mighty swiftness equalling. I scarce believe that bolt, or lightning flies, Or darts more swiftly from the parted skies. XIX When the huge bird his pinions long had plied, In a straight line, without one stoop or bend, He, tired of air, with sweeping wheel and wide, Began upon an island to descend; Like that fair region, whither, long unspied Of him, her wayward mood did long offend, Whilom in vain, through strange and secret sluice, Passed under sea the Virgin Arethuse. XX A more delightful place, wherever hurled Through the whole air, Rogero had not found: And, had he ranged the universal world, Would not have seen a lovelier in his round, Than that, where, wheeling wide, the courser furled His spreading wings, and lighted on the ground, 'Mid cultivated plain, delicious hill, Moist meadow, shady bank, and crystal rill. XXI Small thickets, with the scented laurel gay, Cedar, and orange, full of fruit and flower, Myrtle and palm, with interwoven spray, Pleached in mixed modes, all lovely, form a bower; And, breaking with their shade the scorching ray, Make a cool shelter from the noontide hour. And nightingales among those branches wing Their flight, and safely amorous descants sing. XXII Amid red roses and white lilies there, Which the soft breezes freshen as they fly, Secure the cony haunts, and timid hare, And stag, with branching forehead broad and high. These, fearless of the hunter's dart or snare, Feed at their ease, or ruminating lie: While, swarming in those wilds, from tuft or steep Dun deer or nimble goat, disporting, leap. XXIII When the hyppogryph above the island hung, And had approached so nigh that landscape fair, That, if his rider from the saddle sprung, He might the leap with little danger dare, Rogero lit the grass and flowers among, But held him, lest he should remount the air: And to a myrtle, nigh the rolling brine, Made fast, between a bay-tree and a pine. XXIV And there, close-by where rose a bubbling fount, Begirt the fertile palm and cedar-tree, He drops the shield, the helmet from his front Uplifts, and, either hand from gauntlet free, Now turning to the beach, and now the mount, Catches the gales which blow from hill or sea, And, with a joyous murmur, lightly stir The lofty top of beech, or feathery fir: XXV And, now, to bathe his burning lips he strains; Now dabbles in the crystal wave, to chase The scorching heat which rages in his veins, Caught from the heavy corslet's burning case. Nor is it marvel if the burden pains; No ramble his in square or market-place! Three thousand miles, without repose, he went, And still, at speed, in ponderous armour pent. XXVI Meanwhile the courser by the myrtle's side, Whom he left stabled in the cool retreat, Started at something in the wood descried, Scared by I know not what; and in his heat So made the myrtle shake where he was tied, He brought a shower of leaves about his feet; He made the myrtle shake and foliage fall, But, struggling, could not loose himself withal. XXVII As in a stick to feed the chimney rent, Where scanty pith ill fills the narrow sheath, The vapour, in its little channel pent, Struggles, tormented by the fire beneath; And, till its prisoned fury find a vent, Is heard to hiss and bubble, sing and seethe: So the offended myrtle inly pined, Groaned, murmured, and at last unclosed its rind: XXVIII And hence a clear, intelligible speech Thus issued, with a melancholy sound; "If, as thy cheer and gentle presence teach, Thou courteous art and good, his reign unbound, Release me from this monster, I beseech: Griefs of my own inflict sufficient wound: Nor need I, compassed with such ills about, Other new pain to plague me from without." XXIX At the first sound, Rogero turns to see Whence came the voice, and, in unused surprise, Stands, when he finds it issues from the tree; And swiftly to remove the courser hies. Then, with a face suffused with crimson, he In answer to the groaning myrtle, cries; "Pardon! and, whatsoe'er thou art, be good, Spirit of man, or goddess of the wood! XXX "Unweeting of the wonderous prodigy Of spirit, pent beneath the knotty rind, To your fair leaf and living body I Have done this scathe and outrage undesigned. But not the less for that, to me reply, What art thou, who, in rugged case confined, Dost live and speak? And so may never hail From angry heaven your gentle boughs assail! XXXI "And if I now or ever the despite I did thee can repair, or aid impart, I, by that lady dear, my promise plight, Who in her keeping has my better part, To strive with word and deed, till thou requite The service done with praise and grateful heart." Rogero said; and, as he closed his suit, That gentle myrtle shook from top to root. XXXII Next drops were seen to stand upon the bark, As juice is sweated by the sapling-spray, New-severed, when it yields to flame and spark, Sometime in vain kept back and held at bay. And next the voice began: "My story dark, Forced by thy courteous deed, I shall display; -- What once I was -- by whom, through magic lore, Changed to a myrtle on the pleasant shore. XXXIII "A peer of France, Astolpho was my name, Whilom a paladin, sore feared in fight; Cousin I was to two of boundless fame, Orlando and Rinaldo. I by right Looked to all England's crown; my lawful claim After my royal father, Otho hight. More dames than one my beauty served to warm, And in conclusion wrought my single harm. XXXIV "Returning from those isles, whose eastern side The billows of the Indian ocean beat, Where good Rinaldo and more knights beside With me were pent in dark and hollow seat, Thence, rescued by illustrious Brava's pride, Whose prowess freed us from that dark retreat, Westward I fared along the sandy shores, On which the stormy north his fury pours. XXXV "Pursuing thus our rugged journey, we Came (such our evil doom) upon the strand, Where stood a mansion seated by the sea: Puissant Alcina owned the house and land. We found her, where, without her dwelling, she Had taken on the beach her lonely stand; And though nor hook nor sweeping net she bore, What fish she willed, at pleasure drew to shore. XXXVI "Thither swift dolphins gambol, inly stirred, And open-mouthed the cumbrous tunnies leap; Thither the seal or porpus' wallowing herd Troop at her bidding, roused from lazy sleep; Raven-fish, salmon, salpouth, at her word, And mullet hurry through the briny deep, With monstrous backs above the water, sail Ork, physeter, sea-serpent, shark, and whale. XXXVII "There we behold a mighty whale, of size The hugest yet in any water seen: More than eleven paces, to our eyes, His back appears above the surface green: And (for still firm and motionless he lies, And such the distance his two ends between) We all are cheated by the floating pile, And idly take the monster for an isle. XXXVIII "Alcina made the ready fish obey By simple words and by mere magic lore: Born with Morgana -- but I cannot say If at one birth, or after or before. As soon as seen, my aspect pleased the fay; Who showed it in the countenance she wore: Then wrought with art, and compassed her intent, To part me from the friends with whom I went. XXXIX "She came towards us with a cheerful face, With graceful gestures, and a courteous air, And said: 'So you my lodging please to grace, Sir cavalier, and will with me repair, You shall behold the wonders of my chace, And note the different sorts of fish I snare; Shaggy or smooth, or clad in scales of light, And more in number than the stars of night: XL " 'And would you hear a mermaid sing so sweet, That the rude sea grows civil at her song, Wont at this hour her music to repeat, (With that she showed the monster huge and long -- I said it seemed an island -- as her seat) Pass with me where she sings the shoals among.' I, that was always wilful, at her wish, I now lament my rashness, climb the fish. XLI "To Dudon and Rinaldo's signal blind, I go, who warn me to misdoubt the fay. With laughing face Alcina mounts behind, Leaving the other two beside the bay. The obedient fish performs the task assigned, And through the yielding water works his way. Repentant of my deed, I curse the snare, Too far from land my folly to repair. XLII "To aid me swam Mount Alban's cavalier, And was nigh drowned amid the waves that rise; For a south-wind sprang up that, far and near, Covered with sudden darkness seas and skies. I know not after what befel the peer: This while Alcina to console me tries, And all that day, and night which followed, me Detained upon that monster in mid-sea, XLIII "Till to this isle we drifted with the morn, Of which Alcina keeps a mighty share; By that usurper from a sister torn, Who was her father's universal heir: For that she only was in wedlock born, And for those other two false sisters were (So well-instructed in the story, said One who rehearsed the tale) in incest bred. XLIV "As these are practised in iniquity, And full of every vice and evil art; So she, who ever lives in chastity, Wisely on better things has set her heart. Hence, leagued against her, in conspiracy, Those others are, to drive her from her part: And more than once their armies have o'errun Her realm, and towns above a hundred won. XLV "Nor at this hour a single span of ground Would Logistilla (such her name) command, But that a mountain here, and there a sound, Protects the remnant from the invading band. 'Tis thus the mountain and the river bound England, and part it from the Scottish land. Yet will the sisters give their foe no rest, Till of her scanty remnant dispossest. XLVI "Because in wickedness and vice were bred The pair, as chaste and good they loath the dame. But, to return to what I lately said, And to relate how I a plant became; Me, full of love, the kind Alcina fed With full delights; nor I a weaker flame For her, within my burning heart did bear, Beholding her so courteous and so fair. XLVII "Clasped in her dainty limbs, and lapt in pleasure, I weened that I each separate good had won, Which to mankind is dealt in different measure, Little or more to some, and much to none. I evermore contemplated my treasure, Nor France nor aught beside I thought upon: In her my every fancy, every hope Centered and ended as their common scope. XLVIII "By her I was as much beloved, or more; Nor did Alcina now for other care; She left her every lover; for before, Others, in truth, the fairy's love did share: I was her close adviser evermore; And served by her, where they commanded were. With me she counselled, and to me referred; Nor, night nor day, to other spake a word. XLIX "Why touch my wounds, to aggravate my ill, And that, alas! without the hope of cure? Why thus the good possessed remember still, Amid the cruel penance I endure? When kindest I believed Alcina's will, And fondly deemed my happiness secure, From me the heart she gave, the fay withdrew, And yielded all her soul to love more new. L "Late I discerned her light and fickle bent, Still loving and unloving at a heat: Two months, I reigned not more, no sooner spent, Than a new paramour assumed my seat; And me, with scorn, she doomed to banishment, From her fair grace cast out. 'Tis then I weet I share a thousand lovers' fate, whom she Had to like pass reduced, all wrongfully. LI "And these, because they should not scatter bruits, Roaming the world, of her lascivious ways, She, up and down the fruitful soil, transmutes To olive, palm, or cedar, firs or bays. These, as you see me changed, Alcina roots; While this transformed into a monster strays; Another melts into a liquid rill; As suits that haughty fairy's wanton will. LII "Thou, too, that to this fatal isle art led By way unwonted and till now unknown, That some possessor of the fairy's bed, May be for thee transformed to wave or stone, Thou shalt, with more than mortal pleasures fed, Have from Alcina seigniory and throne; But shalt be sure to join the common flock, Transformed to beast or fountain, plant or rock. LIII "I willingly to thee this truth impart, Not that I hope with profit to advise: Yet 'twill be better, that informed, in part, Of her false ways, she harm not by surprise. Perhaps, as faces differ, and in art And wit of man an equal difference lies, Thou may'st some remedy perchance apply To the ill, which thousand others could not fly." LIV The good Rogero, who from Fame had learned That he was cousin to the dame he wooed, Lamented much the sad Astolpho, turned From his true form, to barren plant and rude: And for her love, for whom so sore he burned, Would gladly serve the stripling if he cou'd: But, witless how to give the wished relief, Might but console the unhappy warrior's grief. LV As best he could, he strove to soothe his pain; Then asked him, if to Logistil's retreat Were passage, whether over hill or plain; That he might so eschew Alcina's seat. -- `There was a way', the myrtle said again, -- `But rough with stones, and rugged to the feet -- If he, some little further to the right, Would scale the Alpine mountain's very height: LVI `But that he must not think he shall pursue The intended journey far; since by the way He will encounter with a frequent crew, And fierce, who serve as rampart to the fay, That block the road against the stranger, who Would break her bounds, and the deserter stay.' Rogero thanked the tree for all, and taught, Departed thence with full instructions fraught. LVII The courser from the myrtle he untied, And by the bridle led behind him still; Nor would he, as before, the horse bestride, Lest he should bear him off against his will: He mused this while how safely he might find A passage to the land of Logistil; Firm in his purpose every nerve to strain, Lest empire over him Alcina gain. LVIII He to remount the steed, and through the air To spur him to a new career again Now thought; but doubted next, in fear to fare Worse on the courser, restive to the rein. "No, I will win by force the mountain stair," Rogero said; (but the resolve was vain) Nor by the beach two miles his way pursued, Ere he Alcina's lovely city viewed. LIX A lofty wall at distance meets his eye Which girds a spacious town within its bound; It seems as if its summit touched the sky, And all appears like gold from top to ground. Here some one says it is but alchemy -- And haply his opinion is unsound -- And haply he more wittily divines: For me, I deem it gold because it shines. LX When he was nigh the city-walls, so bright, The world has not their equal, he the straight And spacious way deserts, the way which dight Across the plain, conducted to the gate; And by that safer road upon the right, Strains now against the mountain; but, in wait, Encounters soon the crowd of evil foes, Who furiously the Child's advance oppose. LXI Was never yet beheld a stranger band, Of mien more hideous, or more monstrous shape. Formed downwards from neck like men, he scanned Some with the head of cat, and some of ape; With hoof of goat that other stamped the sand; While some seemed centaurs, quick in fight and rape; Naked, or mantled in outlandish skin. These doting sires, those striplings bold in sin. LXII This gallops on a horse without a bit; This backs the sluggish ass, or bullock slow; These mounted on the croup of centaur sit: Those perched on eagle, crane, or estridge, go. Some male, some female, some hermaphrodit, These drain the cup and those the bungle blow. One bore a corded ladder, one a book; One a dull file, or bar of iron shook. LXIII The captain of this crew, which blocked the road, Appeared, with monstrous paunch and bloated face; Who a slow tortoise for a horse bestrode, That passing sluggishly with him did pace: Down looked, some here, some there, sustained the load, For he was drunk, and kept him in his place. Some wipe his brows and chin from sweat which ran, And others with their vests his visage fan. LXIV One, with a human shape and feet, his crest, Fashioned like hound, in neck and ears and head, Bayed at the gallant Child with angry quest, To turn him to the city whence he fled. "That will I never, while of strength possessed To brandish this," the good Rogero said: With that his trenchant faulchion he displayed, And pointed at him full the naked blade. LXV That monster would have smote him with a spear, But swiftly at his foe Rogero sprung, Thrust at his paunch, and drove his faulchion sheer Through his pierced back a palm; his buckler flung Before him, and next sallied there and here: But all too numerous was the wicked throng. Now grappled from behind, now punched before, He stands, and plies the crowd with warfare sore. LXVI One to the teeth, another to the breast, Of that foul race he cleft; since no one steeled In mail, his brows with covering helmet dressed, Or fought, secured by corslet or by shield; Yet is he so upon all quarters pressed, That it would need the Child, to clear the field, And to keep off the wicked crew which swarms, More than Briareus' hundred hands and arms. LXVII If he had thought the magic shield to show, (I speak of that the necromancer bore, Which dazed the sight of the astonished foe, Left at his saddle by the wizard Moor) That hideous band, in sudden overthrow, Blinded by this, had sunk the knight before. But haply he despised such mean as vile, And would prevail by valour, not by guile. LXVIII This as it may: the Child would meet his fate, Ere by so vile a band be prisoner led; When, lo! forth issuing from the city's gate, Whose wall appeared like shining gold I said, Two youthful dames, not born in low estate, If measured by their mien and garb, nor bred By swain, in early wants and troubles versed; But amid princely joys in palace nursed! LXIX On unicorn was seated either fair, A beast than spotless ermine yet more white; So lovely were the damsels, and so rare Their garb, and with such graceful fashion dight, That he who closely viewed the youthful pair, Would need a surer sense than mortal sight, To judge between the two. With such a mien Embodied Grace and Beauty would be seen. LXX Into the mead rode this and the other dame, Where the foul crew opposed the Child's retreat. The rabble scattered as the ladies came, Who with extended hand the warrior greet. He, with a kindling visage, red with shame, Thanked the two damsels for their gentle feat; And was content upon their will to wait, With them returning to that golden gate. LXXI Above, a cornice round the gateway goes, Somedeal projecting from the colonnade, In which is not a single part but glows, With rarest gems of India overlaid. Propp'd at four points, the portal did repose On columns of one solid diamond made. Whether what met the eye was false or true, Was never sight more fair or glad to view. LXXII Upon the sill and through the columns there, Ran young and wanton girls, in frolic sport; Who haply yet would have appeared more fair, Had they observed a woman's fitting port. All are arrayed in green, and garlands wear Of the fresh leaf. Him these in courteous sort, With many proffers and fair mien entice, And welcome to this opening Paradise: LXXIII For so with reason I this place may call, Where, it is my belief, that Love had birth; Where life is spent in festive game and ball, And still the passing moments fleet in mirth. Here hoary-headed Thought ne'er comes at all, Nor finds a place in any bosom. Dearth, Nor yet Discomfort, never enter here, Where Plenty fills her horn throughout the year. LXXIV Here, where with jovial and unclouded brow, Glad April seems to wear a constant smile, Troop boys and damsels: One, whose fountains flow, On the green margin sings in dulcet style; Others, the hill or tufted tree below, In dance, or no mean sport the hours beguile. While this, who shuns the revellers' noisy cheer, Tells his love sorrows in his comrade's ear. LXXV Above the laurel and pine-tree's height, Through the tall beech and shaggy fir-tree's spray, Sport little loves, with desultory flight: These, at their conquests made, rejoiced and gay: These, with the well-directed shaft, take sight At hearts, and those spread nets to catch their prey; One wets his arrows in the brook which winds, And one on whirling stone the weapon grinds. LXXVI To good Rogero here was brought a steed, Puissant and nimble, all of sorel hue; Who was caparisoned with costly weed, Broidered with gold, and jewels bright to view. That other winged horse, which, at his need, Obedient to the Moorish wizard flew, The friendly damsels to a youth consigned, Who led him at a slower pace behind. LXXVII That kindly pair who, by the wicked band Offended fate, had saved the youthful knight; The wicked crew, that did the Child withstand, When he the road had taken on his right, Exclaimed, "Fair sir, your works already scanned By us, who are instructed of your might, Embolden us, in our behalf, to pray You will the prowess of your arm assay. LXXVIII "We soon shall reach a bottom which divides The plain into two parts: A cruel dame A bridge maintains, which there a stream bestrides, Eriphila the savage beldam's name; Who cheats, and robs, and scathes, whoever rides To the other shore, a giantess in frame; Who has long poisonous teeth her prey to tear, And scratches with her talons like a bear. LXXIX "Besides that she infests the public way, Which else were free; she often ranging through All this fair garden, puts in disarray This thing or that. Of the assassin crew, That people who without the portal gay, Lately with brutal rage assaulted you, Many her sons, the whole her followers call, As greedy and inhospitable all." LXXX "For you not only her I would assail, But do a hundred battles, well content: Then of my person, where it may avail, Dispose (Rogero said) to you intent. Silver and land to conquer, plate or mail I swear not, I, in warlike cuirass pent; But to afford my aid to others due; And, most of all, to beauteous dames like you." LXXXI Their grateful thanks the ladies, worthily Bestowed on such a valiant champion, paid: They talking thus the bridge and river see, And at her post the haughty dame arraid (Sapphire and emerald decked the panoply) In arms of gold: but I awhile delay Till other strain the issue of the fray. CANTO 7 ARGUMENT Rogero, as directed by the pair, The giantess Eriphila o'erthrows. That done, he to Alcina's labyrinth, where More than one knight is tied and prisoned, goes. To him Melissa sage the secret snare, And remedy for that grave evil shows. Whence he, by her advised, with downcast eye, And full of shame forthwith resolves to fly. I The traveller, he, whom sea or mountain sunder From his own country, sees things strange and new; That the misjudging vulgar, which lies under The mist of ignorance, esteems untrue: Rejecting whatsoever is a wonder, Unless 'tis palpable and plain to view: Hence inexperience, as I know full well, Will yield small credence to the tale I tell. II But this be great or small, I know not why The rabble's silly judgement I should fear, Convinced you will not think the tale a lie, In whom the light of reason shines so clear. And hence to you it is I only try The fruit of my fatigues to render dear. I ended where Eriphila in guard Of bridge and stream was seen, the passage barred. III Of finest metal was her armour bright, With gems of many colours overspread, The tawny jacinth, yellow chyrsolite, The emerald green of hue, and ruby red. Mounted, but not on palfrey, for the fight: In place of that, she on a wolf had sped, Sped on a wolf towards the pass; and rode On sell, that rich beyond all custom showed. IV No larger wolf, I ween, Apulia roams; More huge than bull, unguided by her hand; Although upon no bit the monster foams, Docile, I know not why, to her command. The accursed Plague, arrayed in surcoat, comes Above her arms, in colour like the sand; That, saving in its dye, was of the sort Which bishops and which prelates wear at court. V The giantess's crest and shield appear, For ensign, decked with swoln and poisonous toad. Her the two damsels to the cavalier Before the bridge, prepared for battle, showed, Threatening, as wont to some, with levelled spear, To do the warrior scorn and bar the road. Bidding him turn, she to Rogero cries; A lance he takes, and threats her and defies. VI As quick and daring, the gigantic Pest Spurred her wolf, seated well for that dread game: In mid career she laid her lance in rest, And made earth quake beneath her as she came; Yet at the encounter fierce the champaign pressed; For underneath the casque, with stedfast aim, So hard Rogero smote her, that he bore The beldam backward six good yards and more: VII And came already with his lifted blade, Drawn for that end, to take her haughty head; To him an easy task; for she was laid Among the grass and flowers, like one that's dead. But, " 'Tis enough that she is vanquished," said The pair, "No further press thy vengeance dread. Sheathe, courteous cavalier, thy sword anew: Pass we the river, and our way pursue." VIII Along the path, which through a forest lay, Roughish and somedeal ill to beat, they went. Besides that strait and stony was the way, This, nigh directly, scaled a hill's ascent. But, when arrived upon the summit, they Issued upon a mead of vast extent; And a more pleasant palace on that green Beheld, and brighter than was ever seen. IX To meet the Child, Alcina, fair of hue, Advanced some way beyond the outer gate; And, girded by a gay and courtly crew, Rogero there received in lordly state: While all the rest to him such honour do, And on the knight with such deep reverence wait, They could not have displayed more zeal and love, Had Jove descended from the choirs above. X Not so much does the palace, fair to see, In riches other princely domes excel, As that the gentlest, fairest, company Which the whole world contains, within it dwell: Of either sex, with small variety Between, in youth and beauty matched as well: The fay alone exceeds the rest as far As the bright sun outshines each lesser star. XI Her shape is of such perfect symmetry, As best to feign the industrious painter knows, With long and knotted tresses; to the eye Not yellow gold with brighter lustre glows. Upon her tender cheek the mingled dye Is scattered, of the lily and the rose. Like ivory smooth, the forehead gay and round Fills up the space, and forms a fitting bound. XII Two black and slender arches rise above Two clear black eyes, say suns of radiant light, Which ever softly beam and slowly move; Round these appears to sport in frolic flight, Hence scattering all his shafts, the little Love, And seems to plunder hearts in open sight. Thence, through mid visage, does the nose descend, Where Envy finds not blemish to amend. XIII As if between two vales, which softly curl, The mouth with vermeil tint is seen to glow: Within are strung two rows of orient pearl, Which her delicious lips shut up or show. Of force to melt the heart of any churl, However rude, hence courteous accents flow: And here that gentle smile receives its birth, Which opes at will a paradise on earth. XIV Like milk the bosom, and the neck of snow; Round is the neck, and full and large the breast; Where, fresh and firm, two ivory apples grow, Which rise and fall, as, to the margin pressed By pleasant breeze, the billows come and go. Not prying Argus could discern the rest. Yet might the observing eye of things concealed Conjecture safely, from the charms revealed. XV To all her arms a just proportion bear, And a white hand is oftentimes descried, Which narrow is, and somedeal long; and where No knot appears, nor vein is signified. For finish of that stately shape and rare, A foot, neat, short, and round, beneath is spied. Angelic visions, creatures of the sky, Concealed beneath no covering veil can lie. XVI A springe is planted in Rogero's way, On all sides did she speak, smile, sing, or move; No wonder then the stripling was her prey, Who in the fairy saw such show of love. With him the guilt and falsehood little weigh, Of which the offended myrtle told above. Nor will he think that perfidy and guile Can be united with so sweet a smile. XVII No! he could now believe, by magic art, Astolpho well transformed upon the plain, For punishment of foul ungrateful heart, And haply meriting severer pain. And, as for all he heard him late impart, 'Twas prompted by revenge, 'twas false and vain. By hate and malice was the sufferer stung, To blame and wound the fay with slanderous tongue. XVIII The beauteous lady whom he loved so well Is newly banished from his altered breast; For (such the magic of Alcina's spell) She every ancient passion dispossessed; And in his bosom, there alone to dwell, The image of her love, and self impressed. So witched, Rogero sure some grace deserves, If from his faith his frail affection swerves. XIX At board lyre, lute and harp of tuneful string, And other sounds, in mixed diversity, Made, round about, the joyous palace ring, With glorious concert and sweet harmony. Nor lacked there well-accorded voice to sing Of love, its passion and its ecstasy; Nor who, with rare inventions, choicely versed, Delightful fiction to the guests rehearsed. XX What table, spread by whatsoever heir Of Ninus, though triumphant were the board, Or what more famous and more costly, where Cleopatra feasted with the Latian lord, Could with this banquet's matchless joys compare, By the fond fairy for Rogero stored? I think not such a feast is spread above, Where Ganymede presents the cup to Jove. XXI They form a ring, the board and festive cheer Removed, and sitting, play a merry game: Each asks, still whispering in a neighbour's ear, What secret pleases best; to knight and dame A fair occasion, without let or fear, Their love, unheard of any, to proclaim. And in conclusion the two lovers plight Their word, to meet together on that night. XXII Soon, and much sooner than their wont, was ended The game at which the palace inmates play: When pages on the troop with torches tended, And with their radiance chased the night away. To seek his bed the paladin ascended, Girt with that goodly squadron, in a gay And airy bower, appointed for his rest, Mid all the others chosen as the best. XXIII And when of comfits and of cordial wine A fitting proffer has been made anew, The guests their bodies reverently incline, And to their bowers depart the courtly crew. He upon perfumed sheets, whose texture fine Seemed of Arachne's loom, his body threw: Hearkening this while with still attentive ears, If he the coming of the lady hears. XXIV At every movement heard on distant floor, Hoping 'twas her, Rogero raised his head: He thinks he hears; but it is heard no more, Then sighs at his mistake: ofttimes from bed He issued, and undid his chamber door, And peeped abroad, but still no better sped; And cursed a thousand times the hour that she So long retarded his felicity. XXV "Yes, now she comes," the stripling often said, And reckoned up the paces, as he lay, Which from her bower where haply to be made To that where he was waiting for the fay. These thoughts, and other thoughts as vain, he weighed Before she came, and restless at her stay, Often believed some hinderance, yet unscanned, Might interpose between the fruit and hand. XXVI At length, when dropping sweets the costly fay Had put some end to her perfumery, The time now come she need no more delay, Since all was hushed within the palace, she Stole from her bower alone, through secret way, And passed towards the chamber silently, Where on his couch the youthful cavalier Lay, with a heart long torn by Hope and Fear. XXVII When the successor of Astolpho spies Those smiling stars above him, at the sight A flame, like that of kindled sulphur, flies Through his full veins, as ravished by delight Out of himself; and now up to the eyes Plunged in a sea of bliss, he swims outright. He leaps from bed and folds her to his breast, Nor waits until the lady he undressed; XXVIII Though but in a light sendal clad, that she Wore in the place of farthingale or gown; Which o'er a shift of finest quality, And white, about her limbs the fay had thrown: The mantle yielded at his touch, as he Embraced her, and that veil remained alone, Which upon every side the damsel shows, More than clear glass the lily or the rose. XXIX The plant no closer does the ivy clip, With whose green boughs its stem is interlaced. Than those fond lovers, each from either's lip The balmy breath collecting, he embraced: Rich perfume this, whose like no seed or slip Bears in sweet Indian or Sabacan waste; While so to speak their joys is either fixed, That oftentimes those meeting lips are mixed. XXX These things were carried closely by the dame And youth, or if surmised, were never bruited; For silence seldom was a cause for blame, But oftener as a virtue well reputed. By those shrewd courtiers, conscious of his claim, Rogero is with proffers fair saluted: Worshipped of all those inmates, who fulfil In this the enamoured far, Alcina's will. XXXI No pleasure is omitted there; since they Alike are prisoners in Love's magic hall. They change their raiment twice or thrice a day, Now for this use, and now at other call. 'Tis often feast, and always holiday; 'Tis wrestling, tourney, pageant, bath, and ball. Now underneath a hill by fountain cast, They read the amorous lays of ages past: XXXII Now by glad hill, or through the shady dale, They hunt the fearful hare, and now they flush With busy dog, sagacious of the trail, Wild pheasant from the stubble-field or bush. Now where green junipers perfume the gale, Suspend the snare, or lime the fluttering thrush: And casting now for fish, with net or book, Disturb their secret haunts in pleasant brook. XXXIII Rogero revels there, in like delight, While Charles and Agramant are troubled sore. But not for him their story will I slight, Nor Bradamant forget: who evermore, Mid toilsome pain and care, her cherished knight, Ravished from her, did many a day deplore; Whom by unwonted ways, transported through Mid air, the damsel saw, nor whither knew. XXXIV Of her I speak before the royal pair, Who many days pursued her search in vain; By shadowy wood, or over champaign bare, By farm and city, and by hill and plain; But seeks her cherished friend with fruitless care, Divided by such space of land and main: Often she goes among the Paynim spears, Yet never aught of her Rogero hears. XXXV Of hundreds questioned, upon every side, Each day, no answer ever gives content. She roams from post to post, and far and wide Searches pavilion, lodging, booth, or rent, And this, mid foot or horsemen, unespied, May safely do, without impediment, Thanks to the ring, whose more than mortal aid, When in her mouth, conceals the vanished maid. XXXVI She cannot, will not, think that he is dead; Because the wreck of such a noble knight Would, from Hydaspes' distant waves have spread, To where the sun descends with westering light. She knows not what to think, nor whither sped, He roams in earth or air; yet, hapless wight, Him ever seeks, and for attendant train Has sobs and sighs, and every bitter pain. XXXVII At length to find the wondrous cave she thought, Where the prophetic homes of Merlin lie, And there lament herself until she wrought Upon the pitying marble to reply; For thence, if yet he lived would she be taught, Of this glad life to hard necessity Had yielded up; and, when she was possessed Of the seer's councils, would pursue the best. XXXVIII With this intention, Bradamant her way Directed thither, where in Poictier's wood The vocal tomb, containing Merlin's clay, Concealed in Alpine place and savage, stood. But that enchantress sage, who night and day Thought of the damsel, watchful for her good, She, I repeat, who taught her what should be In that fair grotto her posterity; XXXIX She who preserved her with protecting care, That same enchantress, still benign and wise, Who, knowing she a matchless race should bear Of men, or rather semi-deities, Spies daily what her thoughts and actions are, And lots for her each day, divining, tries; -- She all Rogero's fortune knew, how freed; Then borne to India by the griffin steed: XL Him on that courser plainly she had eyed, Who would not the controlling rein obey; When, severed by such interval, he hied, Borne through the perilous, unwonted way: And knew that he sport, dance, and banquet plied, And lapt in idleness and pleasure lay; Nor memory of his lord nor of the dame, Once loved so well, preserved, not of his fame. XLI And thus such gentle knight ingloriously Would have consumed his fairest years and best, In long inaction, afterwards to be, Body and soul, destroyed; and that, possessed Alone by us in perpetuity. That flower, whose sweets outlive the fragile rest Which quickens man when he in earth is laid, Would have been plucked or severed in the blade. XLII But that enchantress kind, who with more care Than for himself he watched, still kept the knight, Designed to drag him, by rough road and bare, Towards true virtue, in his own despite; As often cunning leech will burn and pare The flesh, and poisonous drug employ aright: Who, though at first his cruel art offend, Is thanked, since he preserves us in the end. XLIII She, not like old Atlantes, rendered blind By the great love she to the stripling bore, Set not on gifting him with life her mind, As was the scope of that enchanter hoar; Who, reckless all of fame and praise declined, Wished length of days to his Rogero more Than that, to win a world's applause, the peer Should of his joyous life forego one year. XLIV By him he to Alcina's isle had been Dispatched, that in her palace he might dwell, Forgetting arms; and, as enchanter seen In magic and the use of every spell, The heart had fastened of that fairy-queen, Enamoured of the gentle youth, so well, That she the knot would never disengage, Though he should live to more than Nestor's age. XLV Returning now to her that well foreknew Whatever was to come to pass, I say She thither did her journey straight pursue, Where she met Aymon's daughter by the way Forlorn and wandering: Bradamant at view Of her enchantress, erst to grief a prey, Changes it all to hope: the other tells That with Alcina her Rogero dwells. XLVI Nigh dead the maid remains, in piteous guise, Hearing of him so far removed, and more Grieves that she danger to her love descries, Save this some strong and speedy cure restore. But her the enchantress comforts, and applies A salve where it was needed most, and swore That few short days should pass before anew Rogero should return to glad her view. XLVII "Since thou, an antidote to sorcery, Lady (she said), the virtuous ring dost wear, I have no doubt if to yon island I This, where thine every good is hidden, hear, To foil Alcina's wiles and witchery, And thence to bring thee back thy cherished care. This evening, early, will I hence away, And be in India by the break of day." XLVIII And told to her, the tale continuing, The mode which she was purposing to employ, From that effeminate, soft realm to bring Back into warlike France the cherished boy. Bradamant from her finger slipt the ring, Nor this alone would have bestowed with joy; But heart and life would at her feet have laid, If she had deemed they could Rogero aid. XLIX Giving the ring, her cause she recommends To her, and recommends Rogero more. Countless salutes by her the damsel sends, Then of Provence, departing seeks the shore. The enchantress to another quarter wends; And, for the execution of her lore, Conjures, that eve, a palfrey, by her art, With one foot red, black every other part. L Some Farfarello, or Alchino he, I think, whom in that form she raised from hell; And with loose hair, dishevelled horribly, Ungirt and barefoot, mounted in the sell. But, with wise caution, from her finger she Withdrew the ring, lest it should mar the spell: And then by him was with such swiftness born, She in Alcina's isle arrived at morn. LI Herself she changed with wonderful disguise, Adding a palm of stature to her height; And made her limbs of a proportioned size; And of the very measure seemed to sight, As was she deemed, the necromancer wise, Who with such care had reared the youthful knight. With long-descending beard she clothed her chin, And wrinkled o'er her front and other skin. LII To imitate his speech, and face, and cheer, She knew so well, that, by the youth descried, She might the sage Atlantes' self appear; Next hid, and watched so long, that she espied Upon a day (rare chance) the cavalier At length detached from his Alcina's side: For still, in motion or at rest, the fay Ill bore the youth should be an hour away. LIII Alone she finds him, fitting well her will, As he enjoys the pure and morning air Beside a brook, which trickled from a hill, Streaming towards a limpid lake and fair. His fine, soft garments, wove with cunning skill, All over, ease and wantonness declare; These with her hand, such subtle toil well taught, For him in silk and gold Alcina wrought. LIV About the stripling's neck, a splendid string Of gems, descending to mid-breast, is wound; On each once manly arm, now glittering With the bright hoop, a bracelet fair is bound. Pierced with golden wire, in form of ring, Is either ear; and from the yellow round Depend two precious pearls; not such the coast Of Araby or sumptuous India boast. LV Crisped into comely ringlets was his hair, Wet with the costliest odours and the best; And soft and amorous all his gestures were, Like one who does Valentian lady's hest. In him, beside his name, was nothing fair, And more than half corrupted all the rest. So was Rogero found, within that dell, Changed from his former self by potent spell. LVI Him in the figure of Atlantes sage She fronts, who bore the enchanter's borrowed cheer; With that grave face, and reverend with age, Which he was always wonted to revere; And with that eye, which in his pupillage, Beaming with wrath, he whilom so did fear. And sternly cries, "Is this the fruit at last Which pays my tedious pain and labour past? LVII "The marrow of the lion and the bear Didst thou for this thine early banquet make, And, trained by me, by cliff or cavern-lair, Strangle with infant hands the crested snake; Their claws from tiger and from panther tear, And tusks from living boar in tangled brake, That, bred in such a school, in thee should I Alcina's Atys or Adonis spy? LVIII "Is this the hope that stars, observed by me, Signs in conjunction, sacred fibres, bred; With what beside of dream or augury, And all those lots I but too deeply read, Which, while yet hanging at the breast, of thee, When these thy years should be accomplished, said, Thy fears should so be bruited far and near, Thou justly should be deemed without a peer? LIX "This does, in truth, a fair beginning show; A seed which, we may hope, will soon conceive A Julius, Alexander, Scipio. Who thee Alcina's bondsman could believe; And (for the world the shameful fact might know) That all should, manifest to sight, perceive Upon thy neck and arms the servile chains, Wherewith she at her will her captive trains? LX "If thine own single honour move not thee, And the high deeds which thou art called to do, Wherefore defraud thy fair posterity Of what, was oft predicted, should ensue? Alas! why seal the womb God willed should be Pregnant by thee with an illustrious crew, That far renowned, and more than human line, Destined the sun in glory to outshine? LXI "Forbid not of the noblest souls the birth, Formed in the ideas of Eternal Mind, Destined, from age to age, to visit earth, Sprung from thy stock, and clothed in corporal rind; The spring of thousand palms and festal mirth, Through which, to Italy with losses pined And wounds, thy good descendants shall restore The fame and honours she enjoyed of yore. LXII "Not only should these many souls have weight To bend thy purpose, holy souls, and bright, Which from thy fruitful tree shall vegetate; But, though alone, a single couple might Suffice a nobler feeling to create, Alphonso and his brother Hyppolite: Whose like was seldom witnessed to this time, Through all the paths whence men to virtue climb. LXIII "I was more wont to dwell upon this pair Than all the rest, of whom I prophesied; As well that these a greater part should bear In lofty virtues, as that I descried Thee, listening to my lore with closer care, Than to the tale of all thy seed beside. I saw thee joy that such a pair would shine Amid the heroes of thy noble line. LXIV "Say, what has she, thou makest thy fancy's queen, More than what other courtezans possess? Who of so many concubine has been; How used her lovers in the end to bless, Thou truly know'st: but that she may be seen Without disguise, and in her real dress, This ring, returning, on thy finger wear, And thou shalt see the dame, and mark how fair." LXV Abashed and mute, Rogero, listening, In vain to her reproof an answer sought: Who on his little finger put the ring, Whose virtue to himself the warrior brought. And such remorse and shame within him spring, When on his altered sense the change is wrought, A thousand fathoms deep he fain would lie Buried in earth, unseen of any eye. LXVI So speaking, to the natural shape she wore Before his eyes returned the magic dame; Nor old Atlantes' form was needed more, The good effect obtained for which she came. To tell you that which was not told before, Melissa was the sage enchantress' name: Who to Rogero now her purpose said, And told with what design she thither sped: LXVII Dispatched by her, who him in anxious pain Desires, nor longer can without him be, With the intent to loose him from the chain Wherewith he was begirt by sorcery; And had put on, more credence to obtain, Atlantes de Carena's form; but she, Seeing his health restored, now willed the youth, Through her should hear and see the very truth. LXVIII "That gentle lady who so loves thee, who Were well deserving love upon thy part; To whom (unless forgot, thou know'st how true The tale) thou debtor for thy freedom art, This ring, which can each magic spell undo, Sends for thy succour, and would send her heart, If with such virtue fraught, her heart could bring Thee safely in thy perils, like the ring." LXIX How Bradamant had loved, and loves, she says, Continuing to Rogero her relation; To this, her worth commends with fitting praise, Tempering in truth and fondness her narration; And still employs the choicest mode and phrase, Which fits one skilful in negociation, And on the false Alcina brings such hate, As on things horrible is wont to wait; LXX Brings hate on that which he so loved before; Nor let the tale astonish which you hear, For since his love was forced by magic lore, The ring the false enchantment served to clear. This too unmasked the charms Alcina wore, And made all false, from head to food, appear. None of her own, but borrowed, all he sees, And the once sparkling cup now drugged with lees. LXXI Like boy who somewhere his ripe fruit bestows, And next forgets the place where it is laid, Then, after many days, conducted goes By chance, where he the rich deposit made, And wonders that the hidden treasure shows, Not what it is, but rotten and decayed; And hates, and scorns, and loathes, with altered eyes, And throws away what he was used to prize. LXXII Rogero thus, when by Melissa's lore Advised, he to behold the fay returned, And that good ring of sovereign virtue wore, Which, on the finger placed, all spells o'erturned; For that fair damsel he had left before, To his surprise, so foul a dame discerned, That in this ample world, examined round, A hag so old and hideous is not found. LXXIII Pale, lean, and wrinkled was the face, and white, And thinly clothed with hair Alcina's head; Her stature reached not to six palms in height, And every tooth was gone; for she had led A longer life than ever mortal wight, Than Hecuba or she in Cuma bred; But thus by practice, to our age unknown, Appeared with youth and beauty not her own. LXXIV By art she gave herself the lovely look, Which had on many like Rogero wrought; But now the ring interpreted the book, Which secrets, hid for many ages, taught. No wonder then that he the dame forsook, And banished from his mind all further thought Of love for false Alcina, found in guise Which no new means of slippery fraud supplies. LXXV But, as Melissa counselled him, he wore His wonted semblance for a time, till he Was with his armour, many days before Laid by, again accoutred cap-a-pee. And, lest Alcina should his end explore, Feigned to make proof of his agility; Feigned to make proof if for his arms he were Too gross, long time unwont the mail to bear. LXXVI Next Balisarda to his flank he tied (For so Rogero's trenchant sword was hight), And took the wondrous buckler, which, espied, Not only dazzled the beholder's sight, But seemed, when its silk veil was drawn aside, As from the body if exhaled the sprite: In its close cover of red sendal hung, This at his neck the youthful warrior slung. LXXVII Provided thus, he to the stables came, And bade with bridle and with saddle dight A horse more black than pitch; for so the dame Counselled, well-taught how swift the steed and light. Him Rabicano those who know him name, And he the courser was, that with the knight, Who stands beside the sea, the breeze's sport, The whale of yore conducted to that port. LXXVIII The hippogryph he might have had at need, Who next below good Rabican was tied, But that the dame had cried to him, "Take heed, Thou know'st how ill that courser is to ride"; And said the following day the winged steed 'Twas her intention from that realm to guide, Where he should be instructed at his leisure, To rein and run him every where at pleasure: LXXIX Nor, if he took him not, would he suggest Suspicion of the intended flight: The peer This while performed Melissa's every hest, Who, still invisible, was at his ear. So feigning, from the wanton dome possessed By that old strumpet, rode the cavalier; And pricking forth drew near unto a gate, Whence the road led to Logistilla's state. LXXX Assaulting suddenly the guardian crew, He, sword in hand, the squadron set upon; This one he wounded, and that other slew, And, point by point made good, the drawbridge won: And ere of his escape Alcina knew, The gentle youth was far away and gone. My next shall tell his route, and how he gained At last the realm where Logistilla reigned. CANTO 8 ARGUMENT Rogero flies; Astolpho with the rest, To their true shape Melissa does restore; Rinaldo levies knights and squadrons, pressed In aid of Charles assaulted by the Moor: Angelica, by ruffians found at rest, Is offered to a monster on the shore. Orlando, warned in visions of his ill, Departs from Paris sore against his will. I How many enchantresses among us! oh, How many enchanters are there, though unknown! Who for their love make man or woman glow, Changing them into figures not their own. Nor this by help of spirits from below, Nor observation of the stars is done: But these on hearts with fraud and falsehood plot, Binding them with indissoluble knot. II Who with Angelica's, or rather who Were fortified with Reason's ring, would see Each countenance, exposed to open view, Unchanged by art or by hypocrisy. This now seems fair and good, whose borrowed hue Removed, would haply foul and evil be. Well was it for Rogero that he wore The virtuous ring which served the truth to explore! III Rogero, still dissembling, as I said, Armed, to the gate on Rabican did ride; Found the guard unprepared, not let his blade, Amid that crowd, hang idle at his side: He passed the bridge, and broke the palisade, Some slain, some maimed; then t'wards the forest hied; But on that road small space had measured yet, When he a servant of the fairy met. IV He on his fist a ravening falcon bore, Which he made fly for pastime every day; Now on the champaign, now upon the shore Of neighbouring pool, which teemed with certain prey; And rode a hack which simple housings wore, His faithful dog, companion of his way. He, marking well the haste with which he hies, Conjectures truly what Rogero flies. V Towards him came the knave, with semblance haught, Demanding whither in such haste he sped: To him the good Rogero answers naught. He hence assured more clearly that he fled, Within himself to stop the warrior thought, And thus, with his left arm extended, said: "What, if I suddenly thy purpose balk, And thou find no defence against this hawk?" VI Then flies his bird, who works so well his wing, Rabican cannot distance him in flight: The falconer from his back to ground did spring, And freed him from the bit which held him tight; Who seemed an arrow parted from the string, And terrible to foe, with kick and bite; While with such haste behind the servant came, He sped as moved by wind, or rather flame. VII Nor will the falconer's dog appear more slow; But hunts Rogero's courser, as in chace Of timid hare the pard is wont to go. Not to stand fast the warrior deems disgrace, And turns towards the swiftly-footed foe, Whom he sees wield a riding-wand, place Of other arms, to make his dog obey. Rogero scorns his faulchion to display. VIII The servant made at him, and smote him sore; The dog his left foot worried; while untied From rein, the lightened horse three times and more Lashed from the croup, nor missed his better side. The hawk, oft wheeling, with her talons tore The stripling, and his horse so terrified, The courser, by the whizzing sound dismayed, Little the guiding hand or spur obeyed. IX Constrained at length, his sword Rogero drew To clear the rabble, who his course delay; And in the animals' or villain's view Did now its point, and now its edge display. But with more hinderance and vexatious crew Swarm here and there, and wholly block the way; And that dishonour will ensue and loss, Rogero sees, if him they longer cross. X He knew each little that he longer stayed, Would bring the fay and followers on the trail; Already drums were beat, and trumpets brayed, And larum-bells rang loud in every vale. An act too foul it seemed to use his blade On dog, and knave unfenced with arms or mail: A better and shorter way it were The buckler, old Atlantes' work, to bare. XI He raised the crimson cloth in which he wore The wondrous shield, enclosed for many a day; Its beams, as proved a thousand times before, Work as they wont, when on the sight they play; Senseless the falconer tumbles on the moor; Drop dog and hackney; drop the pinions gay, Which poised in air the bird no longer keep: Then glad Rogero leaves a prey to sleep. XII In the mean time, Alcina, who had heard How he had forced the gate, and, in the press, Slaughtered a mighty number of her guard, Remained nigh dead, o'erwhelmed with her distress; She tore her vesture, and her visage marred, And cursed her want of wit and wariness. Then made forthwith her meiny sound to arms, And round herself arrayed her martial swarms. XIII Divided next, one squadron by the way Rogero took, she sent; the bands were two: She at the port embarked the next array, And straight to sea dispatched the warlike crew. With this good squadron went the desperate fay, And darked by loosened sails the billows grew; For so desire upon her bosom preyed, Of troops she left her city unpurveyed. XIV Without a guard she left her palace there, Which to Melissa, prompt her time to seize, To loose her vassals that in misery were, Afforded all convenience and full ease; -- To range, at leisure, through the palace fair, And so examine all her witcheries; To raze the seal, burn images, and loose Or cancel hag-knot, rhomb, or magic noose. XV Thence, through the fields, fast hurrying from that dome, The former lovers changed, a mighty train, Some into rock or tree, to fountain some, Or beast, she made assume their shapes again: And these, when they anew are free to roam, Follow Rogero's footsteps to the reign Of Logistilla's sage; and from that bourn To Scythia, Persia, Greece, and Ind return. XVI They to their several homes dispatched, repair, Bound by a debt which never can be paid: The English duke, above the rest her care, Of these, was first in human form arrayed: For much his kindred and the courteous prayer Of good Rogero with Melissa weighed. Beside his prayers, the ring Rogero gave; That him she by its aid might better save. XVII Thus by Rogero's suit the enchantress won, To his first shape transformed the youthful peer; But good Melissa deemed that nought was done Save she restored his armour, and that spear Of gold, which whensoe'er at tilt he run, At the first touch unseated cavalier; Once Argalia's, next Astolpho's lance, And source of mighty fame to both in France. XVIII The sage Melissa found this spear of gold, Which now Alcina's magic palace graced, And other armour of the warrior bold, Of which he was in that ill dome uncased. She climbed the courser of the wizard old, And on the croup, at ease, Astolpho placed: And thus, an hour before Rogero came, Repaired to Logistilla, knight and dame. XIX Meantime, through rugged rocks, and shagged with thorn, Rogero wends, to seek the sober fay; From cliff to cliff, from path to path forlorn, A rugged, lone, inhospitable way: Till he, with labour huge oppressed and worn, Issued at noon upon a beach, that lay 'Twixt sea and mountain, open to the south, Deserted, barren, bare, and parched with drouth. XX The sunbeams on the neighbouring mountain beat And glare, reflected from the glowing mass So fiercely, sand and air both boil with heat, In mode that might have more than melted glass. The birds are silent in their dim retreat, Nor any note is heard in wood or grass, Save the bough perched Cicala's wearying cry, Which deafens hill and dale, and sea and sky. XXI The heat and thirst and labour which he bore By that drear sandy way beside the sea, Along the unhabited and sunny shore, Were to Rogero grievous company: Bur for I may not still pursue this lore, Nor should you busied with one matter be, Rogero I abandon in this heat, For Scotland; to pursue Rinaldo's beat. XXII By king, by daughter, and by all degrees, To Sir Rinaldo was large welcome paid; And next the warrior, at his better ease, The occasion of his embassy displayed: That he from thence and England, subsidies Of men was seeking, for his monarch's aid, In Charles's name; and added, in his care, The justest reasons to support his prayer. XXIII The king made answer, that `without delay, Taxed to the utmost of his powers and might, His means at Charlemagne's disposal lay, For the honour of the empire and the right. And that, within few days, he in array Such horsemen, as he had in arms, would dight; And, save that he was now waxed old, would lead The expedition he was prayed to speed. XXIV `Nor like consideration would appear Worthy to stop him, but that he possessed A son, and for such charge that cavalier, Measured by wit and force, was worthiest. Though not within the kingdom was the peer, It was his hope (as he assured his guest) He would, while yet preparing was the band, Return, and find it mustered to his hand.' XXV So sent through all his realm, with expedition, His treasures, to levy men and steeds; And ships prepared, and warlike ammunition, And money, stores and victual for their needs. Meantime the good Rinaldo on his mission, Leaving the courteous king, to England speeds; He brought him on his way to Berwick's town, And was observed to weep when he was gone. XXVI The wind sat in the poop; Rinaldo good Embarked and bade farewell to all; the sheet Still loosening to the breeze, the skipper stood, Till where Thames' waters, waxing bitter, meet Salt ocean: wafted thence by tide of flood, Through a sure channel to fair London's seat, Safely the mariners their course explore, Making their way, with aid of sail and oar. XXVII The Emperor Charles, and he, King Otho grave, Who was with Charles, by siege in Paris pressed, A broad commission to Rinaldo brave, With letters to the Prince of Wales addressed, And countersigns had given, dispatched to crave What foot and horse were by the land possessed. The whole to be to Calais' port conveyed; That it to France and Charles might furnish aid. XXVIII The prince I speak of, who on Otho's throne Sate in his stead, the vacant helm to guide, Such honor did to Aymon's valiant son, He not with such his king had gratified. Next, all to good Rinaldo's wish, was done: Since for his martial bands on every side, In Britain, or the isles which round her lay, To assemble near the sea he fixed a day. XXIX But here, sir, it behoves me shift my ground, Like him that makes the sprightly viol ring, Who often changes chord and varies sound, And now a graver strikes, now sharper string: Thus I: -- who did to good Rinaldo bound My tale, Angelica remembering; Late left, where saved from him by hasty flight, She had encountered with an anchorite. XXX Awhile I will pursue her story: I Told how the maid of him with earnest care, Enquired, how she towards the shore might fly: Who of the loathed Rinaldo has such fear, She dreads, unless she pass the sea, to die, As insecure in Europe, far or near, But she was by the hermit kept in play, Because he pleasure took with her to stay. XXXI His heart with love of that rare beauty glowed, And to his frozen marrow pierced the heat; Who, after, when he saw that she bestowed Small care on him, and thought but of retreat, His sluggish courser stung with many a goad; But with no better speed he plied his feet. Ill was his walk, and worse his trot; nor spur Could that dull beast to quicker motion stir: XXXII And for the flying maid was far before, And he would soon have ceased to track her steed, To the dark cave recurred the hermit hoar, And conjured up of fiends a grisly breed: One he selected out of many more, And first informed the demon of his need; Then in the palfrey bade him play his part, Who with the lady bore away his heart: XXXIII And as sagacious dog on mountain tried Before, accustomed fox and hare to chase, If he behold the quarry choose one side, The other takes, and seems to slight the trace: But at the turn arriving, is espied, Already tearing what he crossed to face; So her the hermit by a different road Will meet, wherever she her palfrey goad. XXXIV What was the friar's design I well surmise; And you shall know; but in another page. Angelica now slow, now faster, flies, Nought fearing this: while conjured by the sage, The demon covered in the courser lies; As fire sometimes will hide its smothered rage: Then blazes with devouring flame and heat, Unquenchable, and scarce allows retreat. XXXV After the flying maid had shaped her course By the great sea which laves the Gascon shore, Still keeping to the rippling waves her horse, Where best the moistened sand the palfrey bore, Him, plunged into the brine, the fiend perforce Dragged, till he swam amid the watery roar. Nor what to do the timid damsel knew, Save that she closer to her saddle grew. XXXVI She cannot, howsoe'er the rein she ply, Govern the horse, who swims the surge to meet: Her raiment she collects and holds it high; And, not to wet them, gathers up her feet. Her tresses, which the breeze still wantonly Assaults, dishevelled on her shoulders beat. The louder winds are hushed, perchance in duty, Intent, like ocean, on such sovereign beauty. XXXVII Landward in vain her eyes the damsel bright Directs, which water face and breast with tears, And ever sees, decreasing to her sight, The beach she left, which less and less appears. The courser, who was swimming to the right, After a mighty sweep, the lady bears To shore, where rock and cavern shag the brink, As night upon the land begins to sink. XXXVIII When in that desert, which but to descry Bred fear in the beholder, stood the maid Alone, as Phoebus, plunged in ocean, sky And nether earth had left obscured in shade; She paused in guise, which in uncertainty Might leave whoever had the form surveyed, If she were real woman, or some mock Resemblance, coloured in the living rock. XXXIX She, fixed and stupid in her wretchedness, Stood on the shifting sand, with ruffled hair: Her hands were joined, her lips were motionless, Her languid eyes upturned, as in despair, Accusing Him on high, that to distress And whelm her, all the fates united were. Astound she stood awhile; when grief found vent Through eyes and tongue, in tears and in lament. XL "Fortune what more remains, that thou on me Shouldst not now satiate thy revengeful thirst? What more (she said) can I bestow on thee Than, what thou seekest not, this life accurst? Thou wast in haste to snatch me from the sea, Where I had ended its sad days, immersed; Because to torture me with further ill Before I die, is yet thy cruel will. XLI "But what worse torment yet remains in store Beyond, I am unable to descry: By thee from my fair throne, which nevermore I hope to repossess, compelled to fly; I, what is worse, my honour lost deplore; For if I sinned not in effect, yet I Give matter by my wanderings to be stung For wantonness of every carping tongue. XLII "What other good is left to woman, who Has lost her honour, in this earthly ball? What profits it that, whether false or true, I am deemed beauteous, and am young withal? No thanks to heaven for such a gift are due, Whence on my head does every mischief fall. For this my brother Argalia died; To whom small help enchanted arms supplied: XLIII "For this the Tartar king, Sir Agrican, Subdued my sire, who Galaphron was hight, And of Catay in India was great khan; 'Tis hence I am reduced to such a plight, That wandering evermore, I cannot scan At morn, where I shall lay my head at night. If thou hast ravished what thou couldst, wealth, friends, And honour; say what more thy wrath intends. XLIV "If death by drowning in the foaming sea Was not enough thy wrath to satiate, Send, if thou wilt, some beast to swallow me, So that he keep me not in pain! Thy hate Cannot devise a torment, so it be My death, but I shall thank thee for my fate!" Thus, with loud sobs, the weeping lady cried, When she beheld the hermit at her side. XLV From the extremest height the hermit hoar Of that high rock above her, had surveyed Angelica, arrived upon the shore, Beneath the cliff, afflicted and dismayed. He to that place had come six days before; For him by path untrod had fiend conveyed: And he approached her, feigning such a call As e'er Hilarion might have had, or Paul. XLVI When him, yet unagnized, she saw appear, The lady took some comfort, and laid by, Emboldened by degrees, her former fear: Though still her visage was of death-like dye. "Misericord! father," when the friar was near (She said), "for brought to evil pass am I." And told, still broke by sobs, in doleful tone, The story, to her hearer not unknown. XLVII To comfort her, some reasons full of grace, Sage and devout the approaching hermit cites: And, now his hand upon her moistened face, In speaking, now upon her bosom lights: As her, securer, next he would embrace: Him, kindling into pretty scorn, she smites With one hand on his breast, and backward throws, Then flushed with honest red, all over glows. XLVIII A pocket at the ancient's side was dight, Where he a cruise of virtuous liquor wore; And at those puissant eyes, whence flashed the light Of the most radiant torch Love ever bore, Threw from the flask a little drop, of might To make her sleep: upon the sandy shore Already the recumbent damsel lay, The greedy elder's unresisting prey. XLIX (Stanza XLIX untranslated by Rose) L (Lines 1-2 untranslated by Rose) Hopeless, at length upon the beach he lies, And by the maid, exhausted, falls asleep. When to torment him new misfortunes rise: Fortune does seldom any measure keep; Unused to cut her cruel pastime short, If she with mortal man is pleased to sport. LI It here behoves me, from the path I pressed, To turn awhile, ere I this case relate: In the great northern sea, towards the west, Green Ireland past, an isle is situate. Ebuda is its name, whose shores infest, (Its people wasted through the Godhead's hate) The hideous orc, and Proteus' other herd, By him against that race in vengeance stirred. LII Old stories, speak they falsely or aright, Tell how a puissant king this country swayed; Who had a daughter fair, so passing bright And lovely, 'twas no wonder if the maid, When on the beach she stood in Proteus' sight, Left him to burn amid the waves: surveyed, One day alone, upon that shore in-isled, Her he compressed, and quitted great with child. LIII This was sore torment to the sire, severe And impious more than all mankind; nor he, Such is the force of wrath, was moved to spare The maid, for reason or for piety. Nor, though he saw her pregnant, would forbear To execute his sentence suddenly; But bade together with the mother kill, Ere born, his grandchild, who had done no ill. LIV Sea-Proteus to his flocks' wide charge preferred By Neptune, of all ocean's rule possessed, Inflamed with ire, his lady's torment heard, And, against law and usage, to molest The land (no sluggard in his anger) stirred His monsters, orc and sea-calf, with the rest; Who waste not only herds, but human haunts, Farm-house and town, with their inhabitants: LV And girding them on every side, the rout Will often siege to walled cities lay; Where in long weariness and fearful doubt, The townsmen keep their watch by night and day. The fields they have abandoned all about, And for a remedy, their last assay, To the oracle, demanding counsel, fly, Which to the suppliant's prayer made this reply: LVI `That it behoved them find a damsel, who A form as beauteous as that other wore, To be to Proteus offered up, in lieu Of the fair lady, slain upon the shore: He, if he deems her an atonement due, Will keep the damsel, not disturb them more: If not, another they must still present, And so, till they the deity content.' LVII And this it was the cruel usage bred; That of the damsels held most fair of face, To Proteus every day should one be led. Till one should in the Godhead's sight find grace. The first and all those others slain, who fed, All a devouring orc, that kept his place Beside the port, what time into the main The remnant of the herd retired again. LVIII Were the old tale of Proteus' false or true, (For this, in sooth, I know not who can read) With such a clause was kept by that foul crew The savage, ancient statute, which decreed That woman's flesh the ravening monster, who For this came every day to land, should feed. Though to be woman is a crying ill In every place, 'tis here a greater still. LIX O wretched maids! whom 'mid that barbarous rout Ill-fortune on that wretched shore has tost! Who for the stranger damsel prowl about, Of her to make an impious holocaust; In that the more they slaughter from without, They less the number of their own exhaust. But since not always wind and waves convey Like plunder, upon every strand they prey. LX With frigate and with galley wont to roam, And other sort of barks they range the sea, And, as a solace to their martyrdom, From far, or from their isle's vicinity, Bear women off; with open rapine some, These bought by gold, and those by flattery: And, plundered from the different lands they scower, Crowd with their captives dungeon-cell and tower. LXI Keeping that region close aboard, to explore The island's lonely bank, a gallery creeps; Where, amid stubs upon the grassy shore, Angelica, unhappy damsel, sleeps. To wood and water there the sailor's moor, And from the bark, for this, a party leaps; And there that matchless flower of earthly charms Discovers in the holy father's arms. LXII Oh! prize too dear, oh! too illustrious prey! To glut so barbarous and so base a foe! Oh! cruel Fortune! who believed thy sway Was of such passing power in things below? That thou shouldst make a hideous monster's prey The beauty, for which Agrican did glow, Brought with half Scythia's people from the gates Of Caucasus, in Ind, to find their fates. LXIII The beauty, by Circassian Sacripant Preferred before his honour and his crown, The beauty which made Roland, Brava's vaunt, Sully his wholesome judgment and renown, The beauty which had moved the wide Levant, And awed, and turned its kingdom upside down, Now has not (thus deserted and unheard) One to assist it even with a word. LXIV Oppressed with heavy sleep upon the shore, The lovely virgin, ere awake, they chain: With her, the enchanter friar the pirates bore On board their ship, a sad, afflicted train. This done, they hoisted up their sail once more, And the bark made the fatal isle again, Where, till the lot shall of their prey dispose, Her prisoned in a castle they enclose. LXV But such her matchless beauty's power, the maid Was able that fierce crew to mollify, Who many days her cruel death delayed, Preserved until their last necessity; And while they damsels from without purveyed, Spared such angelic beauty: finally, The damsel to the monstrous orc they bring, The people all behind her sorrowing. LXVI Who shall relate the anguish, the lament And outcry which against the welkin knock? I marvel that the sea-shore was not rent, When she was placed upon the rugged block, Where, chained and void of help, the punishment Of loathsome death awaits her on the rock. This will not I, so sorrow moves me, say, Which makes me turn my rhymes another way; LXVII To find a verse of less lugubrious strain, Till I my wearied spirit shall restore: For not the squalid snake of mottled stain, Nor wild and whelpless tiger, angered more, Nor what of venomous, on burning plain, Creeps 'twixt the Red and the Atlantic shore, Could see the grisly sight, and choose but moan The damsel bound upon the naked stone. LXVIII Oh! if this chance to her Orlando, who Was gone to Paris-town to seek the maid, Had been reported! or those other two, Duped by a post, dispatched from Stygian shade, They would have tracked her heavenly footsteps through A thousand deaths, to bear the damsel aid. But had the warriors of her peril known. So far removed, for what would that have done? LXIX This while round Paris-walls the leaguer lay Of famed Troyano's son's besieging band, Reduced to such extremity one day, That it nigh fell into the foeman's hand; And, but that vows had virtue to allay The wrath of Heaven, whose waters drenched the land, That day had perished by the Moorish lance The holy empire and great name of France. LXX To the just plaint of aged Charlemagne The great Creator turned his eyes, and stayed The conflagration with a sudden rain, Which haply human art had not allayed. Wise whosoever seeketh, not in vain, His help, than whose there is no better aid! Well the religious king, to whom 'twas given, Knew that the saving succour was from Heaven. LXXI All night long counsel of his weary bed, Vexed with a ceaseless care, Orlando sought; Now here, now there, the restless fancy sped, Now turned, now seized, but never held the thought: As when, from sun or nightly planet shed, Clear water has the quivering radiance caught, The flashes through the spacious mansion fly, With reaching leap, right, left, and low, and high. LXXII To memory now returned his lady gay, She rather ne'er was banished from his breast; And fanned the secret fire, which through the day (Now kindled into flame) had seemed at rest; That in his escort even from Catay Or farthest Ind, had journeyed to the west; There lost: Of whom he had discerned no token Since Charles's power near Bordeaux-town was broken. LXXIII This in Orlando moved great grief, and he Lay thinking on his folly past in vain: "My heart," he said, "oh! how unworthily I bore myself! and out, alas! what pain, (When night and day I might have dwelt with thee, Since this thou didst not in thy grace disdain.) To have let them place thee in old Namus' hand! Witless a wrong so crying to withstand. LXXIV "Might I not have excused myself? -- The king Had not perchance gainsaid my better right -- Of if he had gainsaid my reasoning, Who would have taken thee in my despite? Why not have armed, and rather let them wring My heart out of my breast? But not the might Of Charles or all his host, had they been tried, Could have availed to tear thee from my side. LXXV "Oh! had he placed her but in strong repair, Guarded in some good fort, or Paris-town! -- Since he would trust her to Duke Namus' care, That he should lose her in this way, alone Sorts with my wish. -- Who would have kept the fair Like me, that would for her to death have gone? Have kept her better than my heart or sight: Who should and could, yet did not what I might. LXXVI "Without me, my sweet life, beshrew me, where Art thou bestowed, so beautiful and young! As some lost lamb, what time the daylight fair Shuts in, remains the wildering woods among, And goes about lamenting here and there, Hoping to warn the shepherd with her tongue; Till the wolf hear from far the mournful strain, And the sad shepherd weep for her in vain. LXXVII "My hope, where are thou, where? In doleful wise Dost thou, perchance, yet rove thy lonely round? Art thou, indeed, to ravening wolf a prize, Without thy faithful Roland's succour found? And is the flower, which, with the deities, Me, in mid heaven had placed, which, not to wound, (So reverent was my love) thy feelings chaste, I kept untouched, alas! now plucked and waste? LXXVIII "If this fair flower be plucked, oh, misery! oh, Despair! what more is left me but to die? Almighty God, with every other woe Rather than this, thy wretched suppliant try. If this be true, these hands the fatal blow Shall deal, and doom me to eternity." Mixing his plaint with bitter tears and sighs, So to himself the grieved Orlando cries. LXXIX Already every where, with due repose, Creatures restored their weary spirits; laid These upon stones and upon feathers those, Or greensward, in the beech or myrtle's shade: But scarcely did thine eyes, Orlando close, So on thy mind tormenting fancies preyed. Nor would the vexing thoughts which bred annoy, Let thee in peace that fleeting sleep enjoy. LXXX To good Orlando it appeared as he, Mid odorous flowers, upon a grassy bed, Were gazing on that beauteous ivory, Which Love's own hand had tinged with native red; And those two stars of pure transparency, With which he in Love's toils his fancy fed: Of those bright eyes, and that bright face, I say, Which from his breast had torn his heart away. LXXXI He with the fullest pleasure overflows, That ever happy lover did content: But, lo! this time a mighty tempest rose, And wasted flowers, and trees uptore and rent. Not with the rage with which this whirlwind blows, Joust warring winds, north, south, and east, unpent. It seemed, as if in search of covering shade, He, vainly wandering, through a desert strayed. LXXXII Meanwhile the unhappy lover lost the dame In that dim air, nor how he lost her, weets; And, roving far and near, her beauteous name Through every sounding wood and plain repeats. And while, "Oh wretched me!" is his exclaim, "Who has to poison changed my promised sweets?" He of his sovereign lady who with tears Demands his aid, the lamentation hears. LXXXIII Thither, whence comes the sound, he swiftly hies, And toils, now here, now there, with labour sore: Oh! what tormenting grief, to think his eyes Cannot again the lovely rays explore! -- Lo! other voice from other quarter cries -- "Hope not on earth to enjoy the blessing more." At that alarming cry he woke, and found Himself in tears of bitter sorrow drowned. LXXXIV Not thinking that like images are vain, When fear, or when desire disturbs our rest, The thought of her, exposed to shame and pain, In such a mode upon his fancy pressed, He, thundering, leaped from bed, and with what chain And plate behoved, his limbs all over dressed; Took Brigliadoro from the stall he filled, Nor any squire attendant's service willed. LXXXV And to pass every where, yet not expose By this his dignity to stain or slight, The old and honoured ensign he foregoes, His ancient bearing, quartered red and white. And in its place a sable ensign shows, Perhaps as suited to his mournful plight, That erst he from an Amostantes bore, Whom he had slain in fight some time before. LXXXVI At midnight he departed silently, Not to his uncle spake, not to his true And faithful comrade Brandimart, whom he So dearly cherished, even bade adieu; But when, with golden tresses streaming-free, The sun from rich Tithonus' inn withdrew, And chased the shades, and cleared the humid air, The king perceived Orlando was not there. LXXXVII To Charles, to his displeasure, were conveyed News that his nephew had withdrawn at night, When most he lacked his presence and his aid; Nor could he curb his choler at the flight, But that with foul reproach he overlaid, And sorely threatened the departed knight, By him so foul a fault should be repented, Save he, returning home, his wrath prevented. LXXXVIII Nor would Orlando's faithful Brandimart, Who loved him as himself, behind him stay; Whether to bring him back he in his heart Hoped, or of him ill brooked injurious say: And scarce, in his impatience to depart, Till fall of eve his sally would delay. Lest she should hinder his design, of this He nought imparted to his Flordelis: LXXXIX To him this was a lady passing dear, And from whose side he unwont to stray; Endowed with manners, grace, and beauteous cheer, Wisdom and wit: if now he went away And took no leave, it was because the peer Hoped to revisit her that very day. But that befel him after, as he strayed, Which him beyond his own intent delayed. XC She when she has expected him in vain Well nigh a month, and nought of him discerns, Sallies without a guide or faithful train, So with desire of him her bosom yearns: And many a country seeks for him in vain; To whom the story in due place returns. No more I now shall tell you of these two, More bent Anglantes' champion to pursue; XCI Who having old Almontes' blazonry So changed, drew nigh the gate; and there the peer Approached a captain of the guard, when he; "I am the County," whispered in his ear, And (the bridge quickly lowered, and passage free At his commandment) by the way most near Went straight towards the foe: but what befell Him next, the canto which ensues shall tell. CANTO 9 ARGUMENT So far Orlando wends, he comes to where He of old Proteus' hears the cruel use But feels such pity for Olympia fair, Wronged by Cymosco, who in prison mews Her plighted spouse, that ere he makes repair Further, he gives her hope to venge the abuse: He does so, and departs; and with his spouse Departs Bireno, to repeat his vows. I What cannot, when he has a heart possess'd This false and cruel traitor Love? since he Can banish from Orlando's faithful breast Such tried allegiance and due loyalty? Wise, full of all regards, and of the blest And glorious church the champion wont to be, Now, little for himself or uncle, driven By a vain love, he cares, and less for heaven. II But I excuse him well, rejoiced to know I have like partner in my vice: for still To seek my good I too am faint and slow, But sound and nimble in pursuit of ill. The count departs, disguised in sable show, Nor for so many friends, with froward will, Deserted cares; and comes where on the plain Are camped the hosts of Afric and of Spain; III Rather uncamped: for, in less troops or more, Rains under shed and tree had driven the band. Here ten, there twenty, seven or eight, or four, Near or further off, Orlando scanned. Each sleeps, oppressed with toil and wearied sore; This stretched on earth, that propped upon his hand: They sleep, and many might the count have slain, Yet never bared his puissant Durindane. IV So generous is Orlando's heart, he base Esteems it were to smite a sleeping foe. Now this he seeks, and now that other place; Yet cannot track his lady, high or low. If he finds any one in waking case, Sighing, to him he paints her form and show; Then prays him that for courtesy, he where The damsel is, will reach him to repair. V And when the day its shining light displayed, He wholly searched the Moorish army through. In that the gentle warrior was arrayed In Arab weeds, he this might safely do; And of his purpose came alike in aid That other tongues beside the French he knew; And in the African so well was read, He seemed in Tripoly one born and bred: VI He sojourns there three days, the camp to see; Still seeking nought beside: next up and down, Within, without, both burgh and city he Spies; nor surveys the realm of France alone; But fair Auvergne, and even Gascony Revisits, to its farthest little town. Roves from Provence to Brittany's domain, And from the Picards to the bounds of Spain. VII Between October and November's moon, In that dull season when the leafy vest Is stript from trembling plant, whose limbs are shown Of all their mantling foliage dispossess'd And in close flights the swarming birds are flown, Orlando enters on his amorous quest: This he pursues the livelong winter through, Nor quits when gladsome spring returns anew. VIII As (such his wont) from land to land he goes, A river's side he reaches on a day; Which to the neighbouring sea in quiet flows. Bretons and Normans parting on its way: But, swoln with mountain rain and melted snows, Then thundered, white with foam and flashing-spray: And with impetuous stream had overtopt Its brim, and burst the bridge, and passage stopt. IX The paladin this bank and the other eyed, Along the river's channel, to explore, Since neither fish nor fowl, if from his side He could gain footing on the adverse shore; When, with a damsel in the poop, he spied A ready pinnace that towards him bore: She steered, as if she would approach the strand; But would not let her shallop make the land. X Steered not to land; as haply with suspicion To take a lading, in her own despite. To her the good Orlando made petition To put him o'er the stream; and she: "No knight Passes this ferry, but upon condition He shall his faith and promise duly plight, That he will do a battle, at my prayer, Upon the justest quarrel and most fair. XI "So that if thou on that other shore to land Dost by my aid, Sir cavalier, desire, Promise me, ere the month which is at hand" (The damsel so pursued her speech) "expire, That thou wilt join the Hibernian monarch's hand, Who forms a fair armada, in his ire, To sack Ebuda's isle; of all compress'd By ocean's circling waves, the cruellest. XII "Know, beyond Ireland, in the briny flood, An island, amid many others, lies; Ebuda is its name; whose people rude (Such is their law), in search of plunder hies; And all the women that it takes, for food To a voracious animal supplies; Which every day to shore for this does speed, And finds new wife or maid whereon to feed: XIII "For of these merchant still and Corsair sell A large supply, and most of those most fair. Reckoning one slain a-day, you thus may well Compute what wives and maids have perished there. But if compassion in your bosom dwell, Nor you to Love an utter rebel are, Be you contented with this band to wend, United for such profitable end." XIV To hear the whole Orlando scarce could bear, Ere to be first in that emprize he swore, As one who evil deed misliked to hear, And with impatience like relation bore: Hence first induced to think, and next to fear, Angelica is captive on that shore: Since he so long the missing maid pursues, Nor of the damsel yet can gather news. XV Breaking his every scheme, this phantasy The troubled cavalier did so confound, That will all speed to that fell island he Resolved to navigate; nor yet the round Of a new sun was buried in the sea, Ere he a vessel at St. Malo's found; In which, embarking on his quest, the count Put forth, and cleared that night St. Michael's Mount. XVI Breac and Landriglier past on the left hand, Orlando's vessel skims the Breton shore; Then shapes her course towards the chalky strand, Whence England's isle the name of Albion bore: But the south wind, which had her canvas fanned, Shifts to north-west, and freshening, blows so sore, The mariners are fain to strike all sail, And wear and scud before the boisterous gale. XVII A distance traversed in four days, in one Backwards the ceaseless wind the frigate bore; The helmsman kept the sea, lest she should run Aground, and break like glass upon the shore. The wind upon the fifth day changed its tune, So loud and furious through the other four; And let, without more strife, the vessel gain A port, where Antwerp's river met the main. XVIII As soon as harboured there in shattered plight, The weary mariners their frigate moor, Out of a city, seated on the right Of that fair stream, descends upon the shore, As his gray hairs may warrant him, a wight Stricken in years; who, full of courteous lore, Turns to the county, after greetings due, Reputing him the leader of that crew. XIX And prays him, on a damsel's part, `that he To her would think not irksome to repair; Whom of unequalled affability And sweetness, he would find, as well as fair; Or otherwise would be content, that she Should to his bark resort, to seek him there, Nor prove less pliant than had been before All the knights errant, who had sought that shore: XX For hitherto, by land or sea conveyed, No cavalier had journeyed to that place That had refused to parlay with the maid, And give her counsel in a cruel case.' Orlando, hearing this, no more delayed, But issued from the bark with hurried pace, And, in all kind and courteous usage bred, His way directed where the ancient led. XXI With him did Roland to the city go, And at the bottom of a palace-stair, Conducted by that elder, full of woe A lady found, if face may grief declare, And sable cloth, with which (a mournful show) Chamber, and hall, and gallery, furnished were; Who, after honourable welcome paid, Seated the paladin, and sadly said: XXII "The daughter of the Count of Holland," (cried The Lady) "know in me, Sir cavalier. Though not his only offspring (for beside Myself two brothers were) to him so dear, That, for whatever favour I applied, I never met refusal from the peer. I living glady in this happy sort, A duke by chance was guested at our court; XXIII "The Duke of Zealand, meaning for Biscay; With purpose there to war upon the Moor; His youth and beauty, then in manhood's May, And force of love, unfelt by me before, Made me, with little strife, his easy prey: Persuaded by his outward cheer yet more, I thought, and think, and still shall think, the peer Loved me, and loves me yet with heart sincere. XXIV "Those days, whenas the wind was contrary, (Which fair for me, if foul for others blew) To others forty seemed, an hour to me; So upon speedy wings the moments flew. This while, we oftentimes held colloquy, When, to be given with solemn right and due, I promised him, and he to me, his hand, On his return, in wedlock's holy band. XXV "Bireno hardly from our court was gone, For such the name my faithful lover bore, When Friesland's king, whose realm is from our own No further than this stream from Ocean's shore, Designing to bestow me on his son, Arbantes hight (the monarch had no more), To Holland sent the worthiest of his land, Me of the count, my father, to demand. XXVI "I without power to falsify that vow, Which to my gentle lover I had plight; Nor though I had the power, would Love allow Me so to play the ingrate, if I might, (The treaty, well on foot, to overthrow, And nigh concluded) with afflicted sprite, Cried to my father, I would rather shed My very life-blood, than in Friesland wed. XXVII "My gracious father, he who took but pleasure In what pleased me, nor would my will constrain; Marking my grief, broke off the intended measure, To give me comfort and relieve my pain. At this proud Friesland's sovereign such displeasure Conceived, and entertained such high disdain, He entered Holland, and the war began, In which my kin were slaughtered to a man. XXVIII "Besides, that both his puissance and his might Are such, as in our age are matched of few, Such is in evil deeds his cunning sleight, He laughs to scorn what wit and force can do. Strange arms he bears, unknown to any wight, Save him, of the ancient nations or the new: A hollow iron, two yards long, whose small Channel he loads with powder and a ball XXIX "He, where 'tis closed behind, in the iron round, Touches with fire a vent, discerned with pain; In guise that skilful surgeon tries his ground, Where need requires that he should breathe a vein. Whence flies the bullet with such deafening sound, That bolt and lightening from the hollow cane Appear to dart, and like the passing thunder, Burn what they smite, beat-down or rend asunder. XXX "Twice broken, he our armies overthrew With this device, my gentle brethren slain; The first the shot in our first battle slew, Reaching his heart, through broken plate and chain; The other in the other onset, who Was flying from the fatal field in vain. The ball his shoulder from a distance tore Behind, and issued from his breast before. XXXI "My father next, defending on a day The only fortress which he still possessed, The others taken which about it lay, Was sent alike to his eternal rest: Who going and returning, to purvey What lacked, as this or that occasion pressed, Was aimed at from afar, in privy wise, And by the traytour struck between the eyes. XXXII "And I remaining, sire and brethren dead, The isle of Holland's only heir, the king Of Friesland, who by the desire was led Of better there his power establishing, To me, and also to my people said, I peace and quiet to my state might bring, Would I (when I before would not accord) Now take his son Arbantes for my lord. XXXIII "I, not so much for deadly hate I bear To him and all his kindred, by whose spite My sire and both my brothers slaughtered were, My country sacked and waste, as that the knight I would not wrong, to whom I fealty sware, And had my solemn word already plight That me to wedlock man should woo in vain, Till he to Holland should return from Spain. XXXIV "For one ill-born, a hundred yet behind, Will bear (replied) to hazard all content, -- Slain, burnt alive, to let them to the wind Scatter my ashes, rather than consent. -- My people seek to move my stedfast mind, By prayer and by protest, from this intent; And threat to yield my city up and me, Lest all be lost through my obduracy. XXXV "When in my fixt and firm resolve they read, That prayer and protest are alike in vain; My town and me, with Friesland's king agreed, Surrendered, as they vowed, my vassal train. Not doing by me any shameful deed, Me he assured of life and of domain, So I would soften my obdurate mood, And be to wed with his Arbantes wooed. XXXVI "I who would have consented to forego My life to scape from him, reflection made, That, save I first avenged myself, all woe Endured, would be by this regret outweighed. -- Long time I muse, and to my misery know, 'Tis only simulation which can aid. Not simple willingness, I feign desire, To win his grace, and have him for my sire. XXXVII " Mid many in my father's service, I Select two brothers fitted for my view, Of valiant heart and great ability But more approved for truth, as followers, who Bred in my father's court, from infancy Had with myself grown up; the brothers two So wholly bound to me, they would have thought My safety with their lives was cheaply bought. XXXVIII "To them I tell my project, and the pair Of brethren promise me their faithful aid: To Flanders this, a pinnace to prepare, I sent, and that with me in Holland stayed. Now, while both foreigners and natives were, Of Friesland's kingdom, to our nuptials prayed, Bireno in Biscay (the tidings went) For Holland had equipt an armament. XXXIX "Since on the issue of the earliest fray, When in the rout one hapless brother fell, I had dispatched a courier to Biscay, Who the sad news should to Bireno tell: While he toils sore his squadron to array, Proud Friesland's arms our wretched remnant quell. Bireno, who knew nought of this, had weighed, And with his barks put forth to bring us aid. XL "These tidings told to Friesland's monarch, he Confiding to his son the wedding's care, To meet Bireno's squadron puts to sea, And (so chance willed) burns, sinks, or routs them there, Leading him off into captivity; -- But none to us as yet the tidings bear. This while I to the amorous youth am wed, Who, when the sun sought his, would seek my bed. XLI "Behind the curtains, I had hid the tried And faithful follower, of whom I said, Who moved not till the bridegroom he descried, Yet waited not till he in bed was laid: But raised a hatchet, and so well applied Behind the stripling's head the ponderous blade, Of speech and life it reft him; I, who note The deed, leap lightly up and cut his throat. XLII "As falls the bullock upon shamble-sill, Thus fell the ill-starred stripling, in despite Of king Cymosco, worst among the ill; So was the impious king of Friesland hight Who did my brothers and my father kill, And, in my state to found a better right; In wedlock wished to join me with his son, Haply to slay me when his end was won. XLIII "Ere new disturbance interrupt the deed, Taking what costliest was and lightest weighed, Me my companion by a chord, with speed, Drops from a window, where with boat purveyed In Flanders (as related) for my need, His brother, watchful of our motions, stayed: We dip the oar, we loose the sail, and driven By both, escape, as was the will of Heaven. XLIV "The daring feat achieved, I cannot say If Friesland's king more sorrowed for his son, Or raged at me: he there arrived, the day Ensuing, where the dreadful deed was done, Proud he returned, both he and his array, Of the duke taken, and the victory won: And thought to feast and nuptials he was bound, But in his home all grief and darkness found. XLV "His pity for his son, the hate he fed Towards me, torment the father day and night; But as lamenting will not raise the dead, And vengeance is a vent for smothered spite; That portion of his thoughts, which should have led The king, to ease by sighs his troubled sprite, Now willingly takes counsel with his hate, To seize me, and his vengeance satiate. XLVI "All known or said to by my friends, or who Were friends of those that, chosen from my train, Had aided me the deadly deed to do, Their goods and chattels burnt, were doomed or slain: And he had killed Bireno, since he knew No other trouble could inflict such pain; But that he, saving him in malice, thought He had a net wherewith I might be caught. XLVII "Yet him a cruel proposition made, Granting a year his purpose to complete; Condemned to privy death, till then delayed, Save in that time, through force or through deceit, He by his friends' and kindred's utmost aid, Doing or plotting, me from my retreat Conveyed into his prisons; so that he Can only saved by my destruction be. XLVIII "What for his safety could be done, behold, Short of my own destruction, had been tried. Six towns I had in Flanders: these I sold, And (great or small the produce set aside) A part of it, to wily persons told, That it to tempt his guards might be applied; The rest of it dispensed to move and arm Germans or English, to the miscreant's harm. XLIX "My agents, whether they their trust betrayed, Or that they could in truth perform no more, Me with vain words instead of help have paid, And scorn me, having drained my scanty store: And now the term is nigh expired, when aid, Whether of open force or treasured ore, No longer will arrive in time to save My cherished spouse from torture and the grave. L "Through him, from me was my dominion rent; Through him, my father and my brethren slain; Through him, the little treasure left me, spent (What served alone existence to sustain) To rescue him, in cruel durance pent; Nor other means to succour him remain; Save I, to liberate him from prison, go And yield myself to such a cruel foe. LI "If nothing more be left me then to try, Nor other way for his escape appear, Than his with this my wretched life to buy, This life I gladly will lay down: one fear Alone molests me; and it is that I Can never my conditions make so clear, As to assure me, that with new deceit, Me, when his prey, the tyrant will not cheat. LII "I fear, when I shall be in captive plight, And he has put all tortures upon me, He may not loose Bireno, and the knight Have not to thank me for his liberty: Like perjured king, and full of foul despite, Who with my murder will not satiate be; But by Bireno neither less nor more Will do, than he had done by me before. LIII "The occasion now that I confer with you, And tell my case to all who seek the land, Both lords and knights, is with the single view, That taking counsel of so large a band, Some one may indicate assurance due, That when before the cruel king I stand, No longer he Bireno shall detain; Nor, after I am killed, the duke be slain. LIV "Warrior to went with me, I in my need, When I shall be to Friesland given, have prayed; But so he promise, that the exchange agreed Shall be between us in such manner made, That from his bonds Bireno shall be freed When I am to the monarch's hands conveyed: Thus I, when I am slain, shall die content, Who to my spouse shall life by death have lent. LV "Not to this day have chanced upon a wight Who on his faith will give me warranty, That if the king refuse to loose the knight, When I am offered, from captivity, He will not suffer that in my despite (So feared those weapons!) I shall taken be. So feared those weapons, upon every hand! Which, howsoever thick, no plates withstand. LVI "Now, if as strong Herculean port and bold Appear to vouch, such worth to you belong; And you believe to give me or withhold Is in your power, should he intend me wrong; Be with me, when committed to his hold, Since I shall fear not, in your convoy strong, When you are with me, that my lord, though I Be after slain, shall by his order die." LVII Here her discourse, wherewith were interposed Loud sobs, the lady ceased, and silent stood: Orlando, when her lips the damsel closed, Whose ready will ne'er halts in doing good, Briefly to her replies, as indisposed To idle speeches of his natural mood: But plights his solemn word, that better aid She should from him receive than that she prayed. LVIII 'Tis not his scheme to place her in the hand Of her foul foe, to have Bireno freed; He will save both the lovers, if his brand And wonted valour fail him not at need. Embarked that very day, they put from land With a clear sky and prosperous wind to speed. The county hastes in his impatient heat, Eager to reach that isle, the monster's seat. LIX Through the still deeps, on this or the other side, The skipper veered his canvas to the wind: This isle, and that of Zealand, they descried, One seen before, and one shut in behind. The third day, from the harboured vessel's side, In Holland, Roland disembarks, not joined By the complaining dame; whom to descend He will not till she hear that tyrant's end. LX Armed at all points, the county passed ashore, Borne on a horse 'twixt brown and black, the breed Of Denmark, but in Flanders nurtured, more Esteemed for weight and puissance than for speed: For when the paladin embarked before, In Brittany he left the gallant steed, His Brigliador; so nimble and so fair, That but Bayardo could with him compare. LXI Orlando fares to Dordrecht, where he views A numerous squadron, which the gate maintain; As well, because suspicion still ensues On the foundation of a new domain; As that before they had received the news, That out of Zealand, backed with armed train, Was coming with a fleet of many sail, A cousin of the lord here pent in jail. LXII One, good Orlando to the monarch's ear Bade bear a message, `that an errant knight Oh him would prove himself, with sword and spear; But would lay down this pact before the fight: -- That if the king unhorsed the cavalier, Her who Arbantes slew, he, as his right, Should have, that, at the cavalier's command, Was ready for delivery to his hand; LXIII `And willed the king should on his side agree, If him the knight in combat overbore, Forthwith released from his captivity, Bireno to full freedom to restore.' To him the footman does his embassy; But he, who knightly worth or courteous lore Had never known, directs his whole intent The count by treacherous fraud to circumvent. LXIV He hopes as well, if he the warrior slay, To have the dame, whom, so aggrieved, he hates, If in the knight's disposal, and the say Of that strange knight, the footman well relates. Hence thirty men dispatched by other way Than to the portal led, where Roland waits; Who with a long and privy circuit wind, And come upon the paladin behind. LXV He all this while had made his guard delay The knight with words, till horse and foot he spied Arrived, where he this ambuscade did lay; When from the gate he with as many hied: As is the practised hunter's wonted way, To circle wood and beasts on every side: As nigh Volana, with his sweeping nets, The wary fisher fish and pool besets. LXVI 'Tis thus the king bars every path which lies Free for the warrior's flight, with armed train: He him alive, and in no other guise, Would have, and lightly hopes his end to gain; Nor for the earthly thunderbolt applies, That had so many and so many slain: Which here he deems would serve his purpose ill, Where he desires to take and not to kill. LXVII As wary fowler, bent on greater prey, Wisely preserves alive the game first caught, That by the call-bird and his cheating play, More may within the circling net be brought; Such cunning art Cymosco would assay: But Roland would not be so lightly bought; Like them by the first toil that springs betrayed; And quickly forced the circle which was made. LXVIII Where he perceives the assailants thickest stand, He rests his lance, and sticks in his career First one and afterwards another, and Another, and another, who appear Of paste; till six he of the circling band Of foes impales upon a single spear; A seventh left out, who by the push is slain, Since the clogged weapon can no more contain. LXIX No otherwise, upon the further shore Of fosse or of canal, the frogs we spy, By cautious archer, practised in his lore, Smote and transfixed the one the other nigh; Upon the shaft, until it hold no more, From barb to feathers full, allowed to lie. The heavy lance Orlando from him flung, And to close combat with his faulchion sprung. LXX The lance now broke, his sword the warrior drew, That sword which never yet was drawn in vain, And still with cut or thrust some soldier slew; Now horse, now footman of the tyrant's train. And, ever where he dealt a stroke, changed blue, Yellow, green, white and black, to crimson stain. Cymosco grieves, when most his need require, Not to have now his hollow cane and fire; LXXI And with loud voice and menacing command Bids these be brought, but ill his followers hear; For those who have found safety of his band, To issue from the city are in fear. He, when he sees them fly on either hand, Would fly as well from that dread cavalier; Makes for the gate, and would the drawbridge lift, But the pursuing county is too swift. LXXII The monarch turns his back, and leaves the knight Lord of the drawbridge and of either gate. Thanks to his swifter steed, the rest in flight He passes: good Orlando will not wait (Intent the felon, not his band, to smite) Upon the vulgar herd to wreck his hate. But his slow horse seems restive; while the king's, More nimble, flies as if equipt with wings. LXXIII From street to street, before the count he made; And vanished clean; but after little stay, Came with new arms, with tube and fire purveyed; Which, at his hest, this while his men convey. And posted at a corner, he waylaid: His foe, as hunter watches for his prey, In forest, with armed dogs and spear, attending The boar in fury from the hill descending, LXXIV Who rends the branch and overthrows the stone; And wheresoe'er he turns his haughty front, Appears (so loud the deafening crash and groan) As if he were uprending wood and mount, Intent to make him his bold deed atone, Cymosco at the pass expects the count; As soon as he appears, with ready light Touches the hole, and fires upon the knight. LXXV Behind, the weapon flames in lightning's guise, And vents the thunder from before; the ground Shakes under foot and city wall; the skies The fearful echo all about rebound. The burning bolt with sudden fury flies, Not sparing aught which in its course is found. Hissing and whizzing through the skies it went; But smote not, to the assassin's foul intent. LXXVI Whether it was his great desire to kill That baron, or his hurry made him fail, Or trembling heart, like leaf which flutters still, Made hand and arm together flinch and quail; Or that it was not the Creator's will The church so soon her champion should bewail; The glancing stroke his courser's belly tore, Outstretched on earth, from thence to rise no more. LXXVII To earth fall horse and rider: this the knight Scarce touched; the other thundering pressed the plain: For the first rose so ready and so light, He from the fall seemed breath and force to gain. As African Anteus, in the fight, Rose from the sand with prouder might and main; So when Orlando touched the ground, to view He rose with doubled force and vigour new. LXXVIII He who has seen the thunder, from on high, Discharged by Jove with such a horrid sound, Descend where nitre, coal, and sulphur lie, Stored up for use in magazine profound, Which scarce has reached -- but touched it, ere the sky Is in a flame, as well as burning ground, Firm walls are split, and solid marbles riven, And flying stones cast up as high as heaven; LXXIX Let him imagine, when from earth he sprung, Such was the semblance of the cavalier; Who moved in mode to frighten Mars among The Gods, so fierce and horrid was his cheer. At this dismay'd, the King of Friesland stung His horse, and turned his rein, to fly the peer: But fierce Orlando was upon his foe Faster than arrow flies from bended bow: LXXX And, what before he could not, when possest Of his good courser, now afoot will do. His speed outgoes all thought in every breast, Exceeds all credence, save in those who view. The tyrant shortly joined, he on the crest Smote at his head so well, he cleft it through; And to the neck divided by the blow, Sent it, to shake its last on earth below. LXXXI Lo! in the frighted city other sound Was heard to rise, and other crash of brands, From troop, who, thither in his guidance bound, Followed Bireno's cousin from his lands: Who, since the unguarded gates he open found, Into the city's heart had poured his bands; Where the bold paladin had struck such fear, He without let might scour it far and near. LXXXII In rout the people fly, who cannot guess Who these may be, or what the foes demand: But, when this man and that by speech and dress As Zealand-men distinguishes the band, Carte blanche they proffer, and the chief address, Bidding him range them under his command; Against the Frieslanders to lend him aid, Who have their duke in loathsome prison stayed. LXXXIII To Friesland's king that people hatred bore With all his following: who their ancient lord Had put to death, and who by them yet more, As evil and rapacious, was abhorred. Orlando interposed with kindly lore, As friend of both, the parties to accord: By whom, so joined, no Frieslander was left But was of life or liberty bereft. LXXXIV They would not wait to seek the dungeon-key, But breaking-down the gate, their entrance made; Bireno to the count with courtesy And grateful thanks the service done repaid. Thence they, together with large company, Went where Olympia in her vessel stayed: For so was the expecting lady hight, To whom that island's crown belonged of right. LXXXV She who had thither good Orlando brought, Not hoping that he would have thriven so well; -- Enough for her, if by her misery bought, Her spouse were rescued from the tyrant's cell! -- Her, full of love and loyal homage, sought The people one and all: Twere long to tell How she caressed Bireno, he the maid, -- What thanks both lovers to the county paid. LXXXVI The people, throned in her paternal reign, Replace the injured dame, and fealty swear: She on the duke, to whom in solid chain Love with eternal knot had linked the fair, The empire of herself and her domain Conferred: He, called away by other care, Left in the cousin's guardian care this while His fortresses, and all the subject isle. LXXXVII Since he to visit Zealand's duchy planned, His faithful consort in his company; And thence, upon the king of Friesland's land, Would try his fortune (as he said), for he A pledge, he rated highly, had in hand, Which seemed of fair success the warranty, The daughter of the king: who here forsaken, With many others had been prisoner taken. LXXXVIII To a younger brother, her, the duke pretends, To be conjoined in wedlock, he conveyed. The Roman senator thence parting wends Upon the very day Bireno weighed; But he to nothing else his hand extends Of all the many, many prized made, Save to that engine, found amid the plunder, Which in all points I said resembled thunder. LXXXIX Not with intent, in his defence to bear What he had taken, of the prize possest; For he still held it an ungenerous care To go with vantage on whatever quest: But with design to cast the weapon where It never more should living wight molest; And, what was appertaining to it, all Bore off as well, the powder and the ball. XC And thus, when of the tidesway he was clear, And in the deepest sea his bark descried, So that no longer distant signs appear Of either shore on this or the other side, He seized the tube, and said: "That cavalier May never vail through thee his knightly pride, Nor base be rated with a better foe, Down with thee to the darkest deep below! XCI "O loathed, O cursed piece of enginery, Cast in Tartarean bottom, by the hand Of Beelzebub, whose foul malignity The ruin of this world through thee has planned! To hell, from whence thou came, I render thee." So said, he cast away the weapon: fanned Meanwhile, with flowing sheet, his frigate goes, By wind, which for the cruel island blows. XCII Such was the paladin's desire to explore If in the place his missing lady were; Whom he prefers the united world before, Nor can an hour of life without her bear. He fears, if he set foot on Ireland's shore, Some other chance may interrupt him there: So that he after have in vain to say, "Why hasted I no faster on my way?" XCIII Nor he in England nor in Ireland port Will make, nor on the coast that's opposite. But let him go, the naked archer's sport, Sore smitten in the heart! -- ere I indite Yet more of him, to Holland I resort, And you to hear me company invite. For well I wot that you as well as me 'Twould grieve that bridal should without us be. XCIV Sumptuous and fair the bridal there is made; But neither yet so sumptuous nor so fair As it will be in Zealand, it is said: But 'tis not my design you should repair Thither; since by new accidents delayed The feast will be, of which be it my care, In other strain, the tidings to report; If you to hear that other strain resort. CANTO 10 ARGUMENT Another love assails Bireno's breast, Who leaves one night Olympia on the shore. To Logistilla's holy realm addressed, Rogero goes, nor heeds Alcina more: Him, of that flying courser repossest, The hippogryph on airy voyage bore: Whence he the good Rinaldo's levy sees, And next Angelica beholds and frees. I Of all the loves, of all fidelity Yet proved, of all the constant hearts and true, Of all the lovers, in felicity Or sorrow faithful found, a famous crew, To Olympia I would give the first degree Rather than second: if this be not due, I well may say that hers no tale is told Of truer love, in present times or old. II And this she by so many proofs and clear, Had made apparent to the Zealand lord, No woman's faith more certain could appear To man, though he her open heart explored: And if fair truth such spirits should endear, And they in mutual love deserve reward, Bireno as himself, nay, he above Himself, I say, should kind Olympia love. III Not only should he nevermore deceive Her for another, were that woman she Who so made Europe and wide Asia grieve, Or fairer yet, if one more fair there be; But rather that quit her the light should leave, And what is sweet to taste, touch, hear, and see, And life and fame, and all beside; if aught More precious can in truth be styled, or thought. IV If her Bireno loved, as she had loved Bireno, if her love he did repay With faith like hers, and still with truth unmoved, Veered not his shifting sail another way; Or ingrate for such service -- cruel proved For such fair love and faith, I now will say; And you with lips comprest and eye-brows bent, Shall listen to the tale for wonderment; V And when you shall have heard the impiety, Which of such passing goodness was the meed, Woman take warning from this perfidy, And let none make a lover's word her creed. Mindless that God does all things hear and see, The lover, eager his desires to speed, Heaps promises and vows, aye prompt to swear, Which afterwards all winds disperse in air. VI The promises and empty vows dispersed In air, by winds all dissipated go, After these lovers have the greedy thirst Appeased, with which their fevered palates glow. In this example which I offer, versed, Their prayers and tears to credit be more slow. Cheaply, dear ladies mine, is wisdom bought By those who wit at other's cost are taught. VII Of those in the first flower of youth beware, Whose visage is so soft and smooth to sight: For past, as soon as bred, their fancies are; Like a straw fire their every appetite. So the keen hunter follows up the hare In heat and cold, on shore, or mountain-height; Nor, when 'tis taken, more esteems the prize; And only hurries after that which flies. VIII Such is the practise of these striplings who, What time you treat them with austerity, Love and revere you, and such homage do, As those who pay their service faithfully; But vaunt no sooner victory, than you From mistresses shall servants grieve to be; And mourn to see the fickle love they owed, From you diverted, and elsewhere bestowed. IX I not for this (for that were wrong) opine That you should cease to love; for you, without A lover, like uncultivated vine, Would be, that has no prop to wind about. But the first down I pray you to decline, To fly the volatile, inconstant rout; To make your choice the riper fruits among, Nor yet to gather what too long has hung. X A daughter they have found (above was said) Of the proud king who ruled the Friesland state; That with Bireno's brother was to wed, As far as rumour tells; but to relate The truth, a longing in Bireno bred The sight of food so passing delicate; And he to talk his palate deemed would be, For other's sake, a foolish courtesy. XI The gentle damsel had not past fourteen, Was beautiful and fresh, and like a rose, When this first opening from its bud is seen, And with the vernal sun expands and grows. To say Bireno loved the youthful queen Were little; with less blaze lit tinder glows, Or ripened corn, wherever envious hand Of foe amid the grain has cast a brand, XII Than that which on Bireno's bosom fed, And to his marrow burned; when, weeping sore The fate of her unhappy father dead, He saw her bathed in ceaseless tears deplore: And, as cold water, on the cauldron shed, Shops short the bubbling wave, which boiled before; So was the raging rife Olympia blew Within his breast, extinguished by a new. XIII Nor feels Bireno mere satiety; He loathes her so, he ill endures her sight; And, if his hope he long deferred, will die: For other such his fickle appetite! Yet till the day prefixed to satisfy His fond desire, so feigns the wary knight, Olympia less to love than to adore He seems, and but her pleasure to explore. XIV And if the other he too much caress, Who cannot but caress her, there are none See evil in the deed, but rather guess It is in pity, is in goodness done: Since to raise up and comfort in distress Whom Fortune's wheel beats down in changeful run, Was never blamed; with glory oftener paid; -- So much the more, a young -- a harmless maid. XV Almighty God! how fallible and vain Is human judgment, dimmed by clouds obscure! Bireno's actions, impious and profane, By others are reputed just and pure. Already stooping to their oars, the train Have loosed his vessel from the port secure, And with the duke and his companions steer For Zealand through the deep, with meery cheer. XVI Already Holland and its headlands all Are left astern, and now descried no more; Since to shun Friesland they to larboard hawl. And keep their course more nigh the Scottish shore: When they are overtaken by a squall, And drive three days the open sea before: Upon the third, when now, near eventide, A barren and unpeopled isle is spied. XVII As soon as they were harboured in a hight, Olympia landed and the board was spread; She there contented, with the faithless knight, Supt, unsuspecting any cause for dread. Thence, with Bireno, where a tent was pight In pleasant place, repaired, and went to bed. The others of their train returned abroad, And rested in their ship, in haven moored. XVIII The fear and late sea sorrow, which had weighed So long upon the dame and broke her rest, The finding herself safe in greenwood shade Removed from noise, and, for her tranquil breast (Knowing her lover was beside her laid) No further thoughts, no further cares molest, Olympia lap in slumber so profound, No sheltered bear or dormouse sleeps more sound. XIX The lover false, who, hatching treason lies, Stole from his bed in silence, when he knew She slept: his clothes he in a bundle ties, Nor other raiment on his body threw. Then issuing forth from the pavilion hies, As if on new-born wings, towards his crew; Who, roused, unmoor without a cry, as he Commands, and loosen thence and put to sea. XX Behind the land was left; and there to pine Olympia, who yet slept the woods among; Till from her gilded wheels the frosty rhine Aurora upon earth beneath had flung; And the old woe, beside the tumbling brine, Lamenting, halcyons mournful descant sung; When she, 'twixt sleep and waking, made a strain To reach her loved Bireno, but in vain. XXI She no one found: the dame her arm withdrew; She tried again, yet no one found; she spread Both arms, now here, now there, and sought anew; Now either leg; but yet no better sped. Fear banished sleep; she oped her eyes: in view Was nothing: she no more her widowed bed Would keep, but from the couch in fury sprung, And headlong forth from the pavilion flung. XXII And seaward ran, her visage tearing sore, Presaging, and now certain of her plight: She beat her bosom, and her tresses tore, And looked (the moon was shining) if she might Discover any thing beside the shore; Nor, save the shore, was any thing in sight. She calls Bireno, and the caverns round, Pitying her grief, Bireno's name rebound. XXIII On the far shore there rose a rock; below Scooped by the breaker's beating frequently: The cliff was hollowed underneath, in show Of arch, and overhung the foaming sea. Olympia (MIND such vigour did bestow) Sprang up the frowning crest impetuously, And, at a distance, stretched by favouring gale, Thence saw her cruel lord's departing sail. XXIV Saw it, or seemed to see: for ill her eyes, Things through the air, yet dim and hazy, view. She falls, all-trembling, on the ground, and lies With face than snow more cold and white in hue: But when she has again found strength to rise, Guiding her voice towards the bark which flew, Calling with all her might, the unhappy dame Calls often on her cruel consort's name. XXV Where unavailing was the feeble note, She wept and clapt her hands in agony. "Without its freight," she cried, "thy ship does float. -- Where, cruel, dost thou fly so swiftly? -- Me Receive as well: -- small hinderance to thy boat, Which bears my spirit, would my body be." And she her raiment waving in her hand, Signed to the frigate to return to land. XXVI But the loud wind which, sweeping ocean, bears The faithless stripling's sail across the deep, Bears off as well the shriek, and moan, and prayers Of sad Olympia, sorrowing on the steep. Thrice, cruel to herself, the dame prepares From the high rock amid the waves to leap. But from the water lifts at length her sight, And there returns where she had passed the night. XXVII Stretched on the bed, upon her face she lay, Bathing it with her tears. "Last night in thee Together two found shelter," did she say; "Alas! why two together are not we At rising? False Bireno! cursed day That I was born! What here remains to me To do? What can be done? -- Alone, betrayed -- Who will console me, who afford me aid? XXVIII "Nor man I see, nor see I work, which shows That man inhabits in this isle; nor I See ship, in which (a refuge from my woes), Embarking, I from hence may hope to fly. Here shall I starve; nor any one to close My eyes, or give me sepulture, be by, Save wolf perchance, who roves this wood, a tomb Give me, alas! in his voracious womb. XXIX "I live in terror, and appear to see Rough bear or lion issue even now, Or tiger, from beneath the greenwood tree, Or other beast with teeth and claws: but how Can ever cruel beast inflict on me, O cruel beast, a fouler death than thou? Enough for them to slay me once! while I Am made by thee a thousand deaths to die. XXX "But grant, e'en now, some skipper hither fare, Who may for pity bear me hence away; And that I so eschew wolf, lion, bear, Torture, and dearth, and every horrid way Of death; to Holland shall he take me, where For thee is guarded fortilage and bay; Or take me to the land where I was born, If this thou hast from me by treachery torn? XXXI "Thou, with pretence, from me my state didst wrest Of our connection and of amity; And quickly of my land thy troops possest, To assure the rule unto thyself. Shall I Return to Flanders where I sold the rest, Though little, upon which I lived, to buy Thee needful succour and from prison bear? Wretch, whither shall I go? -- I know not where. XXXII "Can I to Friesland go, where I to reign As queen was called, and this for thee forewent; Where both my brethren and my sire were slain, And every other good from me was rent? -- Thee would I not, thou ingrate, with my pain Reproach, not therefore deal thee punishment: As well as I, the story dost thou know; Now, see the meed thou dost for this bestow! XXXIII "Oh! may I but escape the wild corsair, Nor taken be, and after sold for slave! Rather than this may lion, wolf, or bear, Tiger, or other beast, if fiercer rave, Me with his claws and rushes rend and tear, And drag my bleeding body to his cave." So saying she her golden hair offends, And lock by lock the scattered tresses rends. XXXIV She to the shore's extremest verge anew, Tossing her head, with hair dishevelled, run; And seemed like maid beside herself, and who Was by ten fiends possessed, instead of one; Of like the frantic Hecuba, at view Of murdered Polydore, her infant son; Fixed on a stone she gazed upon the sea, Nor less than real stone seemed stone to be. XXXV But let her grieve till my return. To show Now of the Child I wish: his weary way Rogero, in the noon's intensest glow, Takes by the shore: the burning sunbeams play Upon the hill and thence rebound; below Boils the white sand; while heated with the ray, Little is wanting in that journey dire, But that the arms he wears are all on fire. XXXVI While to the warrior thirst and labour sore, Still toiling through that heavy sand, as he Pursued his path along the sunny shore, Were irksome and displeasing company, Beneath the shadow of a turret hoar, Which rose beside the beach, amid the sea, He found three ladies of Alcina's court, As such distinguished by their dress and port. XXXVII Reclined on Alexandrian carpets rare The ladies joyed the cool in great delight; About them various wines in vessels were, And every sort of comfit nicely dight; Fast by, and sporting with the ripple there, Lay, waiting on their needs, a pinnace light, Until a breeze should fill her sail anew: For then no breath upon the waters blew. XXXVIII They, who beheld along the shifting sand Rogero wend, upon his way intent, And saw thirst figured on his lips, and scanned His troubled visage, all with sweat besprent, Began to pray, `on what he had in hand He would not show his heart so deeply bent, But that he in the cool and grateful shade Would rest his weary limbs, beside them laid.' XXXIX To hold the stirrup one approaching near, Would aid him to alight: the other bore A cup of chrystal to the cavalier, With foaming wine, which raised his thirst the more; But to the music of their speech no ear He lent, who weened if he his way forbore For anything, each lett would time supply To Alcina to arrive, who now was nigh. XL Now so saltpetre fine and sulphur pure, Touched with the fiery spark, blaze suddenly; Not so loud ocean raves, when the obscure Whirlwind descends and camps in middle sea, As viewing thus the knight proceed secure Upon his journey, and aware that he Scorns them, who yet believe they beauteous are, Kindled the third of those three damsels fair. XLI As loud as she could raise her voice, she said, "Thou art not gentle, nor art thou a knight; And hast from other arms and horse conveyed: Which never could be thine by better right. So be thy theft, if well I guess, appaid By death, which this may worthily requite! Foul thief, churl, haughty ingrate, may I thee Burned, gibbeted, or cut in quarters see!" XLII Beside all these and more injurious cries, Which the proud damsel at the warrior throws, Though to her taunts Rogero nought replies, Who weens small fame from such a contest flows; She with her sisters to the frigate hies, Which waits them, and aboard the tender goes; And plying fast her oars, pursues the knight Along the sandy beach, still kept in sight. XLIII On him with threat and curse she ever cried; Whose tongue collected still fresh cause for blame. Meanwhile, where to the lovelier fairy's side The passage lay across a straight, he came; And there an ancient ferryman espied Put from the other shore with punctual aim, As if forewarned and well prepared, the seer Waited the coming of the cavalier. XLIV The ferryman put forth the Child to meet, To bear him to a better shore rejoicing: he Appeared as all benign and all discreet, If of the heart the face is warranty. Giving God thanks, Rogero took his seat Aboard the bark, and passed the quiet sea, Discoursing with that ancient pilot, fraught With wisdom, and by long experience taught. XLV He praised Rogero much, that he had fled In time from false Alcina, and before To him the dame had given the chalice dread, Her lover's final guerdon evermore. Next that he had to Logistilla sped, Where he should duly witness holy lore, And beauty infinite and grace enjoy, Which feed and nourish hearts they never cloy. XLVI "Her shall you, struck with wonderment, revere," (He said), "when first you shall behold the fay; But better contemplate her lofty cheer, And you no other treasure shall appay. In this her love from other differs; fear And hope in other on the bosom prey: In hers Desire demands not aught beside, And with the blessing seen is satisfied. XLVII "You shall in nobler studies be professed, Tutored by her, than bath and costly fare, Song, dance, and perfumes; as how fashioned best, Your thoughts may tower more high than hawks in air; And how some of the glory of the blest You here may in the mortal body share." So speaking, and yet distant from the shore, To the safe bank approached the pilot hoar. XLVIII When he beholds forth-issuing from the strand, A fleet of ships, which all towards him steer. With these came wronged Alcina, with a band Of many vassals, gathered far and near; To risk the ruin of herself and land, Or repossess the thing she held so dear. Love, no light cause, incites the dame aggrieved, Nor less the bitter injury received. XLIX Such choler she had never felt before As that which now upon her bosom fed: And hence she made her followers ply the oar Till the white foam on either bank was shed The deafening noise and din o'er sea and shore, By echo every where repeated, spread, "Now -- now, Rogero, bare the magic shield, Or in the strife be slain, or basely yield": L Thus Logistilla's pilot; and beside, So saying, seized the pouch, wherein was dight The buckler, and the covering torn aside, Exposed to open view the shining light. The enchanted splendor, flashing far and wide, So sore offends the adversaries' sight, They from their vessels drop amazed and blind, Tumbling from prow before, and poop behind. LI One who stood sentry on the citadel Descried the navy of the invading dame, And backwards rang the castle larum-bell, Whence speedy succours to the haven came. The artillery rained like storm, whose fury fell On all who would Rogero scathe and shame: So that such aid was brought him in the strife, As saved the warrior's liberty and life. LII Four ladies are arrived upon the strand, Thither by Logistilla sped in haste: Leagued with the valiant Anrondica stand Fronesia sage, Dicilla good, and chaste Sofrosina, who, as she has in had More than the others, 'mid the foremost placed, Conspicuous flames. Forth issues from the fort A matchless host, and files towards the port. LIII Beneath the castle, safe from wind and swell, Of many ships and stout, a squadron lay; Which, in the harbour, at a sound from bell, -- A word, were fit for action, night or day; And thus by land and sea was battle, fell And furious, waged on part of either fay: Whence was Alcina's realm turned upside down, Of which she had usurped her sister's crown. LIV Oh! of how many battles the success Is different from what was hoped before! Not only failed the dame to repossess, As thought, her lover flying from her shore, But out of ships, even now so numberless, That ample ocean scarce the navy bore, From all her vessels, to the flames a prey, But with one bark escaped the wretched fay. LV Alcina flies; and her sad troop around Routed and taken, burnt or sunk, remains To have lost Rogero, sorrow more profound Wakes in her breast than all her other pains; And she in bitter tears for ever drowned, Of the Child's loss by night and day complains; And bent to end her woes, with many a sigh, Often laments her that she cannot die. LVI No fairy dies, or can, while overhead The sun shall burn, or heaven preserve their stile, Or Clotho had been moved to cut her thread, Touched by such grief; or, as on funeral pile Fair Dido, she beneath the steel had bled; Or, haply, like the gorgeous Queen of Nile, In mortal slumber would have closed her eye: But fairies cannot at their pleasure die. LVII Return we, where eternal fame is due, Leaving Alcina in her trouble sore: I speak of valorous Rogero, who Had disembarked upon the safer shore. He turned his back upon the waters blue, Giving God thanks for all with pious lore; And on dry ground now landed, made repair Towards the lofty castle planted there. LVIII Than this a stronger or more bright in show Was never yet before of mortal sight, Or after, viewed; with stones the ramparts glow More rich than carbuncle or diamond bright. We of like gems discourse not here below, And he who would their nature read aright Must thither speed: none such elsewhere, I ween, Except perhaps in heaven above, are seen. LIX What gives to them superiority O'er every other sort of gem, confessed, Is, man in these his very soul may see; His vices and his virtues see expressed. Hence shall he after heed no flattery, Nor yet by wrongful censure be depressed. His form he in the lucid mirror eyes, And by the knowledge of himself grows wise. LX Their rays, which imitate the sunshine, fill All round about with such a flood of light, That he who has them, Phoebus, may at will Create himself a day, in thy despite. Nor only marvellous the gems; the skill Of the artificer and substance bright So well contend for mastery, of the two, 'Tis hard to judge where preference is due. LXI On arches raised, whereon the firmament Seemed to repose as props, so fair in show Are lovely gardens, and of such extent, As even would be hard to have below. Clustering 'twixt lucid tower or battlement, Green odoriferous shrubs are seen to grow, Which through the summer and the winter shoot, And teem with beauteous blossom and ripe fruit. LXII Never in any place such goodly tree Is grown, except within these gardens fine; Or rose, or violet of like quality, Lilies, or amaranth, or jessamine. Elsewhere it seems as if foredoomed to be Born with one sun, to live and to decline, Upon its widowed stalk the blossom dies, Subject to all the changes of the skies. LXIII But here the verdure still is permanent, Still permanent the eternal blossoms are; Not that kind nature, in her government, So nicely tempers here the genial air, But that, unneeding any influence lent By planet, Logistilla's zeal and care Ever keep fast (what may appear a thing Impossible) her own perpetual spring. LXIV That such a gentle lord had sought her rest, Did much the prudent Logistilla please, And she commanded he should be carest, And all should seek to do him courtesies. Sometime had Sir Astolpho been her guest, Whom with a joyful heart Rogero sees. There in few days resorted all the crew, Changed by Melissa to their shapes anew. LXV When they a day or more their weariness Had eased, Rogero sought the prudent fay; With him the duke Astolpho, who no less Desired to measure back his western way. Melissa was for both embassadress, And for the warlike pair, with humble say To favour, warn and help them, prayed the dame; So that they might return from whence they came. LXVI "I" (said the fay) "will think upon this need, And in two days the pair will expedite." Then thought how good Rogero she should speed. And afterwards how aid the English knight. She wills the first shall, on the griffin steed, To the Aquitanian shores direct his flight; But first will fashion for the flying-horse A bit, to guide him and restrain his course. LXVII She shows him what to do, if he on high Would make him soar, or down to earth would bring, And what, would he in circles make him fly, Or swiftly speed, or pause upon the wing. And all that skilful horsemen use to try Upon plain ground, beneath her tutoring, Rogero learned in air, and gained dominion Over the griffin-steed of soaring pinion. LXVIII When at all points Rogero was prepared, He bade farewell to the protecting fay, For ever to the loving knight endeared, And issued from her realm upon his way. I first of him, who on his journey fared In happy hour, and afterwards shall say Of the English knight, who spent more time and pain Seeking the friendly court of Charlemagne. LXIX Rogero thence departs; but as before Takes not the way he took in his despite, When him above the sea the courser bore, And seldom was the land beneath in sight. But taught to make him beat his wings and soar, Here, there, as liked him best, with docile flight, Returning, he another path pursued; As Magi erst, who Herod's snare eschewed. LXX Borne hither, good Rogero, leaving Spain, Had sought, in level line, the Indian lands, Where they are watered by the Eastern main; Where the two fairies strove with hostile bands. He now resolved to visit other reign Than that where Aeolus his train commands; And finish so the round he had begun, Circling the world beneath him like the sun. LXXI Here the Catay, and there he Mangiane, Passing the great Quinsay beheld; in air Above Imavus turned, and Sericane Left on the right; and thence did ever bear From the north Scythians to the Hyrcanian main: So reached Sarmatia's distant land; and, where Europe and Asia's parted climes divide, Russ, Prussian, he and Pomeranian spied. LXXII Although the Child by every wish was pressed Quickly to seek his Bradamant, yet he With taste of roving round the world possest, Would not desist from it, till Hungary He had seen; and Polacks, Germans, and the rest Should in his wide extended circuit see, Inhabiting that horrid, northern land; And came at last to England's farthest strand. LXXIII Yet think not, sir, that in so long a flight, The warrior is for ever on the wing. Who lodges, housed in tavern every night, As best as can, through his capacious ring. So nights and days he passes: such delight Prospects to him of land and ocean bring. Arrived one morn nigh London-town, he stopt; And over Thames the flying courser dropt. LXXIV Where he in meadows to the city nigh Saw troops of men at arms, and footmen spread; Who, to the drum and trumpet marching by, Divided into goodly bands, were led Before Rinaldo, flower of chivalry; He that (if you remember it) was said To have been sent by Charlemagne, and made His envoy to these parts in search of aid. LXXV Rogero came exactly as the show Of that fair host was made without the town, And of a knight the occasion sought to know; But from the griffin-horse first lighted down: And he who courteous was, informed him how Of kingdoms holding of the British crown, English, Scotch, Irish, and the Islands nigh, Those many banners were, upreared on high: LXXVI And added, having ended this display Of arms, the troops would file towards the strand, Where vessels anchored in the harbour lay, Waiting to bear them to another land. "The French beseiged, rejoice in this array, And hope (he said) deliverance through the band. But that I may of all inform you well, I of each troop shall separately tell. LXXVII "Lo! where yon mighty banner planted stands, Which pards and flower-de-luces does unfold, That our great captain to the wind expands, Under whose ensign are the rest enrolled: The warrior's name, renowned throughout these lands, Is Leonetto, flower of all the bold; Lancaster's duke, and nephew to the king, Valiant in war, and wise in counselling. LXXVIII "That next the royal gonfalon, which stirred By fluttering wind, is borne towards the mount, Which on green field, three pinions of a bird Bears agent, speaks Sir Richard, Warwick's count. The Duke of Gloucester's blazon is the third, Two antlers of a stag, and demi-front; The Duke of Clarence shows a torch, and he Is Duke of York who bears that verdant tree. LXXIX "Upon the Duke of Norfolk's gonfalon You see a lance into three pieces broke; The thunder on the Earl of Kent's; upon Pembroke's a griffin; underneath a yoke; In Essex's, conjoined, two snakes are shown: By yonder lifted balance is bespoke The Duke of Suffolk; and Northumbria's Earl A garland does on azure field unfurl. LXXX "Arundel's Earl is yonder cavalier, Whose banner bears a foundering bark! In sight The next, is Berkeley's noble Marquis; near Are March and Richmond's Earls: the first on white Shows a cleft mount; a palm the second peer; A pine amid the waves the latter knight. The next of Dorset and Southampton's town, Are earls; this bears a car, and that a crown. LXXXI "The valiant Raymond, Earl of Devon, bears The hawk, which spreads her wings above her nest; While or and sable he of Worcester wears: Derby's a dog, a bear is Oxford's crest. There, as his badge, a cross of chrystal rears Bath's wealthy prelate, camped among the rest. The broken seat on dusky field, next scan, Of Somerset's good duke, Sir Ariman. LXXXII "Forty-two thousand muster in array, The men at arms and mounted archers there. By a hundred I misreckon not, or they, The fighting footmen, twice as many are. Those ensigns yellow, brown, and green, survey, And that striped blue and black. The foot repair Each to his separate flag where these are spread; By Godfrey, Henry, Hermant, Edward, led. LXXXIII "The first is the Duke of Buckingham; and he, The next, is Henry, Earl of Salisbury; Old Hermant Aberga'nny hold in fee, That Edward is the Earl of Shrewsbury. In those who yonder lodge, the English see Camped eastward; and now westward turn your eye, Where you shall thirty thousand Scots, a crew Led by their monarch's son, Zerbino, view. LXXXIV "The lion 'twixt two unicorns behold Upon the standard of the Scottish king! Which has a sword of silver in its hold. There camps his son: of all his following Is none so beauteous: nature broke the mould In which she cast him, after fashioning Her work: Is none in whom such chivalry And valour shines. The Duke of Rothsay he! LXXXV "Behold the Earl of Huntley's flag display Upon an azure field a gilded bar: In that a leopard in the toils survey, The bearing of the noble Duke of Mar. With many birds, and many colours gay, See Alcabrun's, a valiant man in war; Who neither duke, nor count, nor marquis hight, Is in his savage country first of right. LXXXVI "The Duke of Strathforth shows the bird, who strains His daring eyes to keep the sun in view; The Earl Lurcanio, that in Angus reigns, A bull, whose flanks are torn by deerhounds two. See there the Duke of Albany, who stains His ensign's field with colours white and blue. The Earl of Buchan next his banner bears, In which a dragon vert a vulture tears. LXXXVII "Herman, the lord of Forbes, conducts that band, And stripes his gonfalon with black and white; With Errol's earl upon his better hand, Who on a field of green displays a light. Now see the Irish, next the level land, Into two squadrons ordered for the fight. Kildare's redoubted earl commands the first; Lord Desmond leads the next, in mountains nursed. LXXXVIII "A burning pine by Kildare is displayed; By Desmond on white field a crimson bend. Nor only England, Scotland, Ireland, aid King Charlemagne; but to assist him wend The Swede and Norse, and succours are conveyed From Thule, and the farthest Iceland's end. All lands that round them lie, in fine, increase His host, by nature enemies to peace. LXXXIX "Issued from cavern and from forest brown, They sixteen thousand are, or little less; Visage, legs, arms, and bosom overgrown With hair, like beasts. Lo! yonder, where they press About a standard white, the level down Of lances seems a bristling wilderness. Such Moray's flag, the savage squadron's head, Who means with Moorish blood to paint it red." XC What time Rogero sees the fair array, Whose bands to succour ravaged France prepare, And notes and talks of ensigns they display, And names of British lords, to him repair One and another, crowding to survey His courser, single of its kind, or rare: All thither hasten, wondering and astound, And compassing the warrior, form a round. XCI So that to raise more wonder in the train. And to make better sport, as him they eyed, Rogero shook the flying courser's rein, And lightly with the rowels touched his side: He towards heaven, uprising, soared amain, And left behind each gazer stupefied. Having from end to end the English force So viewed, he next for Ireland shaped his course; XCII And saw fabulous Hibernia, where The goodly, sainted elder made the cave, In which men cleansed from all offences are; Such mercy there, it seems, is found to save. Thence o'er that sea he spurred, through yielding air, Whose briny waves the lesser Britain lave; And, looking down, Angelica descried In passing, to the rock with fetters tied; XCIII Bound to the naked rock upon the strand, In the isle of tears; for the isle of tears was hight, That which was peopled by the inhuman band, So passing fierce and full of foul despite; Who (as I told above) on every hand Cruized with their scattered fleet by day or night; And every beauteous woman bore away, Destined to be a monster's evil prey: XCIV There but that morning bound in cruel wise; Where (to devour a living damsel sped) The orc, that measureless sea-monster, hies, Which on abominable food is fed. How on the beach the maid became the prize Of the rapacious crew, above was said, Who found her sleeping near the enchanter hoar, Who her had thither brought by magic lore. XCV The cruel and inhospitable crew To the voracious beast the dame expose Upon the sea-beat shore, as bare to view As nature did at first her work compose. Not even a veil she had, to shade the hue Of the white lily and vermillion rose, Which mingled in her lovely members meet, Proof to December-snow and July-heat. XCVI Her would Rogero have some statue deemed Of alabaster made, or marble rare, Which to the rugged rock so fastened seemed By the industrious sculptor's cunning care, But that he saw distinct a tear which streamed Amid fresh-opening rose and lily fair, Stand on her budding paps beneath in dew, And that her golden hair dishevelled flew. XCVII And as he fastened his on her fair eyes, His Bradamant he called to mind again. Pity and love within his bosom rise At once, and ill he can from tears refrain: And in soft tone he to the damsel cries, (When he has checked his flying courser's rein) "O lady, worthy but that chain to wear, With which Love's faithful servants fettered are, XCVIII "And most unworthy this or other ill, What wretch has had the cruelty to wound And gall those snowy hands with livid stain, Thus painfully with griding fetters bound?" At this she cannot choose but show like grain, Of crimson spreading on an ivory ground; Knowing those secret beauties are espied, Which, howsoever lovely, shame would hide; XCIX And gladly with her hands her face would hood, Were they not fastened to the rugged stone: But with her tears (for this at least she could) Bedewed it, and essayed to hold it down. Sobbing some while the lovely damsel stood; Then loosed her tongue and spake in feeble tone; But ended not; arrested in mid-word, By a loud noise which in the sea was heard. C Lo! and behold! the unmeasured-beast appears, Half surging and half hidden, in such sort As sped by roaring wind long carack steers From north or south, towards her destined port. So the sea monster to his food repairs: And now the interval between is short. Half dead the lady is through fear endured, Ill by that other's comfort reassured. CI Rogero overhand, not in the rest Carries his lance, and beats, with downright blow, The monstrous orc. What this resembled best, But a huge, writhing mass, I do not know; Which wore no form of animal exprest, Save in the head, with eyes and teeth of sow. His forehead, 'twixt the eyes, Rogero smites, But as on steel or rock the weapon lights. CII When he perceives the first of no avail, The knight returns to deal a better blow; The orc, who sees the shifting shadow sail Of those huge pinions on the sea below, In furious heat, deserts his sure regale On shore, to follow that deceitful show: And rolls and reels behind it, as it fleets. Rogero drops, and oft the stroke repeats. CIII As eagle, that amid her downward flight, Surveys amid the grass a snake unrolled, Or where she smoothes upon a sunny height, Her ruffled plumage, and her scales of gold, Assails it not where prompt with poisonous bite To hiss and creep; but with securer hold Gripes it behind, and either pinion clangs, Lest it should turn and wound her with its fangs; CIV So the fell orc Rogero does not smite With lance or faulchion where the tushes grow, But aims that 'twixt the ears his blow may light; Now on the spine, or now on tail below. And still in time descends or soars upright, And shifts his course, to cheat the veering foe: But as if beating on a jasper block, Can never cleave the hard and rugged rock. CV With suchlike warfare is the mastiff vext By the bold fly in August's time of dust, Or in the month before or in the next, This full of yellow spikes and that of must; For ever by the circling plague perplext, Whose sting into his eyes or snout is thrust: And oft the dog's dry teeth are heard to fall; But reaching once the foe, he pays for all. CVI With his huge tail the troubled waves so sore The monster beats, that they ascend heaven-high; And the knight knows not if he swim, or soar Upon his feathered courser in mid sky; And oft were fain to find himself ashore: For, if long time the spray so thickly fly, He fears it so will bathe his hippogryph, That he shall vainly covet gourd or skiff. CVII He then new counsel took, and 'twas the best, With other arms the monster to pursue; And lifting from his shield the covering vest, To dazzle with the light his blasted view. Landward towards the rock-chained maid he pressed, And on her little finger, lest a new Mischance should follow, slipt the ring, which brought The enchantment of the magic shield to nought. CVIII I say the ring, which Bradamant, to free Rogero, from Brunello's hand had rent, And which, to snatch him from Alcina, she Had next to India by Melissa sent. Melissa (as before was said by me), In aid of many used the instrument; And to Rogero this again had born; By whom 'twas ever on his finger worn. CIX He gave it now Angelica; for he Feared lest the buckler's light should be impaired, And willed as well those beauteous eyes should be Defended, which had him already snared. Pressing beneath his paunch full half the sea, Now to the shore the monstrous whale repaired: Firm stood Rogero, and the veil undone, Appeared to give the sky another sun. CX He in the monster's eyes the radiance throws, Which works as it was wont in other time. As trout or grayling to the bottom goes In stream, which mountaineer disturbs with lime; So the enchanted buckler overthrows The orc, reversed among the foam and slime. Rogero here and there the beast astound Still beats, but cannot find the way to wound. CXI This while the lady begs him not to bray Longer the monster's rugged scale in vain. "For heaven's sake turn and loose me" (did she say, Still weeping) "ere the orc awake again. Bear me with thee, and drown me in mid-way. Let me not this foul monster's food remain." By her just plaint Rogero moved, forebore, Untied the maid, and raised her from the shore. CXII Upon the beach the courser plants his feet, And goaded by the rowel, towers in air, And gallops with Rogero in mid seat, While on the croup behind him sate the fair; Who of his banquet so the monster cheat; For him too delicate and dainty fare. Rogero turns and with thick kisses plies The lady's snowy breast and sparkling eyes. CXIII He kept no more the way, as he before Proposed, for compassing the whole of Spain: But stopt his courser on the neighbouring shore Where lesser Britain runs into the main. Upon the bank there rose an oakwood hoar, Where Philomel for ever seemed to plain; I' the middle was a meadow with a fountain, And, at each end, a solitary mountain. CXIV 'Twas here the wishful knight first checked the rein, And dropping in the meadow, made his steed Furl, yet not shut so close, his wings again, As he had spread them wide for better speed. Down lights Rogero, and forbears with pain From other leap; but this his arms impede: His arms impede; a bar to his desire, And he must doff them would he slake the fire. CXV Now here, now there, confused by different throng, Rogero did his shining arms undo: Never the task appeared to him so long; For where he loosed one knot, he fastened two. But, sir, too long continued is this song, And haply may as well have wearied you; So that I shall delay to other time, When it may better please, my tedious rhyme. CANTO 11 ARGUMENT Assisted by the magic ring she wears, Angelica evanishes from view. Next in a damsel, whom a giant bears Beneath his arm, his bride Rogero true Beholds. Orlando to the shore repairs, Where the fell orc so many damsels slew; Olympia frees, and spoils the beast of life: Her afterwards Oberto takes to wife. I Although a feeble rein, in mid career, Will oft suffice to stop courageous horse; 'Tis seldom Reason's bit will serve to steer Desire, or turn him from his furious course, When pleasure is in reach: like headstrong bear, Whom from the honeyed meal 'tis ill to force, If once he scent the tempting mess, or sup A drop, which hangs upon the luscious cup. II What reason then Rogero shall withhold From taking with Angelica delight, -- That gentle maid, there naked in his hold, In the lone forest, and secure from sight? Of Bradamant he thinks not, who controlled His bosom erst: and foolish were the knight, If thinking of that damsel as before, By this he had not set an equal store; III Warmed by whose youthful beauties, the severe Xenocrates would not have been more chaste. The impatient Child had dropt both shield and spear, And hurrying now his other arms uncased; When, casting down her eyes in shame and fear, The virtuous ring upon her finger placed, Angelica descried, and which of yore From her Brunello in Albracca bore. IV This is the ring she carried into France, When thither first the damsel took her way; With her the brother, bearer of the lance, After, the paladin, Astolpho's prey. With this she Malagigi's spells and trance Made vain by Merlin's stair; and on a day Orlando freed, with many knights and good, From Dragontina's cruel servitude: V With this passed viewless from the turret-cell, Where her that bad old man had mewed; but why Recount its different wonders, if as well You know the virtues of the ring as I? From her this even in her citadel, His monarch Agramant to satisfy, Brunello took: since where she had been crost By Fortune, till her native realm was lost. VI Now that she this upon her hand surveys, She is so full of pleasure and surprise, She doubts it is a dream, and, in amaze, Hardly believes her very hand and eyes. Then softly to her mouth the hoop conveys, And, quicker than the flash which cleaves the skies, From bold Rogero's sight her beauty shrowds, As disappears the sun, concealed in clouds. VII Yet still Rogero gazed like wight distraught, And hurried here and there with fruitless speed: But when he had recalled the ring to thought, Foiled and astounded, cursed his little heed. And now the vanished lady, whom he sought, Of that ungrateful and discourteous deed Accusing stood, wherewith she had repaid, (Unfitting recompense) his generous aid. VIII "Ungrateful damsel! and is this the pay You render for the service done?" (said he) "Why rather would you steal my ring away Than have it as a welcome gift from me? Not only this, (but use me as you may) I, and my shield and courser, yours shall be; So you no more conceal your beauteous cheer. Cruel, though answering not, I know you hear." IX So saying, like one blind, with bootless care, Feeling his way about the fount he strayed. How often he embraced the empty air, Hoping in this to have embraced the maid! Meanwhile, now far removed, the flying fair Had halted not, till to a cave conveyed. Formed in a mountain was that harbour rude; Spacious, and for her need supplied with food. X 'Twas here an aged herdsman, one who tended A numerous troop of mares, had made his won: These, seeking pasture, through the valley wended, Where the green grass was fed by freshening run: While stalls on either side the cave, defended His charge from the oppressive noon-tide sun; Angelica, within, that livelong day, Unseen of prying eyes, prolonged her stay; XI And about evening, when refreshed with rest And food, she deemed her course she might renew; In certain rustic weeds her body dressed: How different from those robes of red, or blue, Green, yellow, purple, her accustomed vest, So various in its fashion, shape, and hue! Yet her not so that habit misbecame, But that she looked the fair and noble dame. XII Then Phillis' and Neaera's praise forbear, And ye who sing of Amaryllis cease, Or flying Galataea, not so fair, Tityrus and Melibaeus, with your peace! 'Twas here the beauteous lady took a mare, Which liked her best, of all that herd's increase. Then, and then first conceived the thought, again To seek in the Levant her antient reign. XIII This while Rogero, after he had passed Long space in hope the maid might re-appear, Awakened from his foolish dream at last, And found she was not nigh, and did not hear. Then to remount his griffin-courser cast, In earth and air accustomed to career. But, having slipt his bit, the winged horse Had towered and soared in air a freer course. XIV To his first ill addition grave and sore Was to have lost the bird of rapid wing, Which he no better than the mockery bore Put on him by the maid; but deeper sting Than this or that, implants, and pains him more, The thought of having lost the precious ring; Not for its power so much, esteemed above Its worth, as given him by his lady love. XV Afflicted beyond measure, he, with shield Cast on his shoulder, and new-cased in mail, Left the sea-side, and through a grassy field Pursued his way, towards a spacious vale: Where he beheld a path, by wood concealed, The widest and most beaten in the dale. Nor far had wound the closest shades within, Ere on his right he heard a mighty din. XVI He heard a din, and fearful clashing sound Of arms, and hurrying on with eager pace 'Twixt tree and tree, two furious champions found, Waging fierce fight in close and straightened place: Who to each other (warring on what ground I know not) neither showed regard nor grace. The one a giant was of haughty cheer, And one a bold and gallant cavalier. XVII Covered with shield and sword, one, leaping, sped Now here now there, and thus himself defended, Lest a two-handed mace upon his head Should fall, with which the giant still offended: -- On the field lay his horse, already dead. Rogero paused, and to the strife attended: And straight his wishes leant towards the knight, Whom he would fain see conqueror in the fight: XVIII Yet not for this would lend the champion aid, But to behold the cruel strife stood nigh. Lo! a two-handed stroke the giant made Upon the lesser warrior's casque, and by The mighty blow the knight was overlaid: The other, when astound he saw him lie, To deal the foe his death, his helm untied, So that the warrior's face Rogero spied. XIX Of his sweet lady, of his passing fair, And dearest Bradamant Rogero spies The lovely visage of its helmet bare; Towards whom, to deal her death, the giant hies: So that, advancing with his sword in air, To sudden battle him the Child defies, But he, who will not wait for new alarm, Takes the half-lifeless lady in his arm, XX And on his shoulder flings and bears away; As sometimes wolf a little lamb will bear, Or eagle in her crooked claws convey Pigeon, or such-like bird, through liquid air. Rogero runs with all the speed he may, Who sees how needed is his succour there. But with such strides the giant scours the plain, Him with his eyes the knight pursues with pain. XXI This flying and that following, the two Kept a close path which widened still, and they Piercing that forest, issued forth to view On a wide meadow, which without it lay. -- No more of this. Orlando I pursue, That bore Cymosco's thunder-bolt away; And this had in the deepest bottom drowned, That never more the mischief might be found. XXII But with small boot: for the impious enemy Of human nature, taught the bolt to frame, After the shaft, which darting from the sky Pierces the cloud and comes to ground in flame, Who, when he tempted Eve to eat and die With the apple, hardly wrought more scathe and shame, Some deal before, or in our grandsires' day, Guided a necromancer where it lay. XXIII More than a hundred fathom buried so, Where hidden it had lain a mighty space, The infernal tool by magic from below Was fished and born amid the German race; Who, by one proof and the other, taught to know Its powers, and he who plots for our disgrace, The demon, working on their weaker wit, As last upon its fatal purpose hit. XXIV To Italy and France, on every hand The cruel art among all people past: And these the bronze in hollow mould expand, First in the furnace melted by the blast: Others the iron bore, and small or grand, Fashion the various tube they pierce or cast. And bombard, gun, according to its frame, Or single cannon this, or double, name. XXV This saker, culverine, or falcon hight, I hear (all names the inventor has bestowed); Which splits or shivers steel and stone outright, And, where the bullet passes, makes a road. -- Down to the sword, restore thy weapons bright, Sad soldier, to the forge, a useless load; And gun or carbine on thy shoulder lay, Who without these, I wot, shalt touch no pay. XXVI How, foul and pestilent discovery, Didst thou find place within the human heart? Through thee is martial glory lost, through thee The trade of arms became a worthless art: And at such ebb are worth and chivalry, That the base often plays the better part. Through thee no more shall gallantry, no more Shall valour prove their prowess as of yore. XXVII Through thee, alas! are dead, or have to die, So many noble lords and cavaliers Before this war shall end, which, Italy Afflicting most, has drowned the world in tears, That, if I said the word, I err not, I, Saying he sure the cruellest appears And worst, of nature's impious and malign, Who did this hateful engine first design: XXVIII And I shall think, in order to pursue The sin for ever, God has doomed to hell That cursed soul, amid the unhappy crew, Beside the accursed Judas there to dwell. But follow we the good Orlando, who So burns to seek Ebuda's island fell, Whose foul inhabitants a monster sate With flesh of women, fair and delicate. XXIX But no less slow than eager was the knight: The winds appear, which still his course delay; Who, whether blowing on the left or right, Or poop, so faintly in his canvas play, His bark makes little speed; and, spent outright, The breeze which wafts her sometimes dies away, Or blows so foul, that he is fain to steer Another course, or to the leeward veer. XXX It was the will of Heaven that he, before The King of Ireland, should not reach the land, The he with greater ease upon that shore Might act what shortly you shall understand. "Make for the isle. Now" (said he) "may'st thou moor," (Thus issuing to the pilot his command), "And give me for my need the skiff; for I Will to the rock without more company. XXXI "The biggest cable that thou hast aboard, And biggest anchor to my hands consign; Thou shalt perceive why thus my boat is stored, If I but meet that monster of the brine." He bade them lower the pinnace overboard, With all things that befitted his design: His arms he left behind, except his blade, And singly for the rocky island made. XXXII Home to his breast the count pulls either oar, With the island at his back, to which he wends, In guise that, crawling up the sandy shore, The crooked crab from sea or marsh ascends. It was the hour Aurora gay before The rising sun her yellow hair extends (His orb as yet half-seen, half-hid from sight) Not without stirring jealous Tithon's spite. XXXIII Approaching to the naked rock as near As vigorous hand might serve to cast a stone, He knew not if he heard, or did not hear A cry, so faint and feeble was the moan. When, turning to the left, the cavalier, His level sight along the water thrown, Naked as born, bound to a stump, espied A dame whose feet were wetted by the tide. XXXIV Because she distant is, and evermore Holds down her face, he ill can her discern: Both sculls he pulls amain, and nears the shore, With keen desire more certain news to learn: But now the winding beach is heard to roar, And wood and cave the mighty noise return; The billows swell, and, lo! the beast! who pressed, And nigh concealed the sea beneath his breast. XXXV As cloud from humid vale is seen to rise, Pregnant with rain and storm, which seems withal To extinguished day, and charged with deeper dyes Than night, to spread throughout this earthly ball, So swims the beast, who so much occupies Of sea, he may be said to keep it all. Waves roar: collected in himself, the peer Looks proudly on, unchanged in heart and cheer. XXXVI He, as one well resolved in his intent, Moved quickly to perform the feat he planned; And, for he would the damsel's harm prevent, And would with that assail the beast at hand, Between her and the orc the boat he sent, Leaving within the sheath his idle brand, Anchor and cable next he takes in hold, And waits the foe with constant heart and bold. XXXVII As soon as him the monster has descried, And skiff at little interval, his throat The fish, to swallow him, expands so wide, That horse and horseman through his jaws might float. Here Roland with the anchor, and beside (Unless I am mistaken) with the boat Plunged, and engulphed the parted teeth betwixt, His anchor in the tongue and palate fixt; XXXVIII So that the monster could no longer drop Or raise his horrid jaws, which this extends. 'Tis thus who digs the mine is wont to prop The ground, and where he works the roof suspends, Lest sudden ruin whelm him from atop, While he incautiously his task intends. Roland (so far apart was either hook) But by a leap could reach the highest crook. XXXIX The prop so placed, Orlando now secure That the fell beast his mouth no more can close, Unsheathes his sword, and, in that cave obscure, Deals here and there, now thrusts, now trenchant blows. As well as citadel, whose walls immure The assailants, can defend her from her foes, The monster, harassed by the war within, Defends himself against the Paladin. XL Now floats the monstrous beast, o'ercome with pain, Whose scaly flanks upon the waves expand; And now descends into the deepest main, Scowers at the bottom, and stirs up the sand. The rising flood ill able to sustain, The cavalier swims forth, and makes for land. He leaves the anchor fastened in his tongue, And grasps the rope which from the anchor hung. XLI So swimming till the island is attained, With this towards the rock Orlando speeds: He hawls the anchor home (a footing gained), Pricked by whose double fluke, the monster bleeds. The labouring orc to follow is constrained, Dragged by that force which every force exceeds; Which at a single sally more achieves Than at ten turns the circling windlass heaves. XLII As a wild bull, about whose horn is wound The unexpected noose, leaps here and there, When he has felt the cord, and turns him round, And rolls and rises, yet slips not the snare; So from his pleasant seat and ancient bound, Dragged by that arm and rope he cannot tear, With thousands of strange wheels and thousand slides, The monster follows where the cable guides. XLIII This the red sea with reason would be hight To-day, such streams of blood have changed its hue; And where the monster lashed it in his spite, The eye its bottom through the waves might view. And now he splashed the sky, and dimmed the light Of the clear sun, so high the water flew. The noise re-echoing round, the distant shore And wood and hill rebound the deafening roar. XLIV Forth from his grotto aged Proteus hies, And mounts above the surface at the sound; And having seen Orlando dive, and rise From the orc, and drag the monstrous fish to ground, His scattered flock forgot, o'er ocean flies; While so the din increases, that, astound, Neptune bids yoke his dolphins, and that day For distant Aethiopia posts away. XLV With Melicerta on her shoulders, weeping Ino, and Nereids with dishevelled hair, The Glauci, Tritons, and their fellows, leaping They know not whither, speed, some here, some there. Orlando draws to land, the billows sweeping, That horrid fish, but might his labour spare: For, with the torment worn, and travel sore, The brute, exhausted, died, ere dragged ashore. XLVI Of the islanders had trooped no petty throng, To witness that strange fight, who by a vain And miserable superstition stung, Esteemed such holy deed a work profane; And said that this would be another wrong To Proteus, and provoke his ire again; Make him his herds pour forth upon the strand, And with the whole old warfare vex the land; XLVII And that it better were to sue for peace, First from the injured god, lest worse ensue; And Proteus from his cruel hate would cease, If they into the sea the offender threw. As torch to torch gives fire, and lights increase, Until the flame is spread the country through, Even so from heart to heart the fury spread, Which in the waves would doom Orlando dead. XLVIII These, armed with sling or bow, upon the shore, And these supplied with spear or sword descend; And on each side, behind him and before, Distant and near, as best they can, offend. At such a brutal insult wonders sore The peer, who sees that mischief they intend, In vengeance for the cruel monster slain, Whence he had glory hoped, and praise to gain. XLIX But as the usage is of surly bear, By sturdy Russ or Lithuanian led, Little to heed the dogs in crowded fair, Nor even at their yelps to turn his head, The clamour of the churls assembled there Orlando witnessed with as little dread; Who knew that he the rout which threatened death, Had power to scatter at a single breath: L And speedily he made them yield him place, When turned on them, he grasped his trenchant blade. Misjudging of his worth, the foolish race Deemed that he would have short resistance made; Since him they saw no covering buckler brace, Uncuirassed, nor in other arms arrayed; But knew not that, from head to foot, a skin More hard than diamond cased the Paladin. LI What by Orlando others cannot do, The knight by others can; at half a score Of blows in all he thirty killed; by few He passed that measure, if the strokes were more: And had already turned him to undo The naked lady, having cleared the shore, When other larum sounds, and other cries From a new quarter of the island rise. LII While so the Paladin had kept in play The barbarous islanders, upon that hand, The men of Ireland, without let or fray, Had poured from many quarters on the strand: And now, without remorse or pity, slay The inhabitants, through all the wasted land; And, was it justice moved, or cruel rage, Slaughter without regard to sex or age. LIII Little or no defender the island-crew Attempt; in part as taken unaware, In part that in the little place are few, And that those few without a purpose are. 'Mid sack and fire, the wasted country through, The islanders are slain, and everwhere The walls are upon earth in ruin spread, Nor in the land is left a living head. LIV As if the mighty tumult which he hears, And shriek and ruin had concerned him nought, The naked rock the bold Orlando nears, Where she was placed, to feed the monster brought. He looks, and known to him the dame appears, And more appears, when nigher her he sought: Olympia she appears, and is indeed Olympia, whose faith reaped so ill a meed. LV Wretched Olympia; whom, beside the scorn Which Love put on her, Fortune too pursued, Who sent the corsairs fell, which her had born That very day to the island of Ebude. She Roland recollects on his return Landward; but, for the damsel naked stood, Not only nought she to the warrior said, But dared not raise her eyes, and dropt her head. LVI Orlando asks what evil destiny Her to that cruel island had conveyed From where she in as much felicity Was with her consort left as could be said: "I know not (cried the weeping dame) if I Have thanks to render thee for death delayed, Or should lament me that, through means of thee, This day did not my woes concluded see. LVII "I have to thank thee that from death, too dread And monstrous, thy good arm deliverance gave; Which would have been too monstrous, had I fed The beast, and in his belly found a grave: But cannot thank thee that I am not dead, Since death alone can me from misery save, Well shall I thank thee for that wished relief, Which can deliver me from every grief." LVIII Next she related, with loud sobs and sighs, How her false spouse betrayed her as she lay Asleep, and how of pirates made the prize, They bore her from the desert isle away. And, as she spake, she turned her in the guise Of Dian, framed by artists, who pourtray Her carved or painted, as in liquid font She threw the water in Actaeon's front. LIX For, as she can, her waist she hides, and breast, More liberal of flowing flank and reins. Roland desires his ship, to find a vest To cover her, delivered from her chains: While he is all intent upon this quest, Oberto comes; Oberto, he that reigns O'er Ireland's people, who had understood How lifeless lay the monster of the flood; LX And, swimming, how, amid the watery roar, A knight a weighty anchor in his throat Had fix'd, and so had dragged him to the shore, As men against the current track a boat. This while Oberto comes; who, if his lore, Who told the tale, were true, desires to note; While his invading army, far and wide, Ebuda burn and waste on every side. LXI Oberto, though the Paladin to sight Was dripping, and with water foul and gore; With gore, that from the orc, emerged to light, Whom he had entered bodily, he bore, He for the country knew the stranger knight As he perused his face; so much the more, That he had thought when told the tidings, none Save Roland could such mighty fear have done; LXII Knew him, because a page of honour he Had been in France, and for the crown, his right Upon his father's death, had crossed the sea The year before. So often he the knight Had seen, and had with him held colloquy, Their times of meeting had been infinite. He doffed his casque, with festive welcome pressed Towards the count, and clasped him to the breast. LXIII Orlando is no less rejoined to see The king, than is the king that champion true. After with friendly cheer and equal glee Had once or twice embraced the noble two, To Oberto Roland told the treachery Which had been done the youthful dame, and who Had done it, -- false Bireno -- that among All men should least have sought to do her wrong. LXIV To him he told the many proofs and clear By which the dame's affection had been tried; And how she for Bireno kin and geer Had lost, and would in fine for him have died. And how he this could warrant, and appear To vouch for much, as witness on her side. While thus to him her griefs Orlando showed, The lady's shining eyes with tears o'erflowed. LXV Her face was such as sometimes in the spring We see a doubtful sky, when on the plain A shower descends, and the sun, opening His cloudy veil, looks out amid the rain. And as the nightingale then loves to sing From branch of verdant stem her dulcet strain, So in her beauteous tears his pinions bright Love bathes, rejoicing in the chrystal light. LXVI The stripling heats his golden arrow's head At her bright eyes, then slacks the weapon's glow In streams, which falls between white flowers and red; And, the shaft tempered, strongly draws his bow, And roves at him, o'er whom no shield is spread, Nor iron rind, nor double mail below; Who, gazing on her tresses, eyes, and brow, Feels that his heart is pierced, he knows not how. LXVII Olympia's beauties are of those most rare, Nor is the forehead's beauteous curve alone Excellent, and her eyes and cheeks and hair, Mouth, nose, and throat, and shoulders; but, so down Descending from the lady's bosom fair, Parts which are wont to be concealed by gown, Are such, as haply should be placed before Whate'er this ample world contains in store. LXVIII In whiteness they surpassed unsullied snow, Smooth ivory to the touch: above were seen Two rounding paps, like new-pressed milk in show, Fresh-taken from its crate of rushes green; The space betwixt was like the valley low, Which oftentimes we see small hills between, Sweet in its season, and now such as when Winter with snows has newly filled the glen. LXIX The swelling hips and haunches' symmetry, The waist more clear than mirror's polished grain, And members seem of Phidias' turnery, Or work of better hand and nicer pain. As well to you of other parts should I Relate, which she to hide desired in vain. To sum the beauteous whole, from head to feet, In her all loveliness is found complete. LXX And had she in the Idaean glen unveiled In ancient days before the Phrygian swain, By how much heavenly Venus had prevailed I know not, though her rivals strove in vain. Nor haply had the youth for Sparta sailed, To violate the hospitable reign; But said: "With Menelaus let Helen rest! No other prize I seek, of this possest"; LXXI Or in Crotona dwelt, where the divine Zeuxis in days of old his work projected, To be the ornament of Juno's shrine, And hence so many naked dames collected; And in one form perfection to combine, Some separate charm from this or that selected, He from no other model need have wrought. Since joined in her were all the charms he sought. LXXII I do not think Bireno ever viewed Naked that beauteous form; for sure it were He never could have been so stern of mood, As to have left her on that desert lair. That Ireland's king was fired I well conclude, Nor hid the flame that he within him bare. He strives to comfort her, and hope instill, That future good shall end her present ill. LXXIII And her to Holland promises to bear, And vows till she is to her state restored, And just and memorable vengeance there Achieved upon her perjured, traitor lord, He never will unceasing war forbear, Waged with all means that Ireland can afford; And this with all his speed. He, up and down, Meantime bids seek for female vest and gown. LXXIV Now will it need to send in search of vest Beyond the savage island's narrow bound, Since thither every day in such came dressed, Some dame, to feed the beast, from countries round. Nor long his followers there pursued the quest, Ere many they of various fashions found. So was Olympia clothed; while sad of mood Was he, not so to clothe her as he wou'd. LXXV But never silk so choice or gold so fine Did the industrious Florentine prepare, Nor whosoever broiders gay design, Though on his task be spent time, toil, and care, Nor Lemnos' god, nor Pallas' art divine, Form raiment worthy of those limbs so fair, That King Oberto cannot choose but he Recalls them at each turn to memory. LXXVI To see that love so kindled by the dame, On many grounds Orlando was content; Who not alone rejoiced that such a shame Put upon her, Bireno should repent; But, that in the design on which he came, He should be freed from grave impediment. Not for Olympia thither had he made, But, were his lady there, to lend her aid. LXXVII To him, that there she was not, soon was clear, But clear it was not if she had been there, Or no; since of those islesmen, far and near, One was not left the tidings to declare. The following day they from the haven steer, And all united in one squadron fare. The Paladin with them to Ireland hies, From whence to France the warrior's passage lies. LXXVIII Scarcely a day in Ireland's realm he spends: And for no prayers his purposed end forbore: Love, that in quest of his liege-lady sends The knight upon this track, permits no more. Departing, he Olympia recommends To the Irish monarch, who to serve her swore: Although this needed not; since he was bent More than behoved, her wishes to content: LXXIX So levied in few days his warlike band, And (league with England's kind and Scotland's made) In Holland and in Friesland left no land To the false duke, so rapid was the raid. And to rebel against that lord's command His Zealand stirred; nor he the war delayed, Until by him Bireno's blood was spilt: A punishment that ill atoned his guilt. LXXX Oberto takes to wife Olympia fair, And her of countess makes a puissant queen. But be the Paladin again our care, Who furrows , night and day, the billows green, And strikes his sails in the same harbour, where They to the wind erewhile unfurled had been All armed, he on his Brigliadoro leaps, And leaves behind him winds and briny deeps. LXXXI The remnant of the winter, he with shield And spear achieved things worthy to be shown, I ween; but these were then so well concealed, It is no fault of mine they are not blown; For good Orlando was in fighting field, Prompter to do, than make his prowess known. Nor e'er was bruited action of the knight, Save when some faithful witness was in sight. LXXXII That winter's remnant he so passed that feat Of his was known not to the public ear; But when within that animal discreet Which Phryxus bore, the sun illumed the sphere, And Zephyrus returning glad and sweet, Brought back with him again the blooming year, The wondrous deeds Orlando did in stower, Appeared with the new grass and dainty flower. LXXXIII From plain to hill, from champaign flat to shore, Oppressed with grief and pain the County fares, When a long cry, entering a forest hoar, -- A load lamenting smites upon his ears. He grasps his brand and spurs his courser sore, And swiftly pricks toward the sound he hears. But I shall at another season say What chanced, and may be heard in future lay. CANTO 12 ARGUMENT Orlando, full of rage, pursues a knight Who bears by force his lady-love away, And comes where old Atlantes, by his sleight Had raised a dome, Rogero there to stay. Here too Rogero comes; where getting sight Of his lost love, the County strives in fray With fierce Ferrau, and, after slaughter fell Amid the paynim host, finds Isabel. I Ceres, when from the Idaean dame in haste Returning to the lonely valley, where Enceladus the Aetnaean mountain placed On his bolt-smitten flanks, is doomed to bear, Her girl she found not, on that pathless waste, By her late quitted, having rent her hair, And marked cheeks, eyes, and breast, with livid signs, At the end of her lament tore up two pines, II And lit at Vulcan's fire the double brand, And gave them virtue never to be spent; And, afterwards, with one in either hand, Drawn by two dragons, in her chariot went, Searching the forest, hill, and level land, Field, valley, running stream, or water pent, The land and sea; and having searched the shell Of earth above, descended into hell. III Had Roland of Eleusis' deity The sovereign power possessed no less than will, He for Angelica had land and sea Ransacked, and wood and field, and pool and rill, Heaven, and Oblivion's bottom: but since he Had not, his pressing purpose to fulfil, Her dragon and her car, the unwearied knight Pursued the missing maid as best he might. IV Through France he sought her, and will seek her through The realms of Italy and of Almayn, And thence through the Castiles, both old and new, So passing into Libya out of Spain. While bold Orlando has this plan in view, He hears, or thinks he hears, a voice complain: He forward spurs, and sees on mighty steed A warrior trot before him on the mead; V Who in his arms a captive damsel bears, Sore grieving, and across the pommel laid; She weeps and struggles, and the semblance wears Of cruel woe, and ever calls for aid Upon Anglantes' prince; and now appears To him, as he surveys the youthful maid, She, for whom, night and day, with ceaseless pain, Inside and out, he France had searched in vain. VI I say not is, but that she to the sight Seems the Angelica he loves so dear. He who is lady-love and goddess' flight Beholds, borne off in such afflicted cheer, Impelled by fury foul, and angry spite, Calls back with horrid voice the cavalier; Calls back the cavalier, and threats in vain, And Brigliadoro drives with flowing rein. VII That felon stops not, nor to him replies, On his great gain intent, his glorious prey; And with such swiftness through the greenwood hies, Wind would not overtake him on his way. The one pursues while him the other flies, And with lament resounds the thicket gray. They issue in a spacious mead, on which Appears a lofty mansion, rare and rich. VIII Of various marbles, wrought with subtle care, Is the proud palace. He who fast in hold Bears off upon his arm the damsel fair, Sore pricking, enters at a gate of gold. Nor Brigliador is far behind the pair, Backed by Orlando, angry knight and bold. Entering, around Orlando turns his eyes, Yet neither cavalier nor damsel spies. IX He suddenly dismounts, and thundering fares Through the inmost palace, seeking still his foe, And here and there in restless rage repairs, Till he has seen each bower, each galleried row; With the same purpose he ascends the stairs, Having first vainly searched each room below. Nor spends less labour, on his task intent, Above, than he beneath had vainly spent. X Here beds are seen adorned with silk and gold; Nor of partition aught is spied or wall: For these, and floor beneath, throughout that hold, Are hid by curtains and by carpets all. Now here, now there, returns Orlando bold, Nor yet can glad his eyes, in bower or hall, With the appearance of the royal maid, Or the foul thief by whom she was conveyed. XI This while, as here and there in fruitless pain He moves, oppressed with thought and trouble sore, Gradasso, Brandimart, and him of Spain, Ferrau, he finds, with Sacripant and more; Who ever toiling, like himself, in vain Above, that building, and beneath explore, And as they wander, curse with one accord The malice of the castle's viewless lord. XII All in pursuit of the offender speed, And upon him some charge of robbery lay: One knight complains that he has stolen his steed, One that he has purloined his lady gay. Other accuses him of other deed: And thus within the enchanted cage they stay, Nor can depart; while in the palace pent, Many have weeks and months together spent. XIII Roland, when he round that strange dome had paced Four times or six, still vainly seeking, said Within himself, at last, "I here might waste My time and trouble, still in vain delayed, While haply her the robber whom I chased Has far away, through other gate conveyed." So thinking, from the house he issued out Into the mead which girt the dome about. XIV While Roland wanders round the sylvan Hall, Still holding close his visage to the ground, To see if recent print or trace withal Can, right or left, upon the turf be found, He from a neighbouring window hears a call, And looks, and thinks he hears that voice's sound, And thinks he sees the visage by which he Was so estranged from what he wont to be. XV He thinks he hears Angelica, and she "Help, help!" entreating cries, and weeping sore, "More than for life and soul, alas! of thee Protection for my honour I implore. Then shall it in my Roland's presence be Ravished by this foul robber? Oh! before Me to such miserable fate you leave, Let me from your own hand my death receive!" XVI These words repeated once, and yet again, Made Roland through each chamber, far and near, Return with passion, and with utmost pain; But tempered with high hope. Sometimes the peer Stopt in his search and heard a voice complain, Which seemed to be Angelica's: if here The restless warrior stand, it sounds from there, And calls for help he knows not whence nor where, XVII Returning to Rogero, left, I said, When through a gloomy path, upon his steed, Following the giant and the dame who fled, He from the wood had issued on the mead; I say that he arrived where Roland dread Arrived before him, if I rightly read. The giant through the golden portal passed, Rogero close behind, who followed fast. XVIII As soon as he his foot has lifted o'er The threshold, he through court and gallery spies; Nor sees the giant or the lady more, And vainly glances here and there his eyes. He up and down returns with labour sore, Yet not for that his longing satisfies; Nor can imagine where the felon thief Has hid himself and dame in space so brief. XIX After four times or five he so had wound Above, below, through bower and gallery fair, He yet returned, and, having nothing found, Searched even to the space beneath the stair. At length, in hope they in the woodlands round Might be, he sallied; but the voice, which there Roland recalled, did him no less recall, And made as well return within the Hall. XX One voice, one shape, which to Anglantes' peer Seemed his Angelica, beseeching aid. Seemed to Rogero Dordogne's lady dear. Who him a truant to himself had made: If with Gradasso, or with other near He spake, of those who through the palace strayed. To all of them the vision, seen apart, Seemed that which each had singly most at heart. XXI This was a new and unwonted spell, Which the renowned Atlantes had composed, That in this toil, this pleasing pain, might dwell So long Rogero, by these walls enclosed, From him should pass away the influence fell, -- Influence which him to early death exposed. Though vain his magic tower of steel, and vain Alcina's art, Atlantes plots again. XXII Not only he, but others who stood high For valour, and in France had greatest fame, That by their hands Rogero might not die, Brought here by old Atlantes' magic came: While these in the enchanted mansion lie, That food be wanting not to knight or dame, He has supplied the dome throughout so well, That all the inmates there in plenty dwell. XXIII But to Angelica return we, who Now of that ring so wondrous repossessed, (Which, in her mouth, concealed the maid from view, Preserved from spell when it the finger pressed,) Was in the mountain-cavern guided to Whatever needed, viands, mare, and vest, And had conceived the project to pursue Her way to her fair Indian realm anew. XXIV King Sacripant, or Roland, willingly The damsel would have taken for her guide; Not that, propitious to their wishes, she (Averse from both) inclined to either side; But, since her eastern journey was to be Through town and city, scattered far and wide, She needed company, and ill had found More trusty guides than these for such a round. XXV Now this, now that she sought with fruitless care, Before she lit on either warrior's trace, By city or by farm, now here, now there, In forest now, and now in other place. Fortune, at length, where caged with Roland are Ferrau and Sacripant, directs her chase; Rogero, with Gradasso fierce, and more, Noosed with strange witcheries by Atlantes hoar. XXVI She enters, hidden from the enchanter's eyes, And by the ring concealed, examines all; And Roland there, and Sacripant espies, Intent to seek her vainly through the Hall; And with her image cheating both, descries Atlantes old. The damsel doubts withal Which of the two to take, and long revolves This in her doubtful thought, nor well resolves. XXVII She knows not which with her will best accord, The Count Orlando or Circassia's knight. As of most powers, her would Rogero ward In passage perilous, with better might. But should she make the peer her guide, her lord, She knew not if her champion she could slight, If him she would depress with altered cheer, Or into France send back the cavalier: XXVIII But Sacripant at pleasure could depose, Though him she had uplifted to the sky. Hence him alone she for her escort chose, And feigned to trust in his fidelity. The ring she from her mouth withdraws, and shows Her face, unveiled to the Circassian's eye: She thought to him alone; but fierce Ferrau And Roland came upon the maid, and saw. XXIX Ferrau and Roland came upon the maid; For one and the other champion equally Within the palace and without it strayed In quest of her, who was their deity. And now, no longer by the enchantment stayed, Each ran alike towards the dame, for she Had placed the ring upon her hand anew, Which old Atlantes' every scheme o'erthrew. XXX Helm on the head and corselet on the breast Of both the knights, of whom I sing, was tied; By night or day, since they into this rest Had entered, never doffed and laid aside: For such to wear were easy as a vest, To these, so wont the burden to abide. As well was armed, except with iron masque, Ferrau, who wore not, nor would wear, a casque. XXXI Till he had that erst wrested by the peer, Orlando, from the brother of Troyane; For so had sworn the Spanish cavalier, What time he Argalia's helm in vain Sought in the brook; yet though the count was near, Has not stretched forth his hand the prize to gain. For so it was, that neither of the pair Could recognise the other knight while there. XXXII Upon the enchanted dome lay such a spell, That they from one another were concealed; They doffed not, night nor day, the corselet's shell, Not sword, nor even put aside the shield. Saddled, with bridle hanging at the sell, Their steeds were feeding, ready for the field, Within a chamber, near the palace door, With straw and barley heaped in plenteous store. XXXIII Nor might nor mean in old Atlantes lies To stop the knights from mounting, who repair To their good steeds, to chase the bright black eyes, The fair vermillion cheeks and golden hair Of the sweet damsel, who before them flies, And goads to better speed her panting mare; Ill pleased the three assembled to discern, Though haply she had taken each in turn. XXXIV And when these from the magic palace she Had ticed so far, that she no more supposed The warriors to the wicked fallacy Of the malign enchanter were exposed, The ring, which more than once from misery Had rescued her, she 'twixt her lips enclosed, Hence from their sight she vanished in a thought, And left them wondering there, like men distraught. XXXV Although she first the scheme had entertained Roland or Sacripant to have released, To guide her thither, where her father reigned, King Galaphron, who ruled i' the farthest East, The aid of both she suddenly disdained, And in an instant from her project ceased; And deemed, without more debt to count or king, In place of either knight sufficed the ring. XXXVI In haste, they through the forest, here and there, So scorned of her, still gaze with stupid face; Like questing hound which loses sight of hare Or fox, of whom he late pursued the trace, Into close thicket, ditch, or narrow lair, Escaping from the keen pursuer's chase. Meantime their ways the wanton Indian queen Observes, and at their wonder laughs unseen. XXXVII In the mid wood, where they the maid did lose, Was but a single pathway, left or right; Which they believed the damsel could not choose But follow, when she vanished from their sight. Ferrau halts not, and Roland fast pursues, Nor Sacripant less plies the rowels bright. Angelica, this while, retrains her steed, And follows the three warriors with less speed. XXXVIII When pricking thus they came to where the way Was in the forest lost, with wood o'ergrown, And had begun the herbage to survey For print of recent footsteps, up and down, The fierce Ferrau, who might have borne away From all that ever proudest were, the crown, With evil countenance, to the other two Turned him about, and shouted "Whence are you?" XXXIX "Turn back or take another road, save here, In truth, you covet to be slain by me. Nor when I chase or woo my lady dear, Let any think I bear with company." And -- "What more could he say, sir cavalier," (Orlando cried to Sacripant) "if we Were known for the two basest whores that pull And reel from spindle-staff the matted wool?" XL Then turning to Ferrau,, "But that thine head, Thou brutish sot, as I behold, is bare, If thy late words were ill or wisely said, Thou should'st perceive, before we further fare." To him Ferrau: "For that which breeds no dread In me, why should'st thou take such sovereign care? What I have said unhelmed will I prove true, Here, single as I am, on both of you." XLI "Oh!" (to Circassia's king cried Roland dread) "Thy morion for this man let me entreat, Till I have driven such folly from his head; For never with like madness did I meet." -- "Who then would be most fool?" the monarch said; "But if indeed you deem the suit discreet, Lend him thine own; nor shall I be less fit Haply than thee to school his lack of wit." XLII -- "Fools, both of you!" (the fierce Ferrau replied) "As if, did I to wear a helm delight, You would not be without your casques of pride, Already reft by me in your despite; But know thus much, that I by vow am tied To wear no helm, and thus my promise quite; Roaming without, till that fine casque I win Worn by Orlando, Charles's paladin." XLIII -- "Then" (smiling, to the Spaniard said the count) "With naked head, thou thinkest to repeat On Roland what he did in Aspramont, By Agolant's bold son: but shouldst thou meet The warrior whom thou seekest, front to front, I warrant thou wouldst quake from head to feet; Nor only wouldst forego the casque, but give The knight thine other arms to let thee live." XLIV -- "So oft have I had Roland on the hip, And oft," (exclaimed the boaster) "heretofore; From him it had been easy task to strip What other arms, beside his helm, he wore; And if I still have let the occasion slip, -- We sometimes think of things unwished before: Such wish I had not; I have now; and hope To compass easily my present scope." XLV The good Orlando could no more forbear, And cried, "Foul miscreant, liar, marched with me, Say, caitiff, in what country, when and where Boast you to have obtained such victory? That paladin am I, o'er whom you dare To vaunt, and whom you distant deemed: now see If you can take my helm, or I have might To take your other arms in your despite. XLVI "Nor I o'er you the smallest vantage wou'd." He ended, and his temples disarrayed, And to a beech hung up the helmet good, And nigh as quickly bared his trenchant blade. Ferrau stands close, and in such attitude, (His courage not for what had chanced dismayed) Covered with lifted shield and naked sword, As might best shelter to his head afford. XLVII 'Twas thus those warriors two, with faulchions bare, Turning their ready steeds, began to wheel; And where the armour thinnest was, and where The meeting plates were joined, probed steel with steel; Nor was there in the world another pair More fitted to be matched in fierce appeal: Equal their daring, equal was their might, And safe alike from wound was either knight. XLVIII By you, fair sir, already, I presume, That fierce Ferrau was charmed is understood, Save where the child, enclosed within the womb Of the full mother, takes its early food; And hence he ever, till the squalid tomb Covered his manly face, wore harness good (Such was his wont) the doubtful part to guard, Of seven good plates of metal, tempered hard. XLIX Alike a charmed life Orlando bore, Safe every where, except a single part: Unfenced beneath his feet, which evermore By him were guarded with all care and art. The rest than diamond dug from mountain hoar More hard, unless report from truth depart; And armed to battle either champion went, Less for necessity than ornament. L Waxing more fierce and fell the combat rages, Of fear and horror full, between the twain: The fierce Ferrau such dreadful battle wages, That stroke or thrust is never dealt in vain: Each mighty blow from Roland disengages And loosens, breaks, or shatters, plate and chain. Angelica alone, secure from view, Regards such fearful sight, and marks the two. LI For, during this, the king of Circassy, Who deemed Angelica not far before, When Ferrau and Orlando desperately Closing in fight were seen, his horse did gore Along the way by which he deemed that she Had disappeared; and so that battle sore Was witnessed 'twixt the struggling foes, by none, Beside the daughter of king Galaphron. LII After the damsel had sometime descried This dread and direful combat, standing nigh; And it appearing that on either side With equal peril both the warriors vie, She, fond of novelty, the helm untied Designs to take; desirous to espy What they would do when they perceived the wrong; But, without thought to keep her plunder long. LIII To give it to Orlando was she bent, But first she would upon the warrior play: The helmet she took down with this intent And in her bosom hid, and marked the fray: Next thence, without a word to either went, And from the scene of strife was far away Ere either of the two had marked the feat; So were they blinded by their angry heat. LIV But Ferrau, who first chanced the loss to see, From Roland disengaged himself, and cried, "How like unwary men and fools are we Treated by him, who late with us did ride! What meed, which worthiest of the strife might be, If this be stolen, the victor shall abide?" Roland draws back, looks upward, and with ire, Missing the noble casque, is all on fire: LV And in opinion with Ferrau agreed, That he the knight, who was with them before, Had born away the prize: hence turned his steed. And with the spur admonished Brigliador. Ferrau, who from the field beheld him speed. Followed him, and when Roland and the Moor Arrived where tracks upon the herbage green Of the Circassian and the maid were seen, LVI Towards a vale upon the left the count Went off, pursuing the Circassian's tread; The Spaniard kept the path more nigh the mount, By which the fair Angelica had fled. Angelica, this while, has reached a fount, Of pleasant site, and shaded overhead; By whose inviting shades no traveller hasted, Nor ever left the chrystal wave untasted. LVII Angelica, the sylvan spring beside, Reposes, unsuspicious of surprise; And thinking her the sacred ring will hide, Fears not that evil accident can rise. On her arrival at the fountain's side, She to a branch above the helmet ties; Then seeks the fittest sapling for her need, Where, fastened to its trunk, her mare may feed. LVIII The Spanish cavalier the stream beside Arrived, who had pursued her traces there: Angelica no sooner him espied, Than she evanished clean, and spurred her mare: The helm this while had dropt, but lay too wide To be recovered of the flying fair. As soon as sweet Angelica he saw, Towards her full of rapture sprang Ferrau. LIX She disappeared, I say, as forms avaunt At sleep's departure: toiling long and sore He seeks the damsel there, 'twixt plant and plant, Now can his wretched eyes behold her more. Blaspheming his Mahound and Termagant, And cursing every master of his lore, Ferrau returned towards the sylvan fount, Where lay on earth the helmet of the count. LX This he soon recognised, for here he read Letters upon the margin, written fair, Which how Orlando won the helmet said; And from what champion took, and when and where. With it the paynim armed his neck and head, Who would not for his grief the prize forbear; His grief for loss of her, conveyed from sight, As disappear the phantoms of the night. LXI When in this goodly casque he was arrayed, He deemed nought wanting to his full content, But the discovery of the royal maid, Who like a flash of lightning came and went: For her he searches every greenwood shade, And when all hope of finding her is spent, He for the vain pursuit no longer tarries, But to the Spanish camp returns near Paris; LXII Tempering the grief which glowed within his breast, For such sore disappointment, with the thought That he was with Orlando's morion blest, As sworn. By good Anglante's count, when taught That the false Saracen the prize possest, Long time the Spanish knight was vainly sought; Nor Roland took the helmet from his head, Till he between two bridges laid him dead. LXIII Angelica thus, viewless and alone, Speeds on her journey, but with troubled front; Grieved for the helmet, in her haste foregone On her departure from the grassy fount. "Choosing to do what I should least have done," (She said) "I took his helmet from the count. This for his first desert I well bestow; A worthy recompense for all I owe! LXIV "With good intentions, as God knows, I wrought; Though these an ill and different end produce; I took the helmet only with the thought To bring that deadly battle to a truce; And not that this foul Spaniard what he sought Should gain, or I to his intent conduce." So she, lamenting, took herself to task For having robbed Orlando of his casque. LXV By what appeared to her the meetest way, Moody and ill-content she eastward pressed; Ofttimes concealed, sometimes in face of day, As seemed most opportune and pleased her best. After much country seen, a forest gray She reached, where, sorely wounded in mid breast, Between two dead companions on the ground, The royal maid a bleeding stripling found. LXVI But of Angelica I now no more Shall speak, who first have many things to say; Nor shall to the Circassian or the Moor Give for long space a rhyme; thence called away By good Anglante's prince, who wills, before I of those others tell, I should display The labours and the troubles he sustained, Pursuing the great good he never gained. LXVII At the first city, whither he was brought (Because to go concealed he had good care), He a new helmet donned; but took no thought What was the head-piece he designed to bear. So safe is he in fairy spell, it nought Imports, if hard or soft its temper were. Orlando, covered thus, pursues the quest, Nor him day, night, or rain, or sun arrest. LXVIII It was the hour that our of Ocean's bed Dan Phoebus drew his dripping steeds, and high And low, still scattering yellow flowers and red, Aurora stained the heavens with various dye, And Stars had cast their veils about their head, Departing from their revels in the sky; When passing on a day fair Paris near, Orlando made his mighty worth appear. LXIX Two squadrons he encountered; one an old Saracen, Manilardo clept, obeyed; King of Noritia, whilom fierce and bold. But fitter now to counsel than to aid. The next beneath the standard was enrolled Or Tremisena's monarch, who was said 'Mid Africans to be a perfect knight; Alzirdo he by those who knew him, hight: LXX These, with the other Saracen array, Cantoned throughout the winter months had lain, Some near the city, some more far away, All lodged nigh town or hamlet on the plain. For since King Agramant had many a day Spent in attacking Paris' walls in vain, He (for no other means remained to try) Would lastly with a siege the city ply; LXXI And to do this had people infinite: Since he, beside the host that with him came, And that of Spain which followed to the fight The Spanish King Marsilius' oriflame, Many of France did in his pay unite: For all from Paris he to Arles's stream, With part of Gascony, some straggling tower Excepted, had reduced beneath his power. LXXII The quivering brook, as warmer breezes blew, Beginning now from ice its waves to free, And the fresh-springing grass and foliage new, To cloathe again the field and greenwood tree, All those King Agramant assembled, who Had followed him in his prosperity; To muster in review the armed swarm, And give to his affairs a better form: LXXIII Hence did the King of Tremisen' repair, With him who had Noritia in command, To be in time at that full muster, where Each squadron, good or bad, was to be scanned Orlando thus by chance encountered there, As I have told you, this united hand; Who, as his usage was, went seeking her, By whom he had been made Love's prisoner. LXXIV Alzirdo, as the approaching count he eyes, Who in this world for valour has no peer, With such a haughty front, and in such guise, The God of war would less in arms appear, The features known before astounded spies, The fierce, disdainful glance and furious cheer; And him esteems a knight of prowess high, Which, fondly, he too sore desires to try. LXXV Arrogant, young, and of redoubted force, Alzirdo was, and prized for dauntless mind; Who bent to joust pricked forth his foaming horse, Happier had he remained in line behind! Met by Anglante's prince in middle course, Who pierced his heart as they encountering joined. Frighted, the lightened courser scoured the plain, Without a rider to direct the rein. LXXVI Rises a sudden and a horrid cry, And air on every side repeats the scream; As his scared band the falling youth descry, And issuing from his wound so wide a stream: Disordered, they the count in fury ply, And, raised to cut or thrust, their weapons gleam. Against that flower of knights, their feathered reeds, A thicker squadron yet in tempest speeds. LXXVII With sound like that, with which from hill repair, Or from the champaign's flat the hurrying swine, (If the Wolf, issue from his grot, or Bear, Descending to the mountains' lower line, Some bristly youngling take away and tear, Who with loud squeal and grunt is heard to pine) Came driving at the count the barbarous rout; "Upon him!" and "upon him!" still their shout. LXXVIII At once spears, shafts, and swords, his corslet bore By thousands, and as many pierce his shield. This threatens on one side, and that before, And those the ponderous mace behind him wield. But he esteems the craven rout no more. He, who did never yet to terror yield, Than hungry Wolf in twilight makes account To what the number of the flock may mount. LXXIX He held unsheathed that thundering sword in hand, Which with so many foes has heaped the plain, That he who thinks to count the slaughtered band, Has undertaken, hard emprize and vain. The road ran red, ensanguined by his brand, And scarce capacious of the many slain. For neither targe nor head-piece good defends, Where fatal Durindana's blade descends. LXXX Nor safety cotton vest, nor cloths supply, In thousand folds about the temples spread: Nor only groan and lamentation fly Through air, but shoulder, arm, and severed head, Death roams the field in strange variety Of horrid forms, and all inspiring dread; And says, "For hundreds of my scythes may stand His Durindana in Orlando's hand." LXXXI His ceaseless strokes scarce one the other wait: Speedily all his foemen are in flight. And when before they came at furious rate, They hoped to swallow quick the single knight. None is there who, in that unhappy straight, Stops for his comrade, flying from the fight. Here one man speeds afoot, one gallops there; None stays to question if the road be fair. LXXXII His mirror Valour bore about, and here Each blemish of the soul was seen confest: None looked therein, except an aged peer, Whose blood was chilled, but courage unreprest. That death were better deems this cavalier Than life in flight, and in disgrace possest: I mean Noritia's king, who lays his lance In rest against the paladin of France; LXXXIII He broke it on the border of the shield Of the intrepid count, with stedfast hand, Who, by the stroke unshaken, nothing reeled: And smote the king, in passing, with his brand. Him Fortune saved; for as Orlando wheeled The blade, it turned, descending, in his hand. Although an-edge he guides not still the sword, Stunned from his saddle reels the paynim lord. LXXXIV Astounded from his saddle reels the king, Nor him Orlando turns about to see. He cuts, and cleaves, and slays his following; Who all believe him at their backs to be. As through the spacious air, with troubled wing, The starlings from the daring merlin flee; So, of that broken squadron, scattered round, Some fly, some dip, and some fall flat to ground. LXXXV He ceased not his ensanguined blade to sway Till living wight remained not in his view. Orlando doubted to resume his way, Although the country all about he knew. Does he the right or left-hand road assay, His thoughts still rove from what his steps pursue, And he to seek the damsel is in dread Through other path than that by which she fled. LXXXVI Through wood and field his courser did he goad, Often inquiring for the royal dame: Beside himself, he strayed beside his road, And to the foot of rising mountain came, Whence (it was night-time) through a fissure glowed The distant flicker of a quivering flame. Orlando to the rock approached, to spy If there Angelica concealed might lie. LXXXVII As where low junipers o'er shade her lair, Or in the stubble of the open lay, What time the hunters seek the fearful hare Through traversed woods, and through uncertain way, -- Lest peradventure she be hidden there, They every bramble, every bush assay; Even so, where hope the toiling warrior leads, Searching his lady-love, Orlando speeds. LXXXVIII Pricking in haste towards that ray, the count Arrived where in the wood the light was shed, Forth-streaming from a crevice in the mount, Within whose womb a spacious grotto spread; And there, like wall or bank, discerned in front, Of thorns and underwood a bristly bed, To hide the grotto's inmates, and defend From scathe or scorn, which others might intend. LXXXIX By day it had been hidden evermore; But the clear flame betrayed the haunt by night. Its use he guessed; but would the place explore, And better certify himself by sight. When he without had tied his Brigliador, In silence to the grotto stole the knight; Threading the shrubs; nor calling for a guide, Entered the passage in the mountain's side. XC By a long flight of steps was the descent Into the cave; where, in the rocky tomb, Buried were living folk. Of wide extent, The grot was chiselled into vaulted room; Nor was, although its entrance little lent, All daylight wanting to disperse the gloom: For much was furnished by a window dight, Within a natural fissure on the right. XCI In the mid cave, beside a fire was seen A gentle maid of pleasing look and guise; Who seemed to Roland little past fifteen, As far as at first sight he might surmise. With that so fair she made the rugged scene Seem in the warrior's sight a paradise. Although this while her eyes with tears o'erflow, Clear tokens of a heart oppressed with woe. XCII An aged dame was with her, and the pair Wrangled, as oftentimes is women's way; But when the County was descending there, Concluded the dispute and wordy fray. Orlando hastens to salute them fair (As still is due to womankind) and they To welcome him rise lightly form their seat, And with benign return the warrior greet. XCIII 'Tis true, that when that sudden voice they hear, Somedeal confused in look they seem to be, At the same time beholding thus appear So fierce a wight, and harnessed cap-a-pee. "What wight" (demands Anglantes' cavalier) So barbarous is, and void of courtesy, That he keeps buried, in this rude repair, A face so gentle and so passing fair?" XCIV With pain the virgin to the count replies, As he inquires of her unhappy doom, In sweet and broken accents, which by sighs Impelled, through rows of pearl and coral come: And between rose and lily, from her eyes Tears fall so fast, she needs must swallow some. In other canto, sir, be pleased to attend The rest, for here 'tis time my strain should end. CANTO 13 ARGUMENT The Count Orlando of the damsel bland Who loves Zerbino, hears the piteous woes. Next puts to death the felons with his hand Who pent her there. Duke Aymon's daughter goes, Seeking Rogero, where so large a band The old Atlantes' magic walls enclose. Her he impounds, deceived by fictions new. Agramant ranks his army for review. I Those ancient cavaliers right happy were, Born in an age, when, in the gloomy wood, In valley, and in cave, wherein the bear, Serpent, or lion, hid their savage brood, They could find that, which now in palace rare Is hardly found by judges proved and good; Women, to wit, who in their freshest days Of beauty worthily deserve the praise. II Above I told you how a gentle maid Orlando had discovered under ground, And asked, by whom she thither was conveyed? Pursuing now my tale, I tell, how drowned In grief (her speech by many a sob delayed), The damsel fair, in sweet and softest sound, Summing them with what brevity she might, Her ills recounted to Anglantes' knight. III "Though I am sure," she said, "O cavalier, To suffer punishment for what I say; Because I know, to him who pens me here, This woman quickly will the fact display; I would not but thou shouldst the story hear. -- And let my wretched life the forfeit pay! For what can wait me better than that he, My gaoler, should one day my death decree? IV "Lo! I am Isabel, who once was styled The daughter of Gallicia's hapless king: I said aright who was; but now the child (No longer his) of care and suffering: The fault of Love, by whom I was beguiled; For against him alone this charge I bring. Who sweetly, at the first, our wish applauds, And weaves in secret but deceit and frauds. V "Whilom I lived, content in Fortune's smile, Rich, blameless, fair, and young; to sad reverse Condemned, I now am wretched, poor, and vile, And in worse case, if any yet be worse. But it is fitting, I to thee this while From their first root my troubles should rehearse. And it will soothe me, though of thee I borrow No help, that thou compassionate my sorrow. VI "My father in his city of Bayonne, (To-day will be twelve months) a tourney dight; Hence, led by spreading rumour to our town, To joust, from different lands came many a knight; Mid these (was it his manifest renown, Or was it love which so deceived my sight) Praise in my eyes alone Zerbino won, Who was the mighty king of Scotland's son. VII "When him I after in the field espied, Performing wondrous feats of chivalry, I was surprised by Love, ere I descried That freedom in my Love, so rash a guide, I lay this unction to my phantasy, That no unseemly place my heart possest, Fixed on the worthiest in the world and best. VIII "In beauty and in valour's boast above Those other lords the Scottish prince stood high. He showed me, and, I think, be bore me love, And left no less an ardent flame than I. Nor lacked there one who did between us move, To speak our common wishes frequently, So could we still in heart and mind unite, Although disjoined from one another's sight. IX "Hence, when concluded was the festal show, And to his home Zerbino was returned, If thou know'st what is love, thou well may'st know How night and day I for the warrior yearned; And was assured, no less on him did prey The flame, that in his constant bosom burned. He, save a way to have me with him, nought For solace of his restless passion sought. X "For different faith forbade him (on my side I was a saracen, a Christian he) To ask me of my father as a bride, By stealth he purposed to elope with me. Amid green fields, our wealthy town beside, I had a garden, seated by the sea, Upon the pleasant shore; from whence the eye Might ocean and the hills about descry. XI "A fitting place to effect what different creed And law forbade us, he esteemed this site, And showed the order taken for the deed, Which was to make our future life's delight; And how, near Santa Martha, for our need, A bark was with arm'd men in ambush dight, Under Sir Odoric of Biscay's command; A leader he, approved by sea and land! XII "Unable in his person this to do, For by his father he was forced to wend In succour of the king of France, in lieu This Odoric for the purpose he would send; Chosen, of all his faithful friends and true, As his most faithful and his truest friend: And such had been, if benefits could bind And goodly deeds the friendship of mankind. XIII "At the time fixed to bear me thence away, This chief would anchor on the destined ground. -- And thus it was arrived the wished for day, Then I of them was in my garden found. Sir Odoric, at night, with fair array Of valiant men, by land and sea renowned, In the near river from his bark descends, And thence in silence to my garden wends. XIV "To the pitched bark with me his party sped, Before the city knew what was at hand; Some of the house, disarmed and naked, fled, And some were slain; while of the helpless band, With me, another part was captive led. So was I severed from my native land, Hoping in brief Zerbino to possess, I cannot tell thee with what happiness. XV "Scarcely was Mongia by our galley doubled, Ere a squall took us on the larboard side, Which round about the clear horizon troubled, And stirred and tost heaven-high the foaming tide. Smote with a north-west wind, next, ocean bubbled, Which on her other beam the vessel plied: This evermore increases, with such force, Starboard or larboard, boots not which our course. XVI "It steads not to strike sail, nor lash the mast, Lowered on the gang-board, nor our castles fell; The bark, in our despite, is hurried fast Towards the pointed rocks about Rochelle: Save He, above, assist us at the last, The cruel storm will us ashore impel; Driven thither by ill wind with mightier speed Than ever bow-string gave to whistling reed. XVII "Our peril well does the Biscayan note, And tries what often has an evil end; Lowers down the galley's skiff, and, when afloat, Descends into it, and makes me descend: Two follow, and a troop would throng the boat, Did not the first prevent them, and defend The entrance with their naked faulchions; we Sever the rope forthwith, and put to sea. XVIII "Driven landward, on the shore we safely light Who in the skiff embarked; while of our band The rest in the split vessel sink outright; Our goods sea-swallowed all. Upon the strand To Eternal Love, To Goodness Infinite, I offer up my thanks, with outstretched hand, That I was doomed not 'mid the watery roar To perish, nor behold Zerbino more. XIX "Though I had left on shipboard matters rare, And precious in their nature, gem and vest, So I might hope Zerbino's lot to share, I was content the sea should have the rest. No dwelling on the beach appears, nor there Is any pathway seen, by footsteps pressed; Only a hill, whose woody top is beat By ceaseless winds, the waters bathe its feet. XX "Here the fell tyrant Love, aye prompt to range, And faithless to his every promise still, Who watches ever how he may derange And mar our every reasonable will, Converts, with woeful and disastrous change, My comfort to despair, my good to ill: For he, in whom Zerbino put his trust, Cooled in his loyal faith, and burned with lust. XXI "Whether he his desire had nursed at sea, And had not dared exhibit it before; Or that it sprung from opportunity, Suggested by that solitary shore; Without more pause, in that lone desert, he Would sate his greedy passion; but forbore Till he of one could rid him, of the twain, Who in the boat with us had scaped the main. XXII "A man of Scotland he, Almonio hight, Who to Zerbino seemed great faith to bear; And as a perfect warrior by the knight, Praised, when to Odoric given, his trust to share: To him (the Spaniard said) it were a slight If I unto Rochelle afoot should fare; And prayed, that he before would thither speed, And forward thence some hackney, for my need. XXIII "Almonio, who in this suspects no ill, Forthwith, before our party, wends his way To the town, hidden by the wooded hill, And which not more than six miles distant lay. To the other finally his wicked will Sir Odoric took courage to display; As well because he could not rid him thence, As that in him he had great confidence. XXIV "He that remained with us, of whom I said Before, Corebo was of Bilbao hight, Who with him under the same roof was bred From infancy, and the ungrateful wight Deemed that the thought he harboured in his head, He could impart in safety to the knight, Who would prefer, neglected of his trust, The pleasure of his friend to what was just. XXV "Not without high disdain Corebo heard (Who kind and courteous was) the Biscayneer, And termed him traitor; and by deed and word Withstood the purpose of his foul compeer. This mighty wrath in either warrior stirred; In sign whereof their naked brands they rear. At sight of their drawn swords, in panic, I Turn shortly through the gloomy wood to fly. XXVI "Sir Odoric in war well taught and bred, Gained in few blows such vantage in the fray, He left Corebo on the field for dead, And, following in my steps, pursued my way. Love lent to him (unless I am misled) Pinions, that he might overtake his prey; And many a prayer and glozing flattery taught, Wherewith I to compliance might be wrought. XXVII "But all in vain, for I was fixed and bent, Rather than sate his ill desire, to die. When menace had by him been vainly spent, And every prayer and every flattery, He would by open force his will content; Nor boots it aught that I entreaties try; -- Of his lord's faith in him the wretch remind, And how myself I to his hands resigned. XXVIII "When I perceived that fruitless was my prayer, And that I could not hope for other aid; For he assailed me like a famished bear, With hands and feet I fierce resistance made, As he more brutal waxed, and plucked his hair, And with my teeth and nails his visage flayed: This while I vent such lamentable cries, The clamour echoes to the starry skies. XXIX "Were they by chance conducted, or my shriek, Which might have well been heard a league around, (Or, was it they were wont the shore to seek, When any vessel split or ran aground) I saw a crowd appear upon the peak, Which, to the sea descending, towards us wound. Them the Biscayan say, and at the sight Abandoned his design, and turned to flight. XXX "This rabble, sir, against that treacherous man Comes to my aid; but in such guise, that I The homely saw, of falling from the pan Into the fire beneath, but verify. 'Tis true so lost I was not, nor that clan Accursed with minds of such iniquity, That they to violate my person sought; Though nothing good or virtuous on them wrought: XXXI "But that they knew, for me preserved a maid, As yet I am, they higher price might crave. Eight months are past, the ninth arrived, since, stayed By them, alive I languish in this grave. All hope is lost of my Zerbino's aid: For from their speech I gather, as a slave, I am bartered to a merchant for his gold; By whom I to the sultan shall be sold." XXXII The gentle damsel so her tale pursues, While sobs and sighs oft interposing break Her soft angelic voice, which might infuse Compassion into asp, or venomed snake. What time she so her piteous grief renews, Or haply does her bitter anguish slake, Some twenty men the gloomy cavern fill; This armed with hunting-spear, and that with bill. XXXIII With squinting look and dark, and but one eye, The leader of the troop, of brutish cheer Was he, the foremost of the company; By a blow blinded, which from nose to ear Had cleft his jaw: when he did so descry Seated beside the maid, that cavalier, He turned about and said: "Lo! in the net Another bird for whom it was not set!" XXXIV Then to the County cried: "I never knew A man more opportune my wants to stead; I know not whether any one to you Perchance may have announced my pressing need Of such fair arms, -- or you conjectured true, -- As well as of that goodly sable weed. You verily arrived in season are My needs (pursued the losel) to repair." XXXV With bitter smile, upstarting on his feet, Orlando to the ruffian made reply: "Thou at a price at which no chapman treat, Unmarked in merchant's books, these arms shalt buy." With that he snatched a brand, which, full of heat And smoke, was smouldering in the chimney nigh, Threw it, and smote by chance the knave half blind, Where with the nose the meeting brows confined. XXXVI The brand discharged by him, hit either brow, But most severely on the left did smite; For that ill feature perished by the blow, Which was the thief's sole minister of light. Nor is the stroke content to blind the foe; Unsated, save it register his sprite Among those damned souls, whom Charon keeps, With their companions, plunged in boiling deeps. XXXVII A spacious table in mid cavern stood, Two palms in thickness, in its figure square; Propt on one huge, ill fashioned food and rude, Which held the thief and all who harboured there. Even with such freedom as his dart of wood We mark the nimble Spaniard launch through air, The heavy table Roland seized and threw, Where, crowded close together, stood the crew. XXXVIII One had his belly crushed, and one his breast; Another head or arm, or leg and thigh. Whence some were slain outright, and maimed the rest, While he who was least injured sought to fly. 'Tis so sometimes, with heavy stone oppressed, A knot of slimy snakes is seen to lie, With battered heads and loins where, winter done, They lick their scales, rejoicing in the sun. XXXIX I could not say what mischiefs these offend; One dies, and one departs without its tail; Another crippled cannot move an-end, And wriggling wreathes its length without avail: While this, whom more propitious saints befriend, Safe through the grass drags off its slimy trail. Dire was the stroke; yet should no wonder breed, Since good Orlando's arm achieved the deed. XL Those whom the board had little maimed or nought, (Turpin says there were seven) in craven wise, Their safety in their feet, yet vainly, sought; For to the cavern's door Orlando hies. And having them without resistance caught, Fast with a rope their hands behind them ties; A rope, which in the cavern on the ground, Convenient for his purpose he had found. XLI He after drags them bound without the cave, Where an old service-tree its shadow throws. Orlando lops the branches with his glaive, And hangs the thieves, a banquet for the crows: Nor chain and crook for such a deed did crave: For ready hooks the tree itself bestows, To purge the world; where by the chin up-hung, These, on the branches, bold Orlando strung. XLII The ancient woman, the assassin's friend, Escapes when she perceives that all are dead, And, threading that green labyrinth without end, Laments, and plucks the hair from off her head, By fear impelled, through paths which sore offend Her feet, till she, beside a river's bed, Encounters with a warrior: but to say Who was the stranger champion I delay; XLIII And turn to her, who to the count applied, Praying he would not leave her there alone, And vowed to follow whither he would guide. Orlando her consoles in courteous tone: And thence, when, with a wreath of roses tied About her brows, and robed in purple gown, On wonted journey white Aurora starts, The paladin with Isabel departs. XLIV Without encountering aught that might appear Worthy of note, they wended many a day; And finally the twain a cavalier, As prisoner led, encountered by the way. Who shall be told; but, tale to you as dear Now calls me from the beaten path away; -- Of Aymon's daughter, -- whom I left above, Languid and lost in all the pains of love. XLV The beauteous lady who desires in vain, Rogero should not his return delay, Lies in Marseilles, from whence the paynim train She harasses, nigh each returning day; (What time they robbing aye, by hill and plain, Scower fruitful Languedoc and Provence gay) And the true duty executes aright Of a sage leader and a valiant knight. XLVI The time long past, she, lying in that place, Had hoped that her Rogero would appear, She, not beholding him in all that space, Of many evil chances lived in fear. One day, mid others that her woeful case The lady wept alone, to her drew near The dame, who with that healing ring made sound The bosom rankling with Alcina's wound. XLVII When her she saw, without her love returned, (Such time elapsed, her mission incomplete), Sore trembling, faint, and pale, her heart so yearned, She scarce had strength to stand upon her feet. But the enchantress kind, when she discerned Her fear, advanced with smiles the maid to meet; And to console her such glad visage wore As messenger who joyful tidings bore. XLVIII "Fear not for thy Rogero: he is well And safe (she cried), and ever worships thee, As wonted; but thy foe, that wizard fell, Him yet again deprives of liberty. And it behoves thee now to climb the sell, Would'st thou posses him, and to follow me; For if thou wendest with me, I will lead Whither, by thee Rogero shall be freed." XLIX And next pursued, relating to her all The frauds and magic of Atlantes hoar, That wearing her fair face, who seemed the thrall Of an ill giant, him had through the door Of gold, enticed into the enchanted hall, And after disappeared, the youth before; And told how dames and cavaliers he cheats Who thither make resort, with like deceits. L Seeing the sage, all think they see a squire, Companion, lady-love, or absent friend; Whatever is each several wight's desire: Since to our scope our wishes never tend. Hence searching every where, themselves they tire With labour sore, and frustrate of their end; And cannot, (so Desire and Hope deceive), Without the missing good, that palace leave. LI "As soon as thou (pursued the dame) art near The place where he has built the magic seat, Resembling thy Rogero in his cheer And every look, Atlantes thee shall meet, And make himself by his ill art appear As suffering from some stronger arm defeat; That thou may'st aid him in the peril feigned, And thus among those others be detained. LII "To the end thou may'st escape his ambush, where So many and so many, thus betrayed, Have fallen; though he Rogero seem, beware To lend him faith, who will demand thine aid: Nor, when the sage presents himself, forbear To take his worthless life with lifted blade. Nor think to slay Rogero with the blow, But him who works thee still such cruel woe. LIII "Hard will it seem to slay, full well I know, The wight, in whom Rogero you descry: But, for truth is not in the lying show, Trust not to sight where magic blears the eye. Fix, ere with me you to the forest go, To change not when the traitorous foe is nigh: For never shall with you Rogero wive, If weakly you the wizard leave alive." LIV The valorous maid with the intent to slay The false enchanter, on her plan decides, Snatches her arms, and follows on her way Melissa sage, in whom she so confides, And thus, by fruitful field or forest gray, Her by forced journeys that enchantress guides; And studies to beguile their weary course Ever, as best she may, with sweet discourse: LV And as the fairest topic of all those Which might be grateful to the damsel's ear, Her future offspring and Rogero's chose (A race of demigods) in prince and peer. For as Melissa all the secrets knows Of the eternal gods who rule our sphere, The good enchantress can discover all Which should in many ages hence befall. LVI "Oh! my best guide." exclaimed the damsel bold To the weird-woman that to aid her came, "As thou hast many years before foretold Men who shall glorify my race and name, So now I pray thee, lady, to unfold The praise and virtues of some noble dame, If from my lineage any such shall rise." To whom Melissa courteously replies: LVII "Chaste dames of thee descended I survey, Mothers of those who wear imperial crown, And mighty kings; the column and the stay Of glorious realms and houses of renown. And as thy sons will shine in arms, so they Will no less fame deserve in female gown, With piety and sovereign prudence graced, And noble hearts, incomparably chaste. LVIII "And if at length, I should relate to thee The praise of all who from thy root ascend, Too long my tale would hold, nor do I see Whom I could pass, where all to fame pretend. But from a thousand I some two or three Will choose, because my tale may have an end. Why was not in the cave thy wish made known, Where I their shadows might as well have shown? LIX "To hear of one of thy famed race prepare, Whom liberal studies and good works engage; Of whom, I know not well, if she more fair May be entitled, or more chaste and sage; The noble-minded Isabel, who, where It stands on Mincius' bank, in other age Shall gild the town, of Ocnus' mother hight, With her own glorious rays by day and night; LX "Where, with her worthiest consort she will strain, In honoured and in splendid rivalry, Which best shall prize the virtues' goodly train, And widest ope the gates to courtesy. If he by Taro, and in Naples' reign, ('Tis said), from Gauls delivered Italy, 'Twill be replied. Penelope the chaste, As such, was not beneath Ulysses placed. LXI "Great things and many thus I sum in few Of this brave dame, and others leave behind: Which when I from the vulgar herd withdrew, Sage Merlin from the hollow stone divined. For I should leave old Typhis out of view, If on such sea I launched before the wind: And with this finish my prophetic strain, -- All blessings on her head the skies will rain. LXII "With her shall be her sister Beatrice, Whose fortunes well shall with her name accord; Who, while she lives, not only shall not miss What good the heavens to those below afford, But make, with her, partaker of her bliss, First among wealthy dukes, her cherished lord; Who shall, when she from hence receives her call, Into the lowest depth of misery fall. LXIII "Viscontis' serpents will be held in dread, And Moro and Sforza, while this dame shall be, From Hyperborean snows to billows red; From Ind to hills, which to a double sea Afford a passage; and, the lady dead, To the sore mischief of all Italy, Will with the Insubri into slavery fall; And men shall sovereign wisdom fortune call. LXIV "Other the same illustrious name will bear, And who will flourish many years before. Pannonia's garland one of these shall wear. Another matron on the Ausonian shore, When she shall be released from earthly care, Men will among the blessed saints adore; With incense will approach the dame divine, And hang with votive images her shrine. LXV "The others I shall pass in silence by, For 'twere too much (as said before) to sound Their fame: though each might well deserve, that high Heroic trump should in her praise be wound. Hence the Biancas and Lucretias I And Constances and more reserve; who found, Or else repair, upon Italian land, Illustrious houses with supporting hand. LXVI "Thy race, which shall all else in this excel, In the rare fortune of its women thrives; Nor of its daughters' honour more I tell Than of the lofty virtue of its wives: And that thou may'st take note of this as well, Which Merlin said of thy descendents' lives, (Haply that I the story might narrate) This I no little covet to relate. LXVII "Of good Richarda first shall be my strain, Mirror of chastity and fortitude, Who, young, remains a widow, in disdain Of fortune: (that which oft awaits the good) Exiles, and cheated of their father's reign, She shall behold the children of her blood Wandering into the clutches of their foe; Yet find at last a quittance for her woe. LXVIII "Nor sprung from the ancient root of Aragon, I of the gorgeous queen will silent be; Than whom more prudent or more chaste is none, Renowned in Greek or Latin history; Nor who so fortunate a course will run, After that, by divine election, she Shall with the goodly race of princes swell, Alphonso, Hyppolite, and Isabel. LXIX "The prudent Eleanour is this: a spray Which will be grafted on thy happy tree. What of the fruitful stepchild shall I say, Who in succession next to her I see, Lucretia Borgia? who, from day to day, Shall wax in beauty, virtue, chastity, And fortune, that like youthful plant will shoot, Which into yielding soil has struck its root. LXX "As tin by silver, brass by gold, as Corn- Poppy beside the deeply-crimsoning rose, Willow by laurel evergreen, as shorn Of light, stained glass by gem that richly glows, -- So by this dame I honour yet unborn, Each hitherto distinguished matron shows; For beauty and for prudence claiming place, And all praise-worthy excellence and grace. LXXI "And above every other noble praise, Which shall distinguished her alive or dead, Is that by her shall be, through kingly ways, Her Hercules and other children led; Who thus the seeds of worth in early days, To bloom in council and in camp, will shed. For long wine's savour lingers in the wood Of the new vessel, whether bad or good. LXXII "Nor the step-daughter of this noble dame, Will I, Renata, hight of France, forget, Of Louis born, twelfth monarch of his name, And Bretagne's pride; all virtues ever yet Bestowed on woman, since the ruddy flame Has warmed, or water had the power to wet, Or overhead the circling heavens have rolled, United in Renata I behold. LXXIII " 'Twere long to tell of Alda de Sansogna, Or of Celano's countess in this string, Or Blanche Maria, stiled of Catalonia; Or her, the daughter of Sicilia's king, Or of the beauteous Lippa de Bologna, Or more, with whose renown the world shall ring, To speak whose separate praise with fitting lore, Were to attempt a sea without a shore." LXXIV When of the larger portion of her seed The king enchantress at full ease had told, And oft and oft rehearsed, amid the rede, What arts Rogero to the wizard's hold Had drawn, Melissa halted near the mead Where stood the mansion of Atlantes old, Nor would approach the magic dome more nigh, Lest her the false magician should espy. LXXV And yet again advised the martial maid, (Counsel she had a thousand times bestowed) Then left, Nor Bradamant through greenwood shade More than two miles in narrow path had rode, Before, by two fierce giants overlaid, She saw a knight, who like Rogero showed, So closely pressed, and labouring sore for breath, That he appeared well nigh reduced to death. LXXVI When she beheld him in such perilous strait, Who of Rogero all the tokens wore, She quickly lost the faith she nourished late, Quickly her every fair design forbore. She weens Melissa bears Rogero hate, For some new injury unheard before: And with unheard of hate and wrong, her foe Would by her hand destroy who loves him so. LXXVII She cried, "And is not this Rogero, who Aye present to my heart, is now to sight? If 'tis not him whom I agnize and view. Whom e'er shall I agnize or view aright? Why should I other's judgment deem more true Than the belief that's warranted by sight? Even without eyes, and by my heart alone, If he were near or distant, would be shown." LXXVIII While so the damsel thinks, a voice she hears, Which, like Rogero's, seems for aid to cry; At the same time, the worsted knight appears To slack the bridle and the rowels ply: While at full speed the goaded courser clears His ground, pursued by either enemy. Nor paused the dame, in following them who sought His life, till to the enchanted palace brought. LXXIX Of which no sooner has she past the door, Than she is cheated by the common show. Each crooked way or straight her feet explore Within it and without, above, below; Nor rests she night or day, so strong the lore Of the enchanter, who has ordered so, She (though they still encounter and confer) Knows not Rogero, nor Rogero her. LXXX But leave we Bradamant, nor grieve, O ye Who hear, that she is prisoned by the spell, Since her in fitting time I shall set free, And good Rogero, from the dome as well, As taste is quickened by variety, So it appears that, in the things I tell, The wider here and there my story ranges, It will be found less tedious for its changes. LXXXI Meseems that I have many threads to clear In the great web I labour evermore; And therefore be ye not displeased to hear How, all dislodged, the squadrons of the Moor, Threatening the golden lines loud, appear In arms, the royal Agramant before: Who bids for a review his army post, Willing to know the numbers of his host. LXXXII For besides horse and foot, in the campaign Sore thinned, whose numbers were to be supplied, Had many captains, and those good, of Spain, Of Libya, and of Aethiopia, died; And thus the nations, and the various train, Wandered without a ruler or a guide. To give to each its head and order due, The ample camp is mustered in review. LXXXIII To fill the squadrons ravaged by the sword, In those fierce battles and those conflicts dread, This to his Spain, to his Africa that lord, Sent to recruit, where well their files they fed; And next distributed the paynim horde Under their proper captains, ranged and led. I, with your leave, till other strain, delay The order of the muster to display. CANTO 14 ARGUMENT Two squadrons lack of those which muster under King Agramant, by single Roland slain; Hence furious Mandricardo, full of wonder And envy, seeks the count by hill and plain: Next joys himself with Doralice; such plunder, Aided by heaven, his valiant arms obtain. Rinaldo comes, with the angel-guide before, To Paris, now assaulted by the Moor. I In many a fierce assault and conflict dread, 'Twixt Spain and Afric and their Gallic foe, Countless had been the slain, whose bodies fed The ravening eagle, wolf, and greedy crow; But though the Franks had worse in warfare sped, Forced all the champaigne country to forego, This had the paynims purchased at the cost Of more good princes and bold barons lost. II So bloody was the price of victory, Small ground was left them triumphs to prepare; And if, unconquered Duke Alphonso, we May modern things with ancient deeds compare, The battle, whose illustrious palm may be Well worthily assigned to you to wear, At whose remembrance sad Ravenna trembles, And aye shall weep her loss, this field resembles. III When the Calesians and the Picards yielding, And troops of Normandy and Aquitaine, You, with your valiant arms their squadrons shielding, Stormed the almost victorious flags of Spain; And those bold youths their trenchant weapons wielding, Through parted squadrons, followed in your train; Who on that day deserved you should accord, For honoured gifts, the gilded spur and sword. IV You, with such glorious hearts, who were not slow To follow, nor far off, the gorgeous oak Seized, and shook down the golden acorns so, And so the red and yellow truncheon broke, That we to you our festive laurels owe, And the fair lily, rescued from its stroke; Another wreath may round your temples bloom, In that Fabricius you preserved to Rome. V Rome's mighty column, by your valiant hand Taken and kept entire, more praise has shed On you, than if the predatory band Had routed by your single valour bled, Of all who flocked to fat Ravenna's land, Or masterless, without a banner fled, Of Arragon, Castile, or of Navarre; When vain was lance or cannon's thundering car. VI This dear-bought victory brought more relief Than joy, by its event too much outweighed, The loss of that French captain and our chief, Whom dead we on the fatal field surveyed; And swallowed in one storm, for further grief, So many glorious princes, who, arrayed For safeguard of their own, or neighbouring lands, Had poured through, frozen Alps their friendly bands. VII Our present safety, and life held in fear, We see assured us by this victory, That saved us from the wintry tempest drear, Which would have whelmed us from Jove's angry sky. But ill can we rejoice, while yet the tear Is standing in full many a widow's eye, Who weeping and attired in sable, vents, Throughout all grieving France, her loud laments. VIII 'Tis meet King Lewis should find new supplies Of chiefs by whom his troops may be arrayed, Who for the lilies' honour shall chastise The hands which so rapaciously have preyed; Who brethren, black and white, in shameful wise, Have outraged, sister, mother, wife, and maid, And cast on earth Christ's sacrament divine, With the intent to thieve his silver shrine. IX Hadst thou not made resistance to thy foe, Better, Ravenna, had it been for thee, And thou been warned by Brescia's fate, than so Thine should Faenza warn and Rimini. O Lewis, bid good old Trivulzio go With thine, and to thy bands example be, And tell what ills such license still has bred, Heaping our ample Italy with dead. X As the illustrious King of France has need Of captains to supply his leaders lost, So the two kings who Spain and Afric lead, To give new order to the double host, Resolve their bands should muster on the mead, From winter lodgings moved and various post; That they may furnish, as their wants demand, A guide and government to every band. XI Marsilius first, and after Agramant, Passing it troop by troop their army scan. The Catalonians, who their captain vaunt In Doriphoebus, muster in the van; And next, without their monarch Fulvirant, Erst killed by good Rinaldo, comes the clan Of bold Navarre; whose guideless band to steer The King of Spain appoints Sir Isolier. XII With Balugantes Leon's race comes on, The Algarbi governed by Grandonio wheel. The brother of Marsilius, Falsiron, Brings up with him the power of Less Castile. They follow Madarasso's gonfalon, Who have left Malaga and fair Seville, 'Twixt fruitful Cordova and Cadiz-bay, Where through green banks the Betis winds its way. XIII Stordilane, Tessira, and Baricond, After each other, next their forces stirred; This in Grenada, that in Lisbon crowned; Majorca was obedient to the third. Larbino had Lisbon ruled, whose golden round Was at his death on Tessira conferred; His kinsman he: Gallicia came in guide Or Serpentine, who Mericold supplied. XIV They of Toledo and of Calatrave, Who erst with Sinnagon's broad banner spread, Marched, and the multitude who drink and lave Their limbs in chrystal Guadiana's bed, Came thither, under Matalista brave; Beneath Bianzardin, their common head, Astorga, Salamanca, Placenza, With Avila, Zamorra, and Palenza. XV The household-troops which guard Marsilius' state, And Saragossa's men, Ferrau commands; And in this force, well-sheathed in mail and plate, Bold Malgarine and Balinverno stands; Morgant and Malzarise, whom common fate Had both condemned to dwell in foreign lands, Who, when dethroned, had to Marsilius' court (There hospitably harboured) made resort. XVI Follicon, Kind Marsilius' bastard, hies With valiant Doricont; amid this horde, Bavartes, Analard, and Argalise, And Archidantes, the Saguntine lord. Here, Malagur, in ready cunning wise, And Ammirant and Langhiran the sword Unsheath, and march; of whom I shall endite, When it is time, their prowess to recite. XVII When so had filed the warlike host of Spain In fair review before King Agramant, Appeared King Oran with his martial train, Who might almost a giant's stature vaunt; Next they who weep their Martasino, slain By the avenging sword of Bradamant, King of the Garamantes, and lament That woman triumphs in their monarch spent. XVIII Marmonda's men next past the royal Moor, Who left Argosto dead on Gascon meads; And this unguided band, like that before, As well as the fourth troop, a captain needs. Although King Agramant has little store Of chiefs, he feigns a choice, and thinks; next speeds Buraldo, Ormida, and Arganio tried, Where needing, the unordered troops to guide. XIX He give Arganio charge of Libicane, Who wept the sable Dudrinasso dead. Brunello guides the men of Tingitane, With cloudy countenance and drooping head; Who since he in the wooded mountain-chain (Nigh where Atlantes dwelt), to her he led, Fair Bradamant, had lost the virtuous ring, Had lived in the displeasure of his king; XX And but that Ferrau's brother Isolier, Who fastened to a stem had found him there, Made to King Agramant the truth appear, He from the gallows-tree had swung in air: Already fastened was the noose, and near The caitiff's fate, when at the many's prayer The king bade loose him; but reprieving, swore, For his first fault to hang, offending more. XXI Thus, not without a cause, Brunello pined, And showed a mournful face, and hung his head. Next Farurantes; to whose care consigned, Maurina's valiant horse and footmen tread. The new-made king Libanio comes behind, By whom are Constatina's people led: Since Agramant the crown and staff of gold, Once Pinador's, had given to him to hold. XXII Hesperia's people come with Soridan, With Dorilon the men of Setta ride; The Nasamonians troop with Pulian, And Agricaltes is Ammonia's guide. Malabupherso rules o'er Fezzan's clan, And Finaduro leads the band supplied By the Canary Islands and Morocco: Balastro fills the place of king Tardocco. XXIII Next Mulga and Arzilla's legions two. The first beneath their ancient captains wend; The second troop without a leader, who Are given to Corineus, the sovereign's friend. So (late Tanphirion's) Almonsilla's crew, To a new monarch in Caichus bend. Goetulia is bestowed on Rhimedont, And Cosca comes in charge of Balinfront. XXIV Ruled by Clarindo, Bolga's people go, Who fills the valiant Mirabaldo's post: Him Baliverso, whom I'd have you know For the worst ribald in that ample host, Succeeded next. I think not, 'mid that show, The bannered camp a firmer troop could boast Than that which followed in Sobrino's care; Nor Saracen than him more wise and ware. XXV Gualciotto dead, Bellamarina's crew, (His vassals) serve, the sovereign of Algiers, King Rodomont, of Sarza; that anew Brought up a band of foot and cavaliers: Whom, when the cloudy sun his rays withdrew Beneath the Centaur and the Goat, his spears There to recruit, was sent to the Afric shore By Agramant, returned three days before. XXVI There was no Saracen of bolder strain, Of all the chiefs who Moorish squadrons led; And Paris-town (nor is the terror vain) More of the puissant warrior stands in dread Than of King Agramant and all the train, Which he, or the renowned Marsilius head; And amid all that mighty muster, more Than others, hatred to our faith he bore. XXVII Prusion is the Alvaracchia's king: below King Dardinello's flag Zumara's power Is ranged. I wot not, I, if owl or crow, Or other bird ill-omened, which from tower Or tree croaks future evil, did foreshow To one or to the other, that the hour Was fixed in heaven, when on the following day Either should perish in this deadly fray. XXVIII Noritia's men and Tremisene's alone Were wanting to complete the paynim host; But in the martial muster sign was none, Nor tale, nor tiding of the squadrons lost; To wondering Agramant alike unknown, What kept the slothful warriors from their post, When of King Tremisene's a squire was brought Before him, who at large the mischief taught; XXIX -- Who taught how Manilardo was laid low, Alzirdo, and many others, on the plain. -- "Sir," said the bearer of the news, "the foe Who slew our troop, would all thy camp have slain, If thine assembled host had been more slow Than me, who, as it was, escaped with pain. This man slays horse and foot, as in the cote, The wolf makes easy waste of sheep and goat." XXX Where the bold Africans their standards plant, A warrior had arrived some days before; Nor was there in the west, or whole Levant, A knight, with heart or prowess gifted more. To him much grace was done by Agramant, As successor of Agrican, who wore The crown of Tartary, a warrior wight; The son the famous Mandricardo hight. XXXI Renowned he was for many a glorious quest Atchieved, and through the world his fame was blown. But him had glorified above the rest Worth in the Syrian fairy's castle shown: Where mail, which cased the Trojan Hector's breast A thousand years before, he made his own. And finished that adventure, strange and fell; A story which breeds terror but to tell. XXXII When the squire told his news amid that show Of troops, was present Agrican's bold son, Who raised his daring face, resolved to go And find the warrior who the deed had done; But the design he hatched, forebore to show; As making small account of any one, Or fearing lest, should he reveal his thought, The quest by other champion might be sought. XXXIII He of the squire demanded what the vest And bearings, which the valiant stranger wore; Who answered that he went without a crest, And sable shield and sable surcoat bore. -- And, sir, 'twas true; for so was Roland drest; The old device renounced he had before: For as he mourned within, so he without, The symbols of his grief would bear about. XXXIV Marsilius had to Mandricardo sped, As gift, a courser of a chestnut stain, Whose legs and mane were sable; he was bred Between a Friesland mare and nag of Spain. King Mandricardo, armed from foot to head, Leapt on the steed and galloped o'er the plain, And swore upon the camp to turn his back Till he should find the champion clad in black. XXXV The king encounters many of the crew Whom good Orlando's arm had put to flight; And some a son, and some a brother rue, Who in the rout had perished in their sight; And in the coward's cheek of pallid hue Is yet pourtrayed the sad and craven sprite: -- Yet, through the fear endured, they far and nigh, Pallid, and silent, and insensate fly. XXXVI Nor he long was had rode, ere he descried A passing-cruel spectacle and sore; But which the wonderous feats well testified, That were recounted Agramant before. Now on this hand, now that, the dead he eyed, Measured their wounds, and turned their bodies o'er; Moved by strange envy of the knight whose hand Had strown the champaign with the slaughtered band. XXXVII As wolf or mastiff-dog, who comes the last Where the remains of slaughtered bullock lie, And finds but horn and bones, where rich repast Had fed the ravening hound and vulture night, Glares vainly on the scull, unsmacked; so passed The barbarous Tartar king those bodies by; And grudged, lamenting, like the hungry beast, To have come too late for such a sumptuous feast. XXXVIII That day, and half the next, in search he strayed Of him who wore the sable vest and shield. When lo! he saw a mead, o'ertopt with shade, Where a deep river wound about the field, With narrow space between the turns it made, Where'er from side to side the water wheeled. Even such a spot as this with circling waves Below Otricoli the Tyber laves. XXXIX Where this deep stream was fordable, he scanned A crowd of cavaliers that armour bore: And these the paynim questioned who had manned, With such a troop, and to what end, the shore? To him replied the captain of the band, Moved by his lordly air, and arms he wore, Glittering with gold and jewels, -- costly gear, Which showed him an illustrious cavalier. XL "In charge" (he said) "we of the daughter go Of him our king, who fills Granada's throne, Espoused by Rodomont of Sarza, though To fame the tidings are as yet unknown. And we, departing when the sun is low, And the cicala hushed, which now alone Is heard, shall bring her where her father keeps I' the Spanish camp; meanwhile the lady sleeps." XLI He who for scorn had daffed the world aside, Designs to see at once, how able were Those horsemen to defend the royal bride, Committed by their sovereign to their care. "The maid, by what I hear, is fair" (he cried). "Fain would I now be certified, how fair: Then me to her, or her to me convey, For I must quickly wend another way." XLII "Thou needs art raving mad," replied in few The chief, -- nor more. But with his lance in rest, The Tartar monarch at the speaker flew, And with the levelled spear transfixed his breast. For the point pierced the yielding corslet through, And lifeless he, perforce, the champaign prest. The son of Agrican his lance regained, Who weaponless without the spear remained. XLIII Now sword nor club the warlike Tartar bore, Since, when the Trojan Hector's plate and chain He gained, because the faulchion lacked, he swore (To this obliged), nor swore the king in vain, That save he won the blade Orlando wore, He would no other grasp, -- that Durindane. Held in high value by Almontes bold, Which Roland bears, and Hector bore of old. XLIV Great is the Tartar monarch's daring, those At such a disadvantage to assay, He pricks, with levelled lance, among his foes, Shouting, in fury, -- "Who shall bar my way?" -- Round and about him suddenly they close; These draw the faulchion, and those others lay The spear in rest: a multitude he slew, Before his lance was broke upon the crew. XLV When this he saw was broke, the truncheon sound And yet entire, he took, both hands between, And with so many bodies strewed the ground, That direr havoc never yet was seen: And as with that jaw bone, by hazard found, The Hebrew Samson slew the Philistine, Crushed helm and shield; and often side by side, Slain by the truncheon, horse and rider died. XLVI In running to their death the wretches vie, Nor cease because their comrades perish near: Yet bitterer in such a mode to die, Than death itself, does to the troop appear. They grudge to forfeit precious life, and lie Crushed by the fragment of a broken spear; And think foul scorn beneath the pounding stake Strangely to die the death of frog or snake. XLVII But after they at their expense had read That it was ill to die in any way, And near two thirds were now already dead, The rest began to fly in disarray. As if with what was his the vanquished fled, The cruel paynim, cheated of his prey, Ill bore that any, from the murderous strife Of that scared rabble, should escape with life. XLVIII As in the well-dried fen or stubble-land, Short time the stalk endures, or stridulous reed, Against the flames, which careful rustic's hand Scatters when Boreas blows the fires to feed; What time they take, and by the north-wind fanned. Crackle and snap, and through the furrow speed; No otherwise, with little profit, those King Mandricardo's kindled wrath oppose. XLIX When afterwards he marks the entrance free, Left ill-secured, and without sentinel. He, following prints (which had been recently Marked on the mead), proceeds, amid the swell Of loud laments, Granada's dame to see, If she as beauteous were as what they tell. He wound his way 'mid corpses, where the wave, Winding from side to side, a passage gave: L And in the middle of the mead surveyed Doralice (such the gentle lady's name), Who, at the root of an old ash tree laid, Bemoaned her: fast her lamentations came. And tears, like plenteous vein of water, strayed Into the beauteous bosom of the dame; Who, (so it from her lovely face appeared,) For others mourned, while for herself she feared. LI Her fear increased when she approaching spied Him foul with blood, and marked his felon cheer; And piercing shrieks the very sky divide Raised by herself and followers, in their fear. For over and above the troop who guide The fair infanta, squire and cavalier, Came ancient men and matrons in her train, And maids, the fairest of Granada's reign. LII When that fair face by him of Tartary Is seen, which has no paragon in Spain, Where amid tears (in laughter what were she?) Is twisted Love's inextricable chain. He knows not if in heaven or earth he be; Nor from his victory reaps other gain, Than yielding up himself a thrall to her, (He knows not why) who was his prisoner. LIII Yet not so far his courtesy he strained, That he would lose his labour's fruit, although The royal damsel showed, who sorely plained, Such grief as women in despair can show. He, who the hope within him entertained To turn to sovereign joy her present woe, Would wholly bear her off; whom having placed On a white jennet, he his way retraced. LIV He dames, maids, ancient men, and others, who Had from Granada with the damsel fared, Kindly dismissed, their journey to pursue; Saying, "My care suffices; I of guard, Of guide, of handmaid will the office do, To serve her in her every need prepared. Farewell!" and thus unable to withstand The wrong, with tears and sighs withdrew the band, LV Saying, "How woe-begone will be her sire, When he the miserable case shall hear! What grief will be the bridegroom's! what his ire! How dread the vengeance of that cavalier! When so the lady's needs such help require. Alas! and why is not the champion near, To save the illustrious blood of Stordilane, Ere the thief bears her farther hence, from stain?" LVI The Tartar, joying in the prize possest, Which he by chance and valour won and wore; To find the warrior of the sable vest Seemed not to have the haste he had before, And stopp'd and loitered, where he whilom prest; And cast about and studied evermore To find some fitting shelter; with desire, In quiet to exhale such amorous fire. LVII Doralice he consoled this while, whose eyes And cheek were wetted with the frequent tear, And many matters feigned and flattering lies; -- How, known by fame, he long had held her dear, And how his country and glad realm, whose size Shamed others, praised for grandeur far and near, He quitted, not for sight of France or Spain; But to behold that cheek of lovely grain. LVIII "If a man merits love by loving, I Yours by my love deserve; if it is won By birth, -- who boasts a genealogy Like me, the puissant Agricano's son? By riches, -- who with me in wealth can vie. That in dominion yield to God alone? By courage, -- I to-day (I ween) have proved That I for courage merit to be loved." LIX These words, and many others on his part, Love frames and dictates to the Tartar knight, Which sweetly tend to cheer the afflicted heart Of the unhappy maid, disturbed with fright. By these fear first was laid, and next the smart Sheathed of that woe, which had nigh pierced her sprite; And with more patience thence the maid began To hear, and her new lover's reasons scan. LX Next much more affable, with courteous lore Seasoning her answers to his suit, replies; Nor looking at the king, sometimes forbore To fix upon his face her pitying eyes. The paynim thence, whom Love had smote before, Not hopeful now, but certain, of his prize, Deemed that the lovely damsel would not still, As late, be found rebellious to his will. LXI Riding in her glad company a-field, Which so rejoiced his soul, so satisfied; And being near the time, when to their bield, Warned by the chilly night, all creatures hied, Seeing the sun now low and half concealed, The warrior 'gan in greater hurry ride; Until he heard reed-pipe and whistle sound, And next saw farm and cabin smoking round. LXII Pastoral lodgings were the dwellings near, Less formed for show, than for conveniency; And the young damsel and the cavalier The herdsman welcomed with such courtesy, That both were pleasured by his kindly cheer. For not alone dwells Hospitality In court and city; but ofttimes we find In loft and cottage men of gentle kind. LXIII What afterwards was done at close of day Between the damsel and the Tartar lord, I will not take upon myself to say; So leave to each, at pleasure, to award. But as they rose the following morn more gay, It would appear they were of fair accord: And on the swain who them such honour showed, Her thanks at parting Doralice bestowed. LXIV Thence from one place to the other wandering, they Find themselves by a river, as they go. Which to the sea in silence winds its way, And ill could be pronounced to stand or flow, So clear and limpid, that the cheerful day, With nought to intercept it, pierced below. Upon its bank, beneath a cooling shade, They found two warriors and a damsel laid. LXV Now lofty Fancy, which one course to run Permits not, calls me hence in sudden wise; And thither I return, where paynims stun Fair France with hosile din and angry cries, About the tent, wherein Troyano's son They holy empire in his wrath defies, And boastful Rodomont, with vengeful doom, Gives Paris to the flames, and levels Rome. LXVI Tidings had reached the Moorish sovereign's ear That the English had already passed the sea; And he bade Garbo's aged king appear, Marsilius, and his heads of chivalry: Who all advised the monarch to prepare For the assault of Paris. They may be Assured they in the storm will never thrive, Unless 'tis made before the aids arrive. LXVII Innumerable ladders for the scale Had been collected upon every hand, And plank and beam, and hurdle's twisted mail, For different uses, at the king's command; And bridge and boat; and, what might more avail Than all the rest, a first and second band For the assault (so bids the monarch) form; Who will himself go forth with them that storm. LXVIII The emperor, on the vigil of the day Of battle, within Paris, everywhere, By priest and friar of orders black and gray, And white, bade celebrate mass-rite and prayer; And those who had confessed, a fair array, And from the Stygian demons rescued were, Communicated in such fashions, all, As if they were the ensuing day to fall. LXIX At the high church, he, girt with paladine And preachers of the word, and barons brave, With much devotion at those acts divine Assisted, and a fair example gave; And there with folded hands and face supine, Exclaimed, "O Lord! although my sins be grave, Permit not, that, in this their utmost need, Thy people suffer for their king's misdeed! LXX "And if that they should suffer is thy will, And that they should due penance undergo, At least delay thy purpose to fulfil; So that thine enemies deal not the blow. For, when 'tis given him in his wrath to kill Us who are deemed thy friends, the paynim foe, That thou art without power to save, will cry, Because thou lett'st thy faithful people die: LXXI "And, for one faithless found, against thy sway A hundred shall throughout the world rebel; So that false Babel's law will have its way, And thus thy blessed faith put down and quell. Defend thy suffering people, who are they That purged thy tomb from heathen hounds and fell. And many times and oft, by foes offended, Thy holy church and vicars have defended. LXXII "That our deserts unfitting are to place I' the scale against our mighty debt, I know; Nor pardon can we hope, if we retrace Our sinful lives; but if thou shouldst bestow In aid, the gift of they redeeming grace, The account is quit and balanced, that we owe; Nor can we of thy succour, Lord, despair, While we in mind thy saving mercy bear." LXXIII So spake the holy emperor aloud, In humbleness of heart and deep contrition; And added other prayers withal, and vowed What fitted his great needs and high condition. Now was his supplication disallowed; For his good genius hears the king's petition, Best of the seraphs he; who spreads his wings, And to the Saviour's feet this offering brings. LXXIV Infinite other prayers as well preferred, Were, by like couriers, to the Godhead's ear So borne; which when the blessed spirits heard, They all together gazed, with pitying cheer, On their eternal, loving Lord, and, stirred With one desire, besought that he would hear The just petition, to his ears conveyed, Of this his Christian people, seeking aid. LXXV And the ineffable Goodness, who in vain Was never sought by faithful heart, an eye, Full of compassion, raised; and from the train Waved Michael, and to the arch-angel: "Hie, To seek the Christian host that crost the main, And lately furled their sails in Picardy: These so conduct to Paris, that their tramp And noise be heard not in the hostile camp. LXXVI "Find Silence first, and bid him, on my part, On this emprize attend thee, at thy side: Since he for such a quest, with happiest art Will know what is most fitting to provide. Next, where she sojourns, instantly impart To Discord my command, that she, supplied With steel and tinder, 'mid the paynims go, And fire and flame in their encampment blow; LXXVII "And throughout those among them, who are said To be the mightiest, spread such strife, that they Together may contend, and that some dead Remain, some hurt, some taken in the fray; And some to leave the camp, by wrath, be led; So that they yield their sovereign little stay." Nothing the blessed winged-one replies, But swoops descending from the starry skies. LXXVIII Where'er the angel Michael turns his wing, The clouds are scattered and the sky turns bright; About his person forms a golden ring, As we see summer lightning gleam at night. This while the courier of the heavenly king Thinks, on his way, where he may best alight, With the intent to find that foe to speech, To whom he first his high behest would teach. LXXIX Upon the thought the posting angel brooded, Where he, for whom he sought was used to dwell, Who after thinking much, at last concluded Him he should find in church or convent cell; Where social speech is in such mode excluded, That SILENCE, where the cloistered brethren swell Their anthems, where they sleep, and where they sit At meat; and everywhere in fine is writ. LXXX Weening that he shall find him here, he plies With greater speed his plumes of gilded scale, And deems as well that Peace, here guested, lies, And Charity and Quiet, without fail. But finds he is deceived in his surmise, As soon as he has past the cloister's pale. Here Silence is not; nor ('tis said) is found Longer, except in writing, on this ground. LXXXI Nor here he Love, nor here he Peace surveys, Piety, Quiet, or Humility. Here dwelt they once; but 'twas in ancient days; Chased hence by Avarice, Anger, Gluttony, Pride, Envy, Sloth, and Cruelty. In amaze The angel mused upon such novelty: He narrowly the hideous squadron eyed, And Discord too amid the rest espied; LXXXII Even her, to whom the eternal Sire as well, Having found Silence, bade him to repair. He had believed he to Avernus' cell, Where she was harboured with the damned, must fare, And now discerned her in this other hell (Who would believe it?) amid mass and prayer. Strange Michael thought to see her there enshrined, Whom he believed he must go far to find. LXXXIII Her by her party-coloured vest he knew. Unequal strips and many formed the gown, Which, opening with her walk, or wind that blew, Now showed, now hid her; for they were unsown. Her hair appeared to be at strife; in hue Like silver and like gold, and black and brown; Part in a tress, in riband part comprest, Some on her shoulders flowed, some on her breast. LXXXIV Examinations, summons, and a store Of writs and letters of attorney, she, And hearings, in her hands and bosom bore, And consultation, and authority: Weapons, from which the substance of the poor Can never safe in walled city be. Before, behind her, and about her, wait Attorney, notary, and advocate. LXXXV Her Michael calls to him, and give command That she among the strongest paynims go; And find occasion whence amid the band Warfare and memorable scathe may grow. He next from her of Silence makes demand, Who of his motions easily might know; As one who from one land to the other hied, Kindling and scattering fire on either side. LXXXVI "I recollect not ever to have viewed Him anywhere," quoth Discord in reply; "But oft have heard him mentioned, and for shrewd Greatly commended by the general cry: But Fraud, who makes one of this multitude, And who has sometimes kept him company, I think, can furnish news of him to thee, And" (pointing with her finger) "that is she." LXXXVII With pleasing mien, grave walk, and decent vest, Fraud rolled her eye-balls humbly in her head; And such benign and modest speech possest, She might a Gabriel seem who Ave said. Foul was she and deformed, in all the rest; But with a mantle long and widely spread, Concealed her hideous parts; and evermore Beneath the stole a poisoned dagger wore. LXXXVIII Of her the good archangel made demand What way in search of Silence to pursue: Who said; "He with the Virtues once was scanned Nor dwelt elsewhere; aye guested by the crew Of Benedict, or blest Elias' band, When abbeys and when convent-cells were new; And whilom in the schools long time did pass, With sage Archytas and Pythagorus. LXXXIX "But those philosophers and saints of yore Extinguished, who had been his former stay, From the good habits he had used before He passed to evil ones; began to stray, Changing his life, at night with lovers, bore Thieves company, and sinned in every way: He oftentimes consorts with Treason; further, I even have beheld him leagued with Murther. XC "With coiners him you oftentimes may see Harbour in some obscure and close repair. So oft he changes home and company, To light on him would be a fortune rare: Yet have I hope to point him out to thee; If to Sleep's house thou wilt at midnight fare, Him wilt thou surely find; for to repose At night he ever to that harbour goes." XCI Though Fraud was alway wont to deal in lies, So like the simple truth appears her say, The angel yields the tale belief; and flies Forth from the monastery without delay, Tempers his speed, and schemes withal in wise To finish at the appointed time his way, That at the house of Sleep (the mansion blind Full well he knew) this Silence he may find. XCII In blest Arabia lies a pleasant vale, Removed from village and from city's reach. By two fair hills o'ershadowed is the dale, And full of ancient fir and sturdy beech. Thither the circling sun without avail Conveys the cheerful daylight: for no breach The rays can make through boughs spread thickly round; And it is here a cave runs under ground. XCIII Beneath the shadow of this forest deep, Into the rock there runs a grotto wide. Here widely wandering, ivy-suckers creep, About the cavern's entrance multiplied. Harboured within this grot lies heavy Sleep, Ease, corpulent and gross, upon this side, Upon that, Sloth, on earth has made her seat; Who cannot go, and hardly keeps her feet. XCIV Mindless Oblivion at the gate is found, Who lets none enter, and agnizes none; Nor message hears or bears, and from that ground Without distinction chases every one; While Silence plays the scout and walks his round, Equipt with shoes of felt and mantle brown, And motions from a distance all who meet Him on his circuit, from the dim retreat. XCV The angel him approaches quietly, And, " 'Tis God's bidding" (whispers in his ear) "That thou Rinaldo and his company, Brought in his sovereign's aid, to Paris steer: But that thou do the deed so silently, That not a Saracen their cry shall hear; So that their army come upon the foe, Ere he from Fame of their arrival know." XCVI Silence to him no otherwise replied Than signing with his head that he obeyed: (And took his post behind the heavenly guide) Both at one flight to Picardy conveyed. The angel moved those bands of valour tried, And short to them a tedious distance made: Whom he to Paris safe transports; while none Is conscious that a miracle is done. XCVII Silence the advancing troop kept skirting round, In front, and flank, and rear of the array; Above the band he spread a mist profound, And everywhere beside 'twas lightsome day; Nor through the impeding fog the shrilling sound Of horn was heard, without, or trumpet's bray. He next the hostile paynims went to find, And with I know not what made deaf and blind. XCVIII While with such haste his band Rinaldo led, That him an angel well might seem to guide, And in such silence moved, that nought was said Or heard of this upon the paynim side; King Agramant his infantry had spread Throughout fair Paris' suburbs, and beside The foss, and underneath the walls; that day To make upon the place his worst assay. XCIX He who the Moorish monarch's force would tell, Which Charlemagne this day will have to meet, In wooded Apennine might count as well The trees upon its back, or waves that beat (What time the troubled waters highest swell) Against the Mauritanian Atlas' feet; Or watch at midnight with how many eyes The furtive works of lovers Heaven espies. C The larum-bells, loud-sounding through the air, Stricken with frequent blows, the town affray; And in the crowded temples every where Movement of lips and hands upraised to pray Are seen: if treasure seemed to God so fair As to our foolish thoughts, upon this day The holy consistory had bid mould Their every statue upon earth in gold. CI Lamenting may be heard the aged just, In that they were reserved for such a woe; Calling those happy that in sacred dust Were buried many and many a year ago. But the bold youths who, valiant and robust, Small thought upon the approaching ills bestow, Scorning their elders' counsel, here and there Hurrying, in fury, to the walls repair. CII Here might you paladin and baron ken, King, duke, and marquis, count and chivalry, And soldier, foreigner or citizen, Ready for honour and for Christ to die; Who, eager to assail the Saracen, On Charlemagne to lower the bridges cry. He witnesses with joy their martial beat, But to permit their sally deems not meet. CIII And them he ordered in convenient post, The advance of the barbarians to impede: For this would ill suffice a numerous host, To that he was content that few should speed. Some worked at the machines, some wild-fire tost, All ranged according to the separate need. Charles, never in one place, with restless care Provides defence and succour every where. CIV Paris is seated on a spacious plain, I' the midst -- the heart of France, more justly say. A stream flows into it, and forth again; But first, the passing waters, as they stray, An island form, and so secure the main And better part, dividing on their way. The other two (three separate quarters note). Within the river girds, without the moat. CV The town, whose walls for miles in circuit run, Might well have been attacked from many a side; Yet, for he would assail it but on one, Nor willingly his scattered troops divide, Westward beyond the stream Troyano's son Retired, from thence the assailing bands to guide. In that, he neither city had nor plain Behind, but what was his, as far as Spain. CVI Where'er the walls of Paris wound about, Large ammunition had king Charles purveyed; Strengthening with dyke each quarter held in doubt; And had within trench, drain, and casemate made: And where the river entered and went out, Had thickest chains across the channel laid. But most of all, his prudent cares appear Where there is greatest cause for present fear. CVII With eyes of Argus, Pepin's valiant son, Where Agramant was bent to storm foresaw, And every thing forestalled, ere yet begun By the bold followers of Mahound's law. With Isolier, Grandonio, Falsiron, Serpentin, Balugantes, and Ferrau, And what beside he out of Spain had led, Marsilius was in arms, their valiant head. CVIII With old Sobrino, on the left of Seine, Pulian and Dardinel d'Almontes meet, With Oran's giant king, to swell the train: Six cubits is the prince, from head to feet. But why move I my pen with greater pain Than these men move their arms? for in his heat King Rodomont exclaims, blaspheming sore, Nor can contain his furious spirit more. CIX As swarming to assail the pastoral bowl, With sound of stridulous wing, through summer sky, Or relics of a feast, their luscious dole, Repair the ready numbers of the fly; As starlings to the vineyard's crimsoning pole With the ripe clusters charged, -- heaven's concave high Filling, as they advanced, with noise and shout, Fast hurried to the storm the Moorish rout. CX Upon their walls the Christians in array, With lance, sword, axe, and wild-fire tost, The assaulted city guard without dismay, And little reck the proud barbarian's boast: Nor when death snatches this or that away, Does any one in fear refuse his post. Into the fosse below the paynim foes Return, amid a storm of strokes and blows. CXI Nor in this was is iron plied alone, But mighty masses and whole bulwarks fall, And top of tower, huge piece of bastion, And with much toil disrupted, solid wall; While streams of boiling water pouring down, Insufferably the advancing paynims gall: An ill-resisted rain, which, in despite Of helmet, makes its way, and blinds the sight. CXII And this than iron spear offended more: Then how much more the mist of lime-dust fine! Then how the emptied vessel, burning sore With nitre, sulphur, pitch, and turpentine! Nor idle lie the fiery hoops in store, Which, wreathed about with flaming tresses, shine. These at the foemen scaled, upon all hands, Form cruel garlands for the paynim bands. CXIII Meanwhile, up to the walls the second crew Fierce Sarza's king was driven, accompanied By bold Orlando and Buraldo, who The Garamantes and Marmonda guide; Clarindo and Loridano; nor from view, It seems, will Setta's valiant monarch hide: Morocco's king and he of Cosco go With these, that men their martial worth may know. CXIV With crimson Rodomont his banner stains, And in the vermeil field a lion shows; Who, bitted by a maid, to curb and reins His savage mouth disdains not to unclose. Himself in the submissive lion feigns The haughty Rodomont, and would suppose In her who curbs him with the bit and string, Doralice, daughter to Grenada's king; CXV Whom Mandricardo took, as I before Related, and from whom, and in what wise. Even she it was, whom Sarza's monarch more Loved than his realm, -- beyond his very eyes: And valour showed for her and courteous lore, Not knowing yet she was another's prize. If he had, -- then, -- then, first, -- the story known, Even what he did that day, he would have done. CXVI At once the foes a thousand ladders rear. Against the wall by the assailants shored, Two mannered each round; the second, in the rear, Urged on by the first; the third the second gored. One mounts the wall through valour, one through fear, And all attempt perforce the dangerous ford; For cruel Rodomont of Argier slays Or smites the wretched laggard who delays. CXVII 'Tis thus, 'mid fire and ruin, all assay To mount the wall; but others to assure Themselves, some safer passage seek, where they Will have least pain and peril to endure. Rodomont only scorns by any way To wend, except by what is least secure; And in that desperate case, where others made Their offerings, cursed the god to whom they prayed. CXVIII He in a cuirass, hard and strong, was drest; A dragon-skin it was with scaly quilt, Which erst secured the manly back and breast Of his bold ancestor, that Babel built; Who hoped the rule of heaven from God to wrest, And him would from his golden dome have split. Perfect, and for this end alone, were made Helmet and shield as well as trenchant blade. CXIX Nor Rodomont to Nimrod yields in might, Proud and untamed; and who would not forbear To scale the lofty firmament till night, Could he in this wide world descry the stair. He stood not, he, to mark the bulwark's plight Nor if the fosse of certain bottom were. He past, ran, -- rather flew across the moat, Plunging in filth and water to his throat. CXX Dripping and foul with water and with weeds, 'Mid fire and stone, and arbalests, and bows, On drives the chief; as through the marshy reeds, The wild-swine of our own Mallea goes; Who makes large day-light wheresoe'er he speeds, Parting the sedge with breast and tusk and nose. The paynim, safe in buckler lifted high, Scorns not the wall alone, but braves the sky. CXXI Rodomont has no sooner gained the shore, Than on the wooden bartizan he stands, Within the city walls, a bridge that bore (Roomy and large) king Charles's Christian bands. Here many a scull is riven, here men take more Than monkish tonsure at the warrior's hands: Heads fly and arms; and to the ditch a flood Runs streaming from the wall of crimson blood. CXXII He drops the shield; and with two-handed sway Wielding his sword, duke Arnulph he offends. Who came from whence, into the briny bay, The water of the rapid Rhine descends. No better than the sulphur keeps away The advancing flame, the wretch his life defends. He his last shudder gives, and tumbles dead; Cleft downwards, a full palm from neck and head. CXXIII At one back-stroke sir Spineloccio true, Anselmo, Prando, and Oldrado fell; The narrow place and thickly-swarming crew Make the wide-circling blow so fully tell. The first half Flemings were, the residue Are Normans, who the list of slaughter swell. Orghetto of Maganza, he from brow To breast divides, and thence to paunch below. CXXIV Down from the wall Andropono and Moschine He cast into the ditch: a priest the first; The second, but a worshipper of wine, Drained, at a draught, whole runlets in his thirst; Aye wonted simple water to decline, Like viper's blood or venom: now immersed In this, he perishes amid that slaughter; And, what breeds most affliction, dies by water. CXXV Lewis the Provencal is cleft in two; Arnold of Thoulouse through the breast before; Hubert of Tours, sir Dionysius, Hugh, And Claud, pour forth their ghosts in reeking gore. Odo, Ambaldo, Satallon ensue, And Walter next; of Paris are the four -- With others, that by me unmentioned fall, Who cannot tell the name and land of all. CXXVI The crowd, by Rodomont of Sarza led, The ladders lift, and many places scale. Here the Parisians make no further head, Who find their first defense of small avail Full well they know that danger more to dread Within awaits the foemen who assail; Because between the wall and second mound A fosse descends, wide, horrid, and profound. CXXVII Besides, that ours, with those upon the height, War from below, like valiant men and stout, New files succeed to those who fall in fight, Where, on the interior summit, stand the rout, Who gall with lances, and a whistling flight Of darts, the mighty multitude without; Many of whom, I ween, that post would shun, If it were not for royal Ulien's son. CXXVIII But he still heartened some, and chid the rest, And forced them forward to their sore alarm. One paynim's head he cleft, and other's breast, Who turned about to fly; and of the swarm Some shoved and pushed and to the encounter prest, Close-grappled by the collar, hair, or arm: And downwards from the wall such numbers threw, The ditch was all to narrow for the crew. CXXIX While so the foes descend, or rather fling Themselves into the perilous profound; And thence by many ladders try to spring Upon the summit of the second mound, King Rodomont, as if he had a wing Upon his every member, from the ground Upraised his weight, and vaulted clean across, Loaded with all his arms, the yawning fosse. CXXX The moat of thirty feet, not less, he cleared, As dexterously as leaps the greyhound fleet, Nor at his lighting louder noise was heard Than if he had worn felt beneath his feet. He now of this, now that, the mantle sheared; As though of pewter, not of iron beat, Or rather of soft rind their arms had been: So matchless was his force and sword so keen! CXXXI This while, not idle, those of ours had laid Snares in the inner moat, a well-charged mine: Where broom and thick fascines, all over paid With swarthy pitch, in plenty intertwine. Though they from bank to bank that hollow line, Filling the bottom well-nigh to the brink; And countless vessels the defenders sink. CXXXII Charged with salt-petre, oil, or sulphur pale, One and the other, or with such like gear; While ours, intent the paynims that assail The town, should pay their daring folly dear, (Who from the ditch on different parts would scale The inner bulwark's platform) when they hear The appointed signal which their comrades raise, Set, at fit points, the wildfire in a blaze. CXXXIII For that the moat was full from side to side, The scattered flames united into one, And mounted to such height, they well-nigh dried The watery bosom of the moon; a dun And dismal cloud above extending wide, Dimmed every glimpse of light, and hid the sun: A fearful crash, with a continued sound, Like a long peal of thunder, shook the ground. CXXXIV A horrid concert, a rude harmony Of deep lament, and yell and shriek, which came From those poor wretches in extremity, Perishing through their furious leader's blame, Was heard, as in strange concord, to agree With the fierce crackling of the murderous flame. No more of this, no more! -- Here, sir, I close My canto, hoarse, and needing short repose. CANTO 15 ARGUMENT Round about Paris every where are spread The assailing hosts of Africa and Spain. Astolpho home by Logistilla sped, Binds first Caligorantes with his chain; Next from Orrilo's trunk divides the head; With whom Sir Aquilant had warred in vain, And Gryphon bold: next Sansonet discerns, Ill tidings of his lady Gryphon learns. I Though Conquest fruit of skill or fortune be, To conquer always is a glorious thing. 'Tis true, indeed, a bloody victory Is to a chief less honour wont to bring; And that fair field is famed eternally, And he who wins it merits worshipping, Who, saving from all harm his own, without Loss to his followers, puts the foe to rout. II You, sir, earned worthy praise, when you o'erbore The lion of such might by sea, and so Did by him, where he guarded either shore From Francolino to the mouth of Po, That I, though yet again I heard him roar, If you were present, should my fear forego. How fields are fitly won was then made plain; For we were rescued, and your foemen slain. III This was the Paynim little skilled to do, Who was but daring to his proper loss; And to the moat impelled his meiny, who One and all perished in the burning fosse. The mighty gulf had not contained the crew, But that, devouring those who sought to cross, Them into dust the flame reduced, that room Might be for all within the crowded tomb. IV Of twenty thousand warriors thither sent, Died nineteen thousand in the fiery pit; Who to the fosse descended, ill content; But so their leader willed, of little wit: Extinguished amid such a blaze, and spent By the devouring flame the Christians lit. And Rodomont, occasion of their woes, Exempted from the mighty mischief goes: V For he to the inner bank, by foes possest, Across the ditch had vaulted wonderously: Had he within it been, among the rest, It sure had been his last assault. His eye He turns, and when the wild-fires, which infest The infernal vale, he sees ascend so high, And hears his people's moan and dying screams, With imprecations dread he Heaven blasphemes. VI This while a band King Agramant had brought, To make a fierce assault upon a gate: For while the cruel battle here was fought, Wherein so many sufferers met their fate, This haply unprovided had he thought With fitting guard. Upon the monarch wait King Bambirago, 'mid his knights of price, And Baliverso, sink of every vice. VII And Corineus of Mulga, Prusion, The wealthy monarch of the blessed isles; Malabuferzo, he who fills the throne Of Fez, where a perpetual summer smiles; And other noble lords, and many a one Well-armed and tried; and others 'mid their files, Naked, and base, whose hearts in martial fields Had found no shelter from a thousand shields. VIII But all things counter to the hopes ensue Of Agramant upon his side; within, In person, girded by a gallant crew, Is Charlemagne, with many a paladin: Ogier the Duke, King Salamon, the two Guidos are seen, and either Angelin; Bavaria's duke, and Ganelon are here, Avino, Avolio, Otho, and Berlinghier. IX And of inferior count withal, a horde Of Lombards, French, and Germans, without end; Who, every one, in presence of his lord, To rank among the valiantest contend, This will I in another place record; Who here a mighty duke perforce attend, Who signs to me from far, and prays that I Will not omit him in my history. X 'Tis time that I should measure back my way Thither, where I Astolpho left of yore; Who, in long exile, loathing more to stay, Burnt with desire to tread his native shore; As hopes to him had given the sober fay, Who quelled Alcina by her better lore, She with all care would send the warrior back By the securest and the freest track. XI And thus by her a barque is fitted out; -- A better galley never ploughed the sea; And Logistilla wills, for aye in doubt Of hinderance from Alcina's treachery, That good Andronica, with squadron stout, And chaste Sophrosina, with him shall be, Till to the Arabian Sea, beneath their care, Or to the Persian Gulf he safe repair. XII By Scyth and Indian she prefers the peer Should coast, and by the Nabataean reign; Content he, after such a round, should veer For Persian gulf, or Erithraean main, Rather than for that Boreal palace steer, Where angry winds aye vex the rude domain: So ill, at seasons, favoured by the sun, That there, for months together, light is none. XIII Next, when she all in readiness espied, Her license to depart the prudent fay Accorded to the duke, first fortified With counsel as to things too long to say; And that he might no more by charms be stayed In place from whence he could not wend his way, Him with a useful book and fair purveyed, And ever for her love to wear it prayed. XIV How man should guard himself from magic cheats The book instructed, which the fay bestowed; At the end or the beginning, where it treats Of such, an index and appendix showed. Another gift, which in its goodly feats All other gifts excelled, to her he owed; This was a horn, which made whatever wight Should hear its clang betake himself to flight. XV I say, the horn is of such horrid sound, That, wheresoe'er 'tis heard, all fly for fear; Nor in the world is one of heart so sound That would not fly, should he the bugle hear. Wind, thunder, and the shock which rives the ground, Come not, in aught, the hideous clangour near. With thanks did the good Englishman receive The gift, and of the fairy took his leave. XVI Quitting the port and smoother waves, they stand To sea, with favouring wind which blows astern; And (coasting) round the rich and populous land Of odoriferous Ind the vessels turn, Opening a thousand isles on either hand, Scattered about that sea, till they discern The land of Thomas; here the pilot veers His ready tiller, and more northward steers. XVII Astolpho, furrowing that ocean hoar, Marks, as he coasts, the wealthy land at ease. Ganges amid the whitening waters roar, Nigh skirting now the golden Chersonese; Taprobana with Cori next, and sees The frith which chafes against its double shore; Makes distant Cochin, and with favouring wind Issues beyond the boundaries of Ind. XVIII Scouring at large broad ocean, with a guide So faithful and secure, the cavalier Questions Andronica, if from that side Named from the westering sun, of this our sphere, Bark, which with oars or canvas stemmed the tide, On eastern sea was wonted to appear; -- And could a wight, who loosed from Indian strand, Reach France or Britain, without touching land. XIX Andronica to England's duke replies: "Know that this earth is girt about with seas, And all to one another yield supplies, Whether the circling waters boil or freeze: But, since the Aethiops' land before us lies, Extending southward many long degrees. Across his waters, some one has supposed A barrier here to Neptune interposed. XX "Hence bark from this Levant of Ind is none Which weighs, to shape her course for Europe's shore; Nor navigates from Europe any one, Our Oriental regions to explore; Fain to retrace alike the course begun By the mid land, extending wide before: Weening (its limits of such length appear) That it must join another hemisphere. XXI "But in the course of circling years I view From farthest lands which catch the western ray, New Argonauts put forth, and Tiphys new Opening, till now an undiscovered way. Others I see coast Afric, and pursue So far the negroes' burning shore, that they Pass the far sign, from whence, on his return, The sun moves hither, leaving Capricorn; XXII "And find the limit of this length of land, Which makes a single sea appear as two; Who, scouring in their frigates every strand, Pass Ind and Arab isles, or Persian through: Others I see who leave, on either hand, The banks, which stout Alcides cleft in two, And in the manner of the circling sun, To seek new lands and new creations run. XXIII "The imperial flags and holy cross I know, Fixed on the verdant shore; see some upon The shattered barks keep guard, and others go A-field, by whom new countries will be won; Ten chase a thousand of the flying foe, Realms beyond Ind subdued by Arragon; And see all, wheresoe'er the warriors wend, To the fifth Charles' triumphant captains bend. XXIV "That this way should be hidden was God's will Of old, and ere 'twas known long time should run; Nor will he suffer its discovery, till The sixth and seventh century be done. And he delays his purpose to fulfil, In that he would subject the world to one, The justest and most fraught with prudent lore Or emperors, since Augustus, or before. XXV "Of Arragon and Austria's blood I see On the left bank of Rhine a monarch bred; No sovereign is so famed in history, Of all whose goodly deeds are heard or read. Astraea reinthroned by him will be, -- Rather restored to life, long seeming dead; And Virtues with her into exile sent, By him shall be recalled from banishment. XXVI "For such desert, Heaven's bounty not alone Designs he should the imperial garland bear, -- Augustus', Trajan's, Mark's, Severus', crown; But that of every farthest land should wear, Which here and there extends, as yet unknown, Yielding no passage to the sun and year; And wills that in his time Christ's scattered sheep Should be one flock, beneath one Shepherd's keep. XXVII "And that this be accomplished with more ease, Writ in the skies from all eternity, Captains, invincible by lands and seas, Shall heavenly Providence to him supply. I mark Hernando Cortez bring, 'mid these, New cities under Caesar's dynasty, And kingdoms in the Orient so remote, That we of these in India have no note. XXVIII "With Prospero Colonna, puissant peer, A marquis of Pescara I behold; -- A youth of Guasto next, who render dear Hesperia to the flower-de-luce of gold; I see prepared to enter the career This third, who shall the laurel win and hold; As a good horse before the rest will dart, And first attain the goal, though last to start. XXIX "I see such faith, such valour in the deeds Of young Alphonso (such his name) confest, He in his unripe age, -- nor he exceeds His sixth and twentieth year, -- at Caesar's hest, (A mighty trust) the imperial army leads: Saving which, Caesar not alone the rest Of his fair empire saves, but may the world Reduce, with ensigns by this chief unfurled. XXX "As with these captains, where the way by land Is free, he spreads the ancient empire's sway, So on the sea, which severs Europe's strand From Afric, open to the southern day, When with good Doria linked in friendly band, Victorious he shall prove in every fray. This is that Andrew Doria who will sweep From pirates, on all sides, your midland deep. XXXI "Pompey, though he chased rovers everywhere, Was not his peer; for ill the thievish brood Vanquished by him, in puissance, could compare With the most mighty realm that ever stood. But Doria singly will of the corsair With his own forces purge the briny flood: So that I see each continent and isle Quake at his name, from Calpe to the Nile. XXXII "Beneath the faith, beneath the warrantry Of the redoubted chief, of whom I say, I see Charles enter fertile Italy, To which this captain clears the monarch's way; But on his country, not himself, that fee Shall he bestow, which is his labour's pay; And beg her freedom, where himself perchance Another would to sovereign rule advance. XXXIII "The pious love he bears his native land Honours him more than any battle's gain Which Julius ever won on Afric's strand, Or in thine isle, France, Thessaly, or Spain. Nor great Octavius does more praise command, Nor Anthony who jousted for the reign, With equal arms: in that the wrong outweighs -- Done to their native land -- their every praise. XXXIV "Let these, and every other wight who tries To subject a free country, blush for shame, Nor dare in face of man to lift his eyes, Where he hears Andrew Doria's honoured name! To him I see Charles other meed supplies; For he beside his leaders' common claim, Bestows upon the chief the sumptuous state, Whence Norman bands their power in Puglia date. XXXV "Not only to this captain courtesy Shall Charles display, still liberal of his store; But to all those who for the empery In his emprizes have not spared their gore. Him to bestow a town, -- a realm -- I see, Upon a faithful friend, rejoicing more, And on all such as have good service done, Than in new kingdom and new empire won." XXXVI Thus of the victories, by land and main, Which, when long course of years shall be complete, Charles' worthy captains for their lord will gain, Andronica did with Astolpho treat. This while, now loosening, tightening now, the rein On the eastern winds, which blow upon their feet, Making this serve or that, her comrade stands; While the blasts rise or sink as she commands. XXXVII This while they saw, as for their port they made, How wide the Persian sea extends to sight; Whence in few days the squadron was conveyed Nigh the famed gulf from ancient Magi hight; Here they found harbourage; and here were stayed Their wandering barks, which stern to shore were dight. Secure from danger from Alcina's wrath, The duke by land continued hence his path. XXXVIII He pricks through many a field and forest blind, By many a vale and many a mountain gray; Where robbers, now before and now behind, Oft threat the peer by night or open day; Lion and dragon oft of poisonous kind, And other savage monsters cross his way: But he no sooner has his bugle wound, Than these are scared and scattered by the sound. XXXIX Through Araby the blest he fares, where grow Thickets of myrrh, and gums odorous ooze, Where the sole phoenix makes her nest, although The world is all before her where to choose; And to the avenging sea which whelmed the foe Of Israel, his way the duke pursues; In which King Pharaoh and his host were lost: From whence he to the land of heroes crost. XL Astolpho along Trajan's channel goes, Upon that horse which has no earthly peer, And moves so lightly, that the soft sand shows No token of the passing cavalier; Who prints not grass, prints not the driven snows, -- Who dry-shod would the briny billows clear, And strains so nimbly in the course, he wind And thunderbolt and arrow leaves behind: -- XLI Erst Argalia's courser, which was born From a close union of the wind and flame, And, nourished not by hay or heartening corn, Fed on pure air, and Rabican his name. His way the bearer of the magic horn Following, where Nile received that river, came; But ere he at its outlet could arrive, Towards him saw a pinnace swiftly drive. XLII A hermit in the poop the bark did guide With snowy beard descending to mid breast; Who when from far the Paladin be spied, Him to ascend his ready pinnace prest. "My son, unless thou loathest life, (he cried) And wouldst that Death to-day thy course arrest, Content thee in my bark to cross the water; For yonder path conducts thee straight to slaughter. XLIII "Within six miles, no further, shalt thou light (Pursued the hermit) on the bloody seat, Where dwells a giant, horrible to sight, Exceeding every stature by eight feet. From him wayfaring man or errant knight Would vainly hope with life to make retreat; For some the felon quarters, some he flays, And some he swallows quick, and some he slays. XLIV "He, 'mid the cruel horrors he intends, Takes pleasure in a net, by cunning hands Contrived, which near his mansion he extends; So well concealed beneath the crumbling sands, That whoso uninstructed thither wends, Nought of the subtle mischief understands; And so the giant scares him with his cries, That he within the toils in terror flies; XLV "Whom with loud laughter, to his seat hard by He drags along, enveloped in his snare; And knight and damsel views with equal eye, And for his prisoners' worth has little care. Then, having sucked their brains and life-blood dry, Casts forth their bones upon the desert lair; And round about his griesly palace pins, For horrid ornament, their bloody skins. XLVI "Take this, -- my son, oh! take this other way, Which thee will to the sea in safety guide." "I thank thee, holy father, for thy say, (To him the fearless cavalier replied) But cannot peril against honour weigh, Far dearer than my life. To the other side Me vainly dost thou move to pass the wave; Rather for this I seek the giant's cave. XLVII "I with dishonour life to flight may owe; But worse than death loath thus to save my head. The worst that can befall me if I go, Is I my blood shall with the others shed: But if on me such mercy God bestow, That I remain alive, the giant dead, Secure for thousands shall I make the ways; So that the greater good the risque o'erpays. XLVIII "I peril but the single life of one Against safety of the countless rest." -- "Go then in peace," (the other said). "my son, And to thy succour, form among the blest, May God dispatch the Archangel Michael down." -- And him, with that, the simple hermit blest. Astolpho pricks along Nile's rosy strand, More in his horn confiding than his brand. XLIX Between the mighty river and the fen, A path upon the sandy shore doth lie, Barred by the giant's solitary den Cut off from converse with humanity. About it heads and naked limbs of men Were fixed, the victims of his cruelty. Window or battlements was not, whence strung Might not be seen some wretched prisoner hung. L As in hill-farm or castle, fenced with moat, The hunter, mindful what his dangers were, Aye fastens on his door the shaggy coat And horrid paws and monstrous head of bear; So showed the giant those of greatest note, Who, thither brought, had perished in his snare. The bones of countless others wide were spread, And every ditch with human blood was red. LI Caligorant was standing at the gate (For so was the despiteous monster hight); Who decked his house with corpses, as for state Some theirs with cloth of gold and scarlet dight. He scarce contained himself for joy, so great His pleasure, when the duke appeared in sight; For 'twas two months complete, a third was near, Since by that road had past a cavalier. LII Towards the marish, where green rushes grow, He hastes, intending from that covert blind To double on his unsuspecting foe, And issue on the cavalier behind: For him to drive into the net, below The sand, the griesly giant had designed; As others trapt he had been wont to see, Brought thither by their evil destiny. LIII When him the wary paladin espied, He stopt his courser, not without great heed, Lest he into the covert snare might tide, Forewarned of this by the good hermit's rede. Here to his horn for succour he applied, Nor failed its wonted virtue in this need: It smote the giant's heart with such affright, That he turned back, and homeward fled outright. LIV Astolpho blew, still watchful of surprise, Weening to see the engine sprung: fast flew The giant, -- as if heart as well as eyes The thief had lost, -- nor whitherward he knew: Such is his fear, he kens not as he flies, How is own covert mischief to eschew: He runs into the net, which closing round, Hampers the wretch, and drags him to the ground. LV Astolpho, who beholds his bulky prey Fall bodily, drives thither at full speed, Secure himself, and, bent -- to make him pay The price of slaughtered thousands -- quits his steed. Yet after, deems a helpless wight to slay No valour were, but rather foul misdeed: For him, arms, neck, and feet, so closely tied, He could not shake himself, the warrior spied. LVI With subtle thread of steel had Vulcan wrought The net of old, and with such cunning pain, He, who to break its weakest mesh had sought, Would have bestowed his time and toil in vain. It was with this he Mars and Venus caught, Who, hands and feet, were fettered by the chain: Nor did the jealous husband weave the thread For aught, but to surprise that pair in bed. LVII Mercury from the smith conveyed the prize, Wanting to take young Chloris in the snare; Sweet Chloris, who behind Aurora flies, At rise of sun, through fields of liquid air, And from her gathered garment, through the skies, Scatters the violet, rose, and lily fair. He for this nymph his toils so deftly set, One day, in air he took her with the net. LVIII The nymph (it seems) was taken as she flew, Where the great Aethiop river meets the brine: The net was treasured in Canopus, through Successive ages, in Anubis' shrine. After three thousand years, Caligorant drew The sacred relict from the palace divine: Whence with the net the impious thief returned, Who robbed the temple and the city burned, LIX He fixed it here, beneath the sandy plain, In mode, that all the travellers whom he chased Ran into it, and the engine was with pain Touched, ere it arms, and feet, and neck embraced. From this the good Astolpho took a chain, And with the gyve his hands behind him laced: His arms and breast he swaddled in such guise, He could not loose himself; then let him rise. LX After, his other knots unfastening, (For he was turned more gentle than a maid) Astolpho, as a show, the thief would bring, By city, borough-town, and farm conveyed; The net as well; than which no quainter thing Was ever by the file and hammer made. On him, like sumpter-nag he laid the load, In triumph led, behind him, on his road. LXI Him helm and shield he gives alike to bear, As to a valet; hence proceeds the peer, Gladdening the fearful pilgrim every where, Who joys to think, henceforth his way is clear. So far an end does bold Astolpho fare, He is to Memphis' tombs already near, -- Memphis renowned for pyramids; in sight, He marks the populous Cairo opposite. LXII Ran all the people in tumultuous tide, To see him drag the unmeasured wight along. "How can it be," (each to his fellow cried) "That one so weak could master one so strong?" Scarce can Astolpho put the press aside, So close from every part their numbers throng; While all admire him as a cavalier Of mighty worth, and make him goodly cheer. LXIII Then Cairo was not such, as common cry Pronounces in our age that costly seat; -- That eighteen thousand districts ill supply Lodging to those who in her markets meet; -- And though the houses are three stories high, Numbers are forced to sleep in the open street; And that the soldan has a palace there Of wonderous size, and passing rich and fair; LXIV And therein (Christian renegadoes all) Keeps fifteen thousand vassals, for his needs, Beneath one roof supplied with bower and stall, Themselves, and wives, and families, and steeds. The duke desired to see the river's fall, And how far Nile into the sea proceeds. At Damietta; where wayfaring wight, He heard, was prisoner made or slain outright. LXV For at Nile's outlet there, beside his bed, A sturdy thief was sheltered in a tower, Alike the native's and the stranger's dread, Wont even to Cairo's gate the road to scower. Him no one could resist, and, it was said, That man to slay the felon had no power. A hundred thousand wounds he had in strife Received, yet none could ever take his life. LXVI To see if he could break the thread which tied The felon's life, upon his way the knight Set forward, and to Damietta hied, To find Orrilo, so the thief was hight; Thence to the river's outlet past, and spied The sturdy castle on the margin dight; Harboured in which the enchanted demon lay, The fruit of a hobgoblin and a fay. LXVII He here Orrilo and two knights in mail Found at fierce strife: the two ill held their own Against him; so Orrilo did assail The warlike pair, although himself alone; And how much either might in arms avail, Fame through the universal world had blown. Of Oliviero's seed was either plant; Gryphon the white, and sable Aquilant. LXVIII The necromancer had this while (to say The truth) with vantage on his side, begun The fight, who brought a monster to the fray, Found only in those parts, and wont to won Ashore or under water, and to prey, For food, on human bodies; feeding on Poor mariners and travelling men, who fare, Of the impending danger, unaware. LXIX The monster, slaughtered by the brethren two, Upon the sand beside the haven lies; And hence no wrong they to Orrilo do, Assailing him together in this guise. Him they dismembered often and not slew: Now he, -- because dismembered, -- ever dies; For he replaces leg or hand like wax, Which the good faulchion from his body hacks. LXX Gryphon and Aquilant by turns divide, Now to the teeth, now breast, the enchanted wight. The fruitless blow Orrilo does deride, While the two baffled warriors rage for spite. Let him who falling silver has espied (Which mercury by alchymists is hight) Scatter, and reunite each broken member, Hearing my tale, what he has seen remember. LXXI If the thief's head be severed by the pair, He lights and staggers till he finds it; now Uptaken by the nose or by the hair, And fastened to the neck, I know not how. This sometimes Gryphon takes, and whirled through air, Whelms in the stream; but bootless is the throw: For like a fish can fierce Orrilo swim; And safely, with the head, regains the brim. LXXII Two ladies, meetly clad in fair array, One damsel was in black and one in white, And who had been the occasion of that fray, Stood by to gaze upon the cruel fight: Either of these was a benignant fay, Whose care had nourished one and the other knight, Oliver's children; when the babes forlorn They from the claws of two huge birds had torn. LXXIII Since, from Gismonda they had these conveyed, Borne to a distance from their native sky. But more to say were needless, since displaid To the whole world has been their history. Though the author has the father's name mis-said; One for another (how I know not, I) Mistaking. Now this fearful strife the pair Of warriors waged at both the ladies' prayer. LXXIV Though it was noon in the happy islands, day Had vanished in this clime, displaced by night; And, underneath the moon's uncertain ray, And ill-discerned, were all things hid from sight; When to the fort Orrilo took his way. Since both the sable sister and the white Were pleased the furious battle to defer, Till a new sun should in the horizon stir. LXXV The duke, who by their ensigns, and yet more Had by the sight of many a vigorous blow, Gryphon and Aquilant long time before Agnized, to greet the brethren was not slow: And they, who in the peer, victorious o'er The giant, whom he led a captive, know The BARON OF THE PARD, (so styled at court) Him to salute, with no less love resort. LXXVI The ladies to repose the warriors led To a fair palace near, their sumptuous seat: Thence issuing courtly squire and damsel sped, Them with lit torches in mid-way to meet. Their goodly steeds they quit, there well bested, Put off their arms, and in a garden sweet Discern the ready supper duly laid Fast by, where a refreshing fountain played. LXXVII Here they bid bind the giant on the green, Fast-tethered by a strong and weighty chain To a tough oak, whose ancient trunk they ween May well be proof against a single strain; With that, by ten good serjeants overseen, Lest he by night get loose, and so the train Assault and haply harm; while careless they Without a guard and unsuspecting lay. LXXVIII At the abundant and most sumptuous board, With costly viands (its least pleasure) fraught, The longest topic for discourse afford Orrilo's prowess, and the marvel wrought; For head or arm dissevered by the sword, They (who upon the recent wonder thought) Might think a dream to see him re-unite, And but return more furious to the fight. LXXIX Astolpho in his book had found exprest (That which prescribed a remedy for spell) How he who of one hair deprived the pest Only could him in battle hope to quell: But this plucked out or sheared, he from his breast Parforce the felon's spirit would expell. So says the volume; but instructs not where, 'Mid locks so thickly set, to find the hair. LXXX The duke no less with hope of conquest glows Than if the palm he has already won; As he that hopes with small expense of blows To pluck the hair, the wizard-wight undone. Hence does he to the youthful pair propose The burden of that enterprize upon Himself to take: Orrilo will he slay, If the two brethren nought the intent gainsay, LXXXI But willingly to him these yield the emprize, Assured his toil will be bestowed in vain; And now a new Aurora climbs the skies, And from his walls Orrilo on the plain Drops, -- and the strife begins -- Orrilo plies The mace, the duke the sword; he 'mid a rain Of strokes would from the body at one blow Divorce the spirit of the enchanted foe: LXXXII Together with the mace he lops the fist; And now this arm, now the other falls to ground; Sometimes he cleaves the corslet's iron twist, And piecemeal shares and maims the felon round. Orrilo re-unites the portions missed, Found on the champagne, and again is sound: And, though into a hundred fragments hewed, Astolpho sees him, in a thought, renewed. LXXXIII After a thousand blows, Astolpho sped One stroke, above the shoulders and below The chin, which lopt away both helm and head: Nor lights the duke less swiftly than his foe. Then grasps the hair defiled with gore and red, Springs in a moment on his horse, and lo! Up-stream with it along Nile's margin hies, So that the thief cannot retake the prize. LXXXIV That fool, who had not marked the warrior's feat, Was searching in the dust to find his head; But when he heard the charger in retreat, Who through the forest with the plunder fled, Leapt quickly into his own courser's seat, And in pursuit of bold Astolpho sped. Fain had Orrilo shouted "Hola! stay!" But that the duke had borne his mouth away: LXXXV Yet pleased Astolpho had not in like guise Borne off his heels, pursues with flowing rein. Him Rabican, who marvellously flies, Distances by a mighty length of plain. This while the wizard's head Astolpho eyes From poll to front, above the eyebrows twain, Searching, in haste, if he the hair can see Which makes Orrilo's immortality. LXXXVI Amid innumerable locks, no hair Straiter or crisper than the rest was seen. How then should good Astolpho, in his care To slay the thief, so many choose between? "To cut them all (he said) it better were." And since he scissors lacked and razor keen, He wanting these, resorted to his glaive, Which cut so well, it might be said to shave. LXXXVII And, holding, by the nose, the severed head, Close-sheared it all, behind and eke before. He found, among the rest, the fatal thread. Then pale became the visage, changing sore, Turned up its eyes, and signals sore and dread Of the last agony of nature wore; And the headless body seated in the sell, Shuddered its last, and from the courser fell. LXXXVIII The duke returns where he the champions two And dames had left, the trophy in his hand, Which manifests of death the tokens true; And shows the distant body on the sand. I know not if they this with pleasure view, Though him they welcome with demeanour bland: For the intercepted victory might pain Perchance inflict upon the envying twain. LXXXIX Nor do I think that either gentle fay With pleasure could that battle's issue see: Since those kind dames, because they would delay The doleful fate which shortly was to be In France the brethren's lot, had in that fray With fierce Orrilo matched the warriors free; And so to occupy the pair had cast, Till the sad influence of the skies were past. XC When to the castellan was certified In Damietta, that the thief was dead, He loosed a carrier pigeon, having tied Beneath her wing a letter by a thread. She went to Cairo; and, to scatter wide The news, another from that town was sped (Such is the usage there); so, Egypt through, In a few hours the joyful tidings flew. XCI As he had brought the adventure to an end, The duke now sought the noble youths to stir, (Though of themselves that way their wishes tend, Nor they to whet that purpose need the spur) That they the Church from outrage to defend, And rights of Charles, the Roman Emperor, Would cease to war upon that Eastern strand, And would seek honour in their native land. XCII Gryphon and Aquilant thus bid adieu, One and the other, to his lady fair; Who, though it sorely troubled them, ill knew How to resist the wishes of the pair. The duke, together with the warlike two, Turns to the right, resolved to worship, where God erst incarnate dwelt, the holy places, Ere he to cherished France his way retraces. XCIII The warriors to the left-hand might incline, As plainer and more full of pleasant cheer, Where still along the sea extends their line; But take the right-hand path, abrupt and drear; Since the chief city of all Palestine, By six days' journey, is, through this, more near. Water there is along this rugged track, And grass; all other needful matters lack. XCIV So that, before they enter on their road, All that is needful they collect, and lay Upon the giant's back the bulky load, Who could a tower upon his neck convey. The Holy Land a mountain-summit showed, At finishing their rough and salvage way; Where HEAVENLY LOVE a willing offering stood, And washed away our errors with his blood. XCV They, at the entrance of the city, view A gentle stripling; and in him the three Agnize Sir Sansonet of Mecca, who Was, in youth's flower, for sovereign chivalry, For sovereign goodness, famed the country through, And wise beyond his years: from paganry Converted by Orlando to the truth, Who had, with his own hands, baptized the youth. XCVI Designing there a fortilage, in front Of Egypt's caliph they the warrior found; And with a wall two miles in length, the mount Of Calvary intending to surround. Received with such a countenance, as is wont To be of inward love the surest ground, Them he conducted to his royal home, And, with all comfort, harboured in the dome. XCVII As deputy, the sainted land he swayed, Conferred on him by Charlemagne, in trust, To him the English duke a present made Of that so sturdy and unmeasured beast, That it ten draught horse burdens had conveyed; So monstrous was the giant, and next gave The net, in which he took the unwieldy slave. XCVIII In quittance, Sansonet, his sword to bear, Gave a rich girdle to Astolpho bold, And spurs for either heel, a costly pair, With bucklers and with rowels made of gold; Which ('twas believed) the warrior's relicts were, Who freed the damsel from that dragon old; Spoils, which Sir Sansonet, with many more, From Joppa, when he took the city, bore XCIX Cleansed of their errors in a monastery, From whence the odour of good works upwent, They of Christ's passion every mystery Contemplating, through all the churches went; Which now, to our eternal infamy, Foul Moor usurp; what time on strife intent, All Europe rings with arms and martial deeds, And war is everywhere but where it needs. C While grace the warlike three devoutly sought, Intent on pardon and on pious lore, A Grecian pilgrim, known to Gryphon, brought Tidings, which ill the afflicted champion bore, From his long-cherished vow and former thought, Too foreign, too remote; and these so sore Inflamed his troubled breast, and bred such care, They wholly turned aside his mind from prayer. CI For his misfortune, one of lovely feature Sir Gryphon worshipped, Origilla hight. Of fairer visage and of better stature, Not one among a thousand meets the sight: But faithless, and of such an evil nature, That thou mightst town and city search outright, And continent and island, far and near, Yet, never, as I think, wouldst find her peer. CII In Constantine's imperial city, burned With a fierce fever, he had left the fair; And hoped to find her, to that place returned, Lovelier than ever; and enjoy her there. But she to Antioch (as the warrior learned) Had with another leman made repair; Thinking, while such fresh youth was yet her own, 'Twere not a thing to brook -- to sleep alone. CIII Sir Gryphon, from the time he heard the news Had evermore bemoaned him, day or night: Whatever pleasure other wight pursues Seems but the more to vex his troubled sprite. Let each reflect, who to his mischief woos, How keenly tempered are Love's darts of might, And, heavier than all ills, the torment fell, In that he was ashamed his grief to tell. CIV This: for that Aquilant had oft before Reproved him for the passion which he nursed, And sought to banish her from his heart's core; -- Her, who of all bad women is the worst, He still had censured, in his wiser lore, If by his brother Aquilant accurst, Her Gryphon, in his partial love, excuses, For mostly self-conceit our sense abuses. CV It therefore is his purpose, without say To Aquilant, alone to take the quest As far as Antioch, and bear her away, Who had borne off his heart-core from his breast: To find him, who had made the dame his prey, And take such vengeance of him, ere he rest, As shall for aye be told. My next will tell How he effected this, and what befell. CANTO 16 ARGUMENT Gryphon finds traitorous Origilla nigh Damascus city, with Martano vile. Slaughtered the Saracens and Christians lie By thousands and by thousands heaped this while; And if the Moor outside of Paris die, Within the Sarzan so destroys each pile, Such slaughter deals, that greater ill than this Never before has been exprest, I wiss. I Love's penalties are manifold and dread: Of which I have endured the greater part, And, to my cost, in these so well am read, That I can speak of them as 'twere my art. Hence if I say, or if I ever said, (Did speech or living page my thoughts impart) "One ill is grievous and another light." Yield me belief, and deem my judgment right. II I say, I said, and, while I live, will say, "He, who is fettered by a worthy chain, Though his desire his lady should gainsay, And, every way averse, his suit disdain; Though Love deprive him of all praised pay, After long time and trouble spent in vain, He, if his heart be placed well worthily, Needs not lament though he should waste and die." III Let him lament, who plays a slavish part, Whom two bright eyes and lovely tresses please: Beneath which beauties lurks a wanton heart With little that is pure, and much of lees. The wretch would fly; but bears in him a dart, Like wounded stag, whichever way he flees; Dares not confess, yet cannot quench, his flame, And of himself and worthless love has shame. IV The youthful Gryphon finds him in this case, Who sees the error which he cannot right; He sees how vilely he his heart does place On faithless Origille, his vain delight: Yet evil use doth sovereign reason chase, And free will is subdued by appetite. Though a foul mind the lady's actions speak, Her, wheresoe'er she is, must Gryphon seek. V Resuming the fair history, I say, Out of the city he in secret rode; Nor to his brother would his plan bewray, Who oft on him had vain reproof bestowed: But to the left t'wards Ramah shaped his way, By the most level and most easy road. Him six days' journey to Damascus brought, Whence, setting out anew, he Antioch sought. VI He nigh Damascus met the lover, who Perfidious Origilla's heart possest, And matched in evil customs were the two, Like stalk and flower: for that in either's breast Was lodged a fickle heart; the dame untrue, And he a traitor whom she loved the best. While both the lovers hid their nature base, To others' cost, beneath a courteous face. VII As I relate to you, the cavalier Came on huge courser, trapped with mickle pride; With faithless Origille, in gorgeous gear, With gold embroidered, and with azure dyed. Two ready knaves, who serve the warrior, rear The knightly helm and buckler at his side; As one who with fair pomp and semblance went Towards Damascus, to a tournament. VIII Damascus' king a splendid festival Had in these days bid solemnly proclaim; And with what pomp they could, upon his call, Thither, in shining arms, the champions came. At Gryphon's sight the harlot's spirits fall, Who fears that he will work her scathe and shame; And knows her lover has not force and breath To save her from Sir Gryphon, threatening death; IX But like most cunning and audacious quean, Although she quakes from head to foot with fear, Her voice so strengthens, and so shapes her mien, That in her face no signs of dread appear, Having already made her leman ween The trick devised, she feigns a joyous cheer, Towards Sir Gryphon goes, and for long space Hangs on his neck, fast-locked in her embrace. X She, after suiting with much suavity The action to the word, sore weeping, cried: "Dear lord, is this the guerdon due to me, For love and worship? that I should abide Alone one live long year, deprived of thee, -- A second near -- and, yet upon thy side No grief? -- and had I borne for thee to stay, I know not if I should have seen that day. XI "When I from Nicosia thee expected (When thou wast journeying to the plenar court) To cheer me, -- left with fever sore infected, And in the dread of death, -- I heard report That thou wast gone to Syria; and dejected By that ill tiding, suffered in such sort, I, all unable to pursue thy quest, Had nigh with this right hand transfixt my breast. XII "But fortune, by her double bounty, shows She guards me more than thou: me to convey She sent my brother here, who with me goes, My honour safe in his protecting stay; And this encounter with thee now bestows, Which I above all other blessings weigh, And in good time; for hadst thou longer stayed, My lord, I should have died of hope delayed." XIII The wicked woman, full of subtlety (Worse than a fox in crafty hardihood) Pursues, and so well shapes her history, She wholly throws the blame on Gryphon good; Makes him believe that other not to be Her kin alone, but of her flesh and blood, Got by one father; -- and so puts upon The knight, that he less credits Luke and John. XIV Nor he the fraud of her, more false than fair, Only forbore with just reproach to pay; Nor only did the threatened stranger spare, Who was the lover of that lady gay; But deemed to excuse himself sufficient were, Turning some portion of the blame away; And as the real brother she profest, Unceasingly the lady's knight carest; XV And to Damascus, with the cavalier Returned, who to Sir Gryphon made report, That Syria's wealthy king, with sumptuous cheer, Within that place would hold a splendid court; And who, baptized or infidel, appear There at his tourney (of whatever sort), Within the city and without, assures From wrong, for all the time the feast endures. XVI Yet I of Origilla's treachery Shall not so steadfastly pursue the lore, Who, famed not for one single perfidy, Thousands and thousands had betrayed before, But that I will return again to see Two hundred thousand wretched men or more Burnt by the raging wild-fire, where they spread, About the walls of Paris, scathe and dread. XVII I left you where king Agramant prepared To storm a gate, and to the assault was gone: This he had hoped to find without a guard; And work elsewhere to bar the way was none. For there, in person, Charles kept watch and ward With many, practised warriors every one; Two Angelines, two Guidos, Angelier, Avino, Avolio, Otho, and Berlinghier. XVIII One and the other host its worth, before Charles and king Agramant, desire to show, Where praise, where riches are, they think, in store For those that do their duty on the foe. But such were not the atchievements of the Moor As to repair the loss; for, to his woe, Full many a Saracen the champaign prest; Whose folly was a beacon to the rest. XIX The frequent darts a storm of hail appear, Which from the city-wall the Christians fling; The deafening clamours put the heavens in fear, Which, from our part, and from that other, ring. But Charles and Agramant must wait; for here I of the Mars of Africa will sing, King Rodomont, that fierce and fearful man, That through the middle of the city ran. XX I know not, sir, if you the adventure dread Of that so daring Moor to mind recall, The leader, who had left his people dead, Between the second work and outer wall; Upon those limbs the ravening fire so fed, Was never sight more sad! -- I told withal, How vaulting o'er that hindrance at a bound, He cleared the moat which girt the city round. XXI When he was known the thickening crowd among, By the strange arms he wore and scaly hide, There, where the aged sires and feebler throng. Listened to each new tale on every side; Heaven-high groan, moan, and lamentation rung, And loud they beat their lifted palms and cried: While those who had the strength to fly aloof, Sought safety not from house or temple's roof. XXII But this the cruel sword concedes to few, So brandished by that Saracen robust; And here, with half a leg dissevered, flew A foot, there head divided from the bust: This cleft across, and that behold him hew, From head to hips, so strong the blow and just. While, of the thousands wounded by the Moor, Is none that shows an honest scar before. XXIII What by weak herd, in fields of Hircany, The tiger does, or Indian Ganges near, Or wolf, by lamb or kid, on heights which lie On Typheus' back, the cruel cavalier Now executes on those, I will not, I Call phalanxes or squadrons, but a mere Rabble, that I should term a race forlorn, Who but deserved to die ere they were born. XXIV Of all he cuts, and thrusts, and maims, and bleeds, There is not one who looks him in the face. Throughout that street, which in a straight line leads Up to St. Michael's bridge, so thronged a space, Rodomont, terrible and fearful, speeds, Whirling his bloody brand, nor grants he grace, In his career, to servant or to lord; And saint and sinner feel alike the sword. XXV Religion cannot for the priest bespeak Mercy, nor innocence avail the child: Nor gently beaming eyes, nor vermeil cheek, Protect the blooming dame or damsel mild. Age smites its breast and flies: while bent to wreak Vengeance, the Saracen, with gore defiled, Shows not his valour more than cruel rage, Heedless alike of order, sex, and age. XXVI Nor the impious king alone with human blood, -- Lord of the impious he -- his hand distains, But even on walls so sorely vents his mood, He fires fair houses, and polluted fanes. The houses almost all were made of wood, Then (as 'tis told) and this, by what remains, May be believed; for yet in Paris we Six out of ten no better builded see. XXVII Though flames demolish all things far and wide, This ill appears his furious hate to slake: Where'er the paynim has his hands applied, He tumbles down a roof at every shake. My lord, believe, you never yet espied Bombard in Padua, of so large a make, That it could rend from wall of battered town What, at a single pull, the king plucked down. XXVIII While the accursed man, amid the rout, So warred with fire and sword, if at his post, King Agramant had prest it from without, The ample city had that day been lost. But he was hindered by the warrior stout, Who came from England with the advancing host, Composed of English and of Scotch allied, With Silence and the Angel for their guide. XXIX It was God's will, that while through town and tower The furious Rodomont such ruin spread, Thither arrived Rinaldo, Clermont's flower. Three leagues above, he o'er the river's bed Had cast a bridge; from whence his English power To the left-hand by crooked ways he led; That, meaning to assail the barbarous foes, The stream no obstacle might interpose. XXX Rinaldo had, with Edward, sent a force, Six thousand strong, of archer infantry, And sped, with Ariman, two thousand horse Of lightest sort; and foot and cavalry Sought Paris by those roads, which have their course Directly to, and from, the Picard sea; That by St. Martin's and St. Denys' gate, They might convey the aid the burghers wait. XXXI Rinaldo sent with these the baggage train And carriages, with which his troops were stored; And fetching, with the forces that remain, A compass, he the upper way explored. He bridge, and boat, and means to pass the Seine, Had with him; for it here was ill to ford. He past his army, broke the bridges down, And rank'd in line the bands of either crown. XXXII But having first the peers and captains wheeled About him in a ring, the cavalier Mounted the bank which overtopt the field, So much, that all might plainly see and hear; And cried, "My lords, you should thanksgiving yield, With lifted hands, to God, who brought you here; Through whom, o'er every nation, you may gain Eternal glory, bought with little pain. XXXIII "Two princes, by your means, will rescued be, If you relieve those city gates from siege; Him, your own king, whom you from slavery And death to save, a subject's vows oblige; And a famed emperor, of more majesty Than ever yet in court was served by liege, And with them other kings, and dukes, and peers, And lords of other lands, and cavaliers. XXXIV "So that one city saving, not alone Will the Parisians bless your helping hand, Who, sadder than for sorrows of their own, Timid, afflicted, and disheartened stand; And their unhappy wives and children moan, Which share in the same peril, and the band Or virgins, dedicate to heavenly spouse, Lest this day frustrate see their holy vows; XXXV -- "I say, this city saved from deadly wound, Not only will Parisians hold you dear; But habitants of all the countries round: Nor speak I only of the nations near; For city there is none on Christian ground. But what has citizens beleaguered here; So that to you, for vanquishing the foe, More lands than France will obligation owe. XXXVI "If him the ancients with a crown endued, Who saved one citizen by worthy deed, For rescuing such a countless multitude, What recompense shall be your worthy meed? But if, from jealousy or sloth, so good And holy, enterprise should ill succeed, Believe me, only while these walls endure, Is Italy or Almayn's realm secure; XXXVII "Or any other part, where men adore Him, who for us upon the cross was hung; Nor think that distance saves you from the Moor, Nor deem your island strong, the waves among. For if, from far Gibraltar's straits of yore, And old Alcides' pillars, sailed the throng, To bear off plunder from your sea-girt strands, What will they do when they possess our lands? XXXVIII "And, if in this fair enterprise arrayed, No gain, no glory served you as a guide, A common debt enjoins you mutual aid, Militant here upon one Church's side. Moreover, let not any be afraid, Our broken foemen will the assault abide; Who seem to me ill-taught in warlike art, A feeble rabble without arms or heart." XXXIX Such reasons, and yet better for, that need Might good Rinaldo in his speech infer; And with quick phrase and voice, to valiant deed The high-minded barons and bold army stir; And this was but to goad a willing steed (As the old proverb says) who lacks no spur. He moved the squadrons, having closed his speech, Softly, beneath their separate banners, each. XL He, without clamour, without any noise. So moves his triple host, their flags below. Zerbino, marching by the stream, enjoys The honour first to assail the barbarous foe; The paladin the Irishmen employs More inland, with a wider wheel to go. Thus England's horse and foot, the two between, Led by the Duke of Lancaster, are seen. XLI The paladin rode on, along the shore, When he had put the warriors in their way, And, passing by their squadrons, pricked before Valiant Zerbino and his whole array, Until he reached the quarters of the Moor, Where Oran's king, and king Sobrino lay; Who, half-a-mile removed from those of Spain, Posted upon that side, observed the plain. XLII With such a faithful escort fortified And sure, the Christians who had thither wound, With Silence and the Angel for their guide, No longer could stand mute or keep their ground: But hearing now the foe, with shouts defied Their host, and made the shrilling trumpets sound; And with loud clamours, which Heaven's concave fill, Sent through the paynim's bones a deadly chill. XLIII Rinaldo spurs before the troops combined His foaming courser, and his weapon rests; And a full bow-shot leaves the Scots behind: So all delay the impatient peer molests. As oftentimes an eddying gust of winds Issues, ere yet the horrid storm infests, So sallying swiftly from the following herd, Rinaldo forth upon Baiardo spurred. XLIV As the aspect of the paladin of France, The wavering Moorish files betray their fear; And, trembling in their hands, is seen the lance, Their thighs and stirrups quivering, like the spear. King Pulian only marks the knight's advance, Knowing Rinaldo not, unchanged in cheer; Nor thinking such a cruel shock to meet, Gallops against him on his courser fleet. XLV He stoops upon the weapon which he strains, Whole and collected for the martial game: Then to his horse abandoning the reins, And goading with both spurs the courser, came. Upon the other side no valour feigns, But shows, by doings, what he is in name; -- With what rare grace and matchless art he wars, The son of Aymon, rather son of Mars. XLVI Well-matched in skill, they aimed their cruel blows, With lances at each other's heads addrest; Ill matched, in arms and valour, were the foes, For this past on, and that the champaigne prest. More certain proof of worth, when warriors close, There needs than knightly lance, well placed in rest; But Fortune even more than Valour needs, Which ill, without her saving succour, speeds. XLVII With the good spear new levelled in his fist, At Oran's king behold Rinaldo dart. Of bulk, and bone, and sinew, to resist The monarch was, but ill supplied with heart. And his might pass for a fair stroke in list, Though planted in the buckler's nether part. Let those excuse it who refuse to admire, Since the good paladin could reach no higher. XLVIII Nor did the buckler so the weapon stay, Though made of palm within, and steel without, But that it pierced the paunch, and made a way To let that mean and ill matched spirit out. The courser, who had deemed that all the day He must so huge a burden bear about, Thanked in his heart the warrior, who well met, Had thus preserved him from so sore a sweat. XLIX Rinaldo, having broke his rested spear, So wheels his horse, he seems equipt with wings; Who, turning swiftly with the cavalier, Amid the closest crowd, impetuous springs. Composed of brittle glass the arms appear Where Sir Rinaldo red Fusberta swings. Nor tempered steel is there, nor corslet thick, Which keeps the sword from biting to the quick. L Yet few the tempered plates or iron pins With which encounters that descending brand; But targets, some of oak and some of skins, And quilted vest and turban's twisted band. Lightly such drapery good Rinaldo thins, And cleaves, and bores, and shears, on either hand; Nor better from his sword escapes the swarm, Than grass from sweeping scythe, or grain from storm. LI The foremost squadron had been put to flight, When thither the vanguard Zerbino led. Forth pricking from the following crowd, in sight Appeared, with levelled lance, their youthful head: With no less fury those who trooped to fight Beneath his banner, to the combat sped; Like lions, like so many wolves, who leap In fury to the assault of goat or sheep. LII Both spurred their coursers on, with rested lance, When either warrior to his foe was near; And that short interval, that small expanse, Of plain, between, was seen to disappear. Was never witnessed yet a stranger dance! For the Scots only ply the murderous spear; Only the scattered paynims slaughtered lie, As if conducted thither but to die. LIII It seemed as if each coward paynim grew More cold than ice, each Scot more fierce than flame. The Moors believed that with Rinaldo's thew And muscle fortified, each Christian came. Sobrino quickly moved his ordered crew, Nor stayed till herald should his call proclaim: Better were they than those which went before, For captain, armour, and for martial lore. LIV Less worthless men of Africa were they, Though ill had they been deemed of much avail. Ill harnessed, and worse trained to martial fray, Forthwith King Dardinel, the foe to assail, Moved up his host, himself in helmet gay, And sheathing all his limbs in plate and mail. The fourth division I believe was best, Which, under Isolier, to battle prest. LV Thraso, this while, the valiant Duke of Mar, Glad in the tumult, for the cavaliers Who muster in his train, uplifts the bar, And to the lists of fame his following chears, When Isolier, with horsemen of Navarre, Entered in that fierce fray he sees and hears. Next Ariodantes moved his chivalry, Who was of late made Duke of Albany. LVI The deep sonorous trumpet's bellowing, And sound of drum, and barbarous instrument, Combined with twang of bow, and whiz of sling, Wheel and machine, and stone from engine sent, And (what more loud than these appeared to ring) Tumult, and shriek, and groan, and loud lament, Composed a direr whole than what offends The neighbouring tribes where deafening Nile descends. LVII The arrows' double shower the ample sky With wide-extended shade is seen to shrowd; Breath, smoke of sweat and dust ascend on high, And seem to stamp in air a murky cloud. By turns each host gives way, and you might spy, Now chasing, now in flight, the self-same crowd; And here some wight, beside his foeman slain, Or little distant, prostrate on the plain. LVIII When, harassed with fatigue, a wearied crew Withdraw, fresh files their fellows reinforce: Men, here and there, the wasted ranks renew; Here march supplies of foot, and there of horse: Her mantle green for robe of crimson hue Earth shifts, ensanguined where the warriors course: And there were azure flowers and yellow sprung, Now slaughtered men lie stretched their steeds among. LIX Zerbino was more wonders seen to do Than ever stripling of his age, he strowed The ground with heaps of dead, and overthrew The paynim numbers which about him flowed. The valiant Ariodantes to his new- Entrusted squadron mighty prowess showed; Filling with dread and wonder, near and far, The squadrons of Castile and of Navarre. LX Chelindo and Mosco (bastards were the twain Of Calabrun, late king of Arragon), And one esteemed among the valiant train, Calamidor, of Barcellona's town, Leaving their standards, in the hope to gain, By young Zerbino's death, a glorious force, And wounded in his flanks the prince's horse. LXI Pierced by three lances lay the courser strong, But bold Zerbino quickly rose anew; And, eager to avenge his charger's wrong, The assailants, where he sees them, will pursue. Zerbino at Mosco first, that overhung Him, in the hope to make him prisoner, flew, And pierced him in the flank; who from his sell, Pallid and cold, upon the champaign fell. LXII When him so killed, as 'twere by stealthy blow, Chelindo viewed, to avenge his brother slain, He charged, intent the prince to overthrow; But he seized fast his courser by the rein, And, thence to rise not, laid the charger low, Destined no more to feed on hay or grain; For at one stroke, so matchless was his force, Zerbino cleft the rider and his horse. LXIII When that fell blow Calamidor espied, He turned the bridle short to speed away, But him with downright cut Zerbino plied Behind, and cried withal, "Stay, traitor, stay." Nor from its aim the sword-stroke wandered wide, Though from the mark it went somedeal astray; The falchion missed the rider as he fled, But reached the horse's croup, and stretched him dead, LXIV He quits the horse, and thence for safety crawls; But he with little boot escapes his foe; For him Duke Thraso's horse o'erturns and mawls, Opprest the ponderous courser's weight below. Where the huge crowd upon Zerbino falls, Ariodantes and Lurcanio go; And with them many a cavalier and count, Who do their best Zerbino to remount. LXV Then Artalico and Margano knew The force of Ariodantes' circling brand: While Casimir and Enearco rue More deeply yet the puissance of his hand. Smote by the knight, escaped the former two; The others were left dead upon the strand. Lurcanio shows what are his force and breath; Who charges, smites, o'erturns, and puts to death. LXVI Sir, think not that more inland on the plain The warfare is less mortal than along The stream, nor that the troops behind remain Which to the duke of Lancaster belong. He valiantly assailed the flags of Spain, And long in even scale the battle hung. For Horse and Foot, and Captains of those bands, On either side, could deftly ply their hands. LXVII Forward Sir Oldrad pricks and Fieramont; This Glocester's duke, and York's the other knight; With them conjoined is Richard, Warwick's count, And the bold duke of Clarence, Henry hight. These Follicon and Matalista front, And Baricond, with all they lead to fight. Almeria this, and that Granada guides, And o'er Marjorca Baricond presides. LXVIII Well matched awhile the Christian and the Moor Appeared, without advantage in the fray. Not this, now that gave ground, like corn before The light and fickle breeze which blows in May: Or as the sea which ripples on the shore, Still comes and goes, nor keeps one certain way, When hollow Fortune thus had sported long, She proved disastrous to the paynim throng. LXIX The duke of Glocester Matalista bold Assailed this while, and hurtled from his sell; Fieramont Follicon o'erturned and rolled, In the right shoulder smit, on earth as well. The advancing English either paynim hold, And bear their prisoners off to dungeon cell. This while, Sir Baricond is, in the strife, By Clarence's bold duke deprived of life. LXX Hence 'tis among the Moors amazement all, While hence the Christians take such heart and pride, The bands do nought but quit their ground and fall, And break their order on the Paynim side, What time the Christian troops come on, and gall Their flying rants, which nowhere will abide: And had not one arrived to aid their host. The Paynim camp had on that side been lost. LXXI But Ferrau, who till this time ever nigh Marsilius, scarce had quitted him that day, When half destroyed he marked his chivalry, And saw that baffled banner born away, Pricked his good courser forth, in time to spy, (Where mid those squadrons hottest waxed the fray) With his head severed in a griesly wound, Olympio de la Serra fall to ground: LXXII A stripling he, who such sweet musick vented, Accorded to the horned lyre's soft tone; That at the dulcet melody relented The hearer's heart, though harder than a stone. Happy! if, with such excellence contented, He had pursued so fair a fame alone, And loathed shield, quiver, helmet, sword and lance; Destined by these to die a youth in France. LXXIII When bold French beheld his cruel plight, For whom he love and much esteem profest, He felt more pity at the doleful sight Than, 'mid those thousands slain, for all the rest. And smote the foe who slew him with such might, That he his helm divided from the crest; Cut front, eyes, visage, and mid bosom through, And cast him down amid the slaughtered crew. LXXIV Nor stops he here, nor leaves a corslet whole, Nor helm unbroken, where his sword is plied, Of this the front or cheek, of that the poll, The arm of other foe his strokes divide; And he, of these divorcing body and soul, Restores the wavering battle on that side; Whence the disheartened and ignoble throng Are scattered wide, and broke, and driven along. LXXV Into the medley pricks King Agramant, Desirous there his bloody course to run; With him King Baliverzo, Farurant, Soridan, Bambirago, Prusion; And next so many more of little vaunt, Whose blood will form a lake ere day be done, That I could count each leaf with greater ease When autumn of their mantle strips the trees. LXXVI Agramant from the wall a numerous band Of horse and foot withdraws, and sends the array Beneath the king of Fez, with a command Behind the Moorish tents to make his way, And those of Ireland in their march withstand, Whom he sees hurrying with what haste they may, And with wide wheel and spacious compass wind, To fall upon the paynim camp behind. LXXVII The king of Fez upon this service prest; For all delay might sore his work impede. This while King Agramant unites the rest, And parts the troops who to the battle speed. He sought himself the river, where he guessed The Moorish host might most his presence need; And, from that quarter, had a courier prayed, By King Sobrino sent, the monarch's aid. LXXVIII He more than half his camp behind him led, In one deep phalanx. At the mighty sound Alone, the Scotsmen trembled, and in dread Abandoned honour, order, and their ground: Lurcanio, Ariodantes, and their head, Zerbino, there alone the torrent bound; And haply he, who was afoot, had died, But that in time his need Rinaldo spied. LXXIX Elsewhere the paladin was making fly A hundred banners: while the cavalier So chased the quailing Saracens, the cry Of young Zerbino's peril smote the ear; For, single and afoot, his chivalry Amid the Africans had left the peer. Rinaldo turned about and took his way Where he beheld the Scots in disarray. LXXX He plants his courser, where their squadrons yield To the fierce paynims, and exclaims: "Where go Your bands, and why so basely quit the field, Yielding so vilely to so vile a foe? Behold the promised trophies, spear and shield, Spoils which your loaded churches ought to show! What praise! what glory! that alone, and reft Of his good horse, your monarch's son is left! LXXXI He from a squire receives a lance, and spies King Prusion little distant, sovereign Of the Alvaracchiae, and against him hies; Whom he unhorses, dead upon the plain. So Agricalt, so Bambirago dies; And next sore wounded is Sir Soridane; Who had been slain as well amid the throng, If good Rinaldo's lance had proved more strong. LXXXII That weapon broken, he Fusberta rears, And smites Sir Serpentine, him of the star. Though charmed from mischief are the cavalier's Good arms, he falls astounded by the jar, And thus Rinaldo round Zerbino clears The field so widely, where those champions war, That without more dispute he takes a horse Of those, who masterless, at random, course. LXXXIII That he in time remounted it was well, Who haply would not, if he more delayed: For Agramant at once, and Dardinel, Sobrino, and Balastro thither made; But he, who had in time regained the sell, Wheeled, here and there his horse, with brandished blade, Dispatching into hell the mixt array, That how men live above their ghosts might say. LXXXIV The good Rinaldo, who to overthrow The strongest of the foeman covets still, At Agramant directs a deadly blow, -- Who seems too passing-proud, and greater ill Works there, than thousand others of the foe -- And spurs his horse, the Moorish chief to spill. He smote the monarch, broadside charged the steed, And man and horse reversed upon the mead. LXXXV What time, without, in such destructive frays Hate, Rage, and Fury, all offend by turns, In Paris Rodomont the people slays, And costly house, and holy temple burns: While Charles elsewhere anther duty stays, Who nothing hears of this, nor aught discerns. He, in the town, receives the British band, Which Edward and Sir Ariman command. LXXXVI To him a squire approached, who pale with dread, Scarce drew his breath, and cried: "Oh, well away! Alas! alas!" (and thus he often said, Ere he could utter aught beside). "To-day, To-day, sire, is the Roman empire sped, And Christ to the heathen makes his flock a prey. A fiend from air to-day has dropt, that none Henceforth may in this city make their won. LXXXVII "Satan (in sooth, it can no other be) Destroys and ruins the unhappy town. Turn, and the curling wreaths of vapour see, From the red flames which wander up and down; List to those groans, and be they warrantry Of the sad news thy servant now makes known! One the fair city wastes with sword and fire, Before whose vengeful fury all retire." LXXXVIII Even such as he, who hears the tumult wide, And clatter of church-bells, ere he espy The raging fire, concealed from none beside Himself, to him most dangerous, and most nigh; Such was King Charles; who heard, and then descried The new disaster with his very eye. Hence he the choicest of his meiny steers Thither, where he the cry and tumult hears. LXXXIX With many peers and chiefs, who worthiest are, Summoned about him, Charlemagne is gone: He bids direct his standards to the square Whither the paynim had repaired; hears groan And tumult, spies the horrid tokens there Of cruelty, sees human members strown. -- No more -- Let him return another time, Who willingly will listen to this rhyme. CANTO 17 ARGUMENT Charles goes, with his, against King Rodomont. Gryphon in Norandino's tournament Does mighty deeds; Martano turns his front, Showing how recreant is his natural bent; And next, on Gryphon to bring down affront, Stole from the knight the arms in which he went; Hence by the kindly monarch much esteemed, And Gryphon scorned, whom he Martano deemed. I God, outraged by our rank iniquity, Whenever crimes have past remission's bound, That mercy may with justice mingled be, Has monstrous and destructive tyrants crowned; And gifted them with force and subtlety, A sinful world to punish and confound. Marius and Sylla to this end were nursed, Rome with two Neros and a Caius cursed; II Domitian and the latter Antonine; And, lifted from the lowest rabble's lees, To imperial place and puissance, Maximine: Hence Thebes to cruel Creon bent her knees, Mezentius ruled the subject Agiline, Fattening his fields with blood. To pests like these Our Italy was given in later day, To Lombard, Goth, and Hun a bleeding prey. III What shall I of fierce Attila, what say Of wicked Ezzeline, and hundreds more? Whom, because men still trod the crooked way, God sent them for their pain and torment sore. Of this ourselves have made a clear assay, As well as those who lived in days of yore; Consigned to ravening wolves, ordained to keep Us, his ill-nurturing and unuseful sheep; IV Who, as if having more than served to fill Their hungry maw, invite from foreign wood Beyond the mountain, wolves of greedier will, With them to be partakers of their food. The bones which Thrasymene and Trebbia fill, And Cannae, seem but few to what are strewed On fattened field and bank, where on their way Adda and Mella, Ronco and Tarro stray. V Now God permits that we should feel the spite Of people, who are haply worse than we, For errors multiplied and infinite, And foul and pestilent iniquity. The time will come we may such ill requite Upon their shores, if we shall better be, And their transgressions ever prove above The long endurance of AETERNAL LOVE. VI The Christian people then God's placid front Must have disturbed with their excesses sore; Since them with slaughter, rape, and rapine hunt, Through all their quarters, plundering Turk and Moor: But the unsparing rage of Rodomont Proves worse than all the ills endured before. I said that Charlemagne had made repair In search of him towards the city square. VII Charles, by the way, his people's butchery Beholds -- burnt palaces and ruined fanes -- And sees large portion of the city lie In unexampled wreck. -- "Ye coward trains, Whither in heartless panic would ye fly? Will none his loss contemplate? what remains To you, -- what place of refuge, say, is left, If this from you so shamefully be reft? VIII "Then shall one man alone, a prisoned foe, Who cannot scale the walls which round him spread, Unscathed, unquestioned, from your city go, When all are by his vengeful arm laid dead?" Thus Charlemagne, whose veins with anger glow, And shame, too strong to brook, in fury said; And to the spacious square made good his way, Where he beheld the foe his people slay. IX Thither large portion of the populace, Climbing the palace roof, had made resort; For strongly walled, and furnished was the place With ammunition, for their long support. Rodomont, mad with pride, had, in his chace Of the scared burghers, singly cleared the court, He with one daring hand, which scorned the world, Brandished the sword; -- his other wildfire hurled; X And smote and thundered, 'mid a fearful shower, At the sublime and royal house's gate. To their life's peril, crumbling roof and tower Is tost by them that on the summit wait: Nor any fears to ruin hall or bower; But wood and stone endure one common fate, And marbled column, slab, and gilded beam, By sire and grandsire held in high esteem. XI Rodomont stands before the portal, bright With steel, his head and bust secured in mail, Like to a serpent, issued into light, Having cast off his slough, diseased and stale: Who more than ever joying in his might, Renewed in youth, and proud of polished scale, Darts his three tongues, fire flashing from his eyes; While every frighted beast before him flies. XII Nor bulwark, stone, nor arbalest, nor bow, Nor what upon the paynim smote beside, Sufficed to arrest the sanguinary foe; Who broke and hewed, and shook that portal wide, And in his fury let such day-light through, 'Twas easy to espy -- and might be spied -- In visages o'ercast in death-like sort, That full of people was the palace court. XIII Through those fair chambers echoed shouts of dread, And feminine lament from dame distrest; And grieving, through the house, pale women fled, Who wept, afflicted sore, and beat their breast. And hugged the door-post and the genial bed, Too soon to be by stranger lords possest. The matter in this state of peril hung When thither came the king, his peers among. XIV Charles turned him round to these, of vigorous hand, Whom he had found in former peril true. "Are you not those that erst with me did stand 'Gainst Agolant in Aspramont? In you Is vigour now so spent, (he said), the band, Who him, Troyano, and Almontes slew, With hundreds more, that you now fear to face One of that very blood, that very race? XV "Why should I now in contest with the foe Less strength in you behold than them? Your might Upon this hound (pursued the monarch) show; This hound who preys on man. -- A generous sprite The thought of death -- approach he fast or slow -- So that he dies but well, holds cheap and light. But where you are, I doubt my fortune ill, For by your succour, have I conquered still." XVI This said, he spurred his courser, couched his spear, And charged the paynim; nor of life less free, Sir Ogier joined the king in his career; Namus and Oliver; and, with the three, Avino, Avolio, Otho, and Berlinghier: (For one without the rest I never see) And on the bosom, flanks, and on the front, All smote together at King Rodomont. XVII But let us, sir, for love of Heaven, forego Of anger and of death the noisome lore; And be it deemed that I have said enow, For this while, of that Saracen, not more Cruel than strong; 'tis time in trace to go Of Gryphon, left with Origille, before Damascus' gate, and him who with her came, The adulterer, not the brother of the dame. XVIII Of all the cities under eastern skies, Most wealthy, populous, and fairly dight, 'Tis said, Damascus is; which distant lies From Salem seven days' journey; its fair site, A fertile plain, abundant fruits supplies, Winter and summer, sojourn of delight. Shading the city from the dawning day, A mountain intercepts its early ray. XIX Two crystal streams the wealthy city scower; Whose currents, parted into many a rill, Infinite gardens, never bare of flower, Or stript of leaf, with grateful murmur fill: 'Tis said the perfumed waters are of power (So plenteously they swell) to turn a mill; And that whoever wander through the streets, Scent, issuing from each home, a cloud of sweets. XX Then the high-street gay signs of triumph wore, Covered with showy cloths of different dye, Which deck the walls, while sylvan leaves in store, And scented herbs upon the pavement lie. Adorned is every window, every door, With carpeting and finest drapery; But more with ladies fair, and richly drest, In costly jewels and in gorgeous vest. XXI Within the city gates in frolic sport, Many are seen to ply the festive dance; And here the burghers of the better sort Upon their gay and well-trapt coursers prance. A fairer show remains; the sumptuous court Of barons bold and vassals, who advance, Garnished with what could be procured, of ore And pearl, from Ind and Erythraean shore. XXII Forward Sir Gryphon pricked, with his array, Surveying, here and there, the whole at ease; When them a knight arrested by the way, And (such his wont and natural courtesies) Obliged beneath his palace-roof to stay; Where he let nought be wanting which might please; And chearfully the guests, with bath restored, Next welcomed at his costly supper-board; XXIII And told how he, who, Norandino hight, Damascus and all Syria's kingdom swayed, Native and foreigner had bade invite, On whom the sword of knighthood had been laid, To a fair joust, which at the morrow's light, Ensuing, in the square was to be made. Where they might show, and without further faring, If they had valour equal to their bearing. XXIV Gryphon, though he came not that joust to see, Accepts the challenge of the cavalier; For when occasion serves, it cannot be An evil use to make our worth appear: Then questioned more of that solemnity; -- If 'twere a wonted feast, held every year, Or new emprise; by which, in martial course, The monarch would assay his warriors' force. -- XXV "The gorgeous feast our monarch will display Each fourth succeeding moon," the baron said; "This is the first that you will now survey; None have been held beside. The cause which bred The solemn usage is, that on such day The king from sovereign peril saved his head, After four months, consumed in doleful wise, 'Mid tears and groans, with death before his eyes. XXVI "Our monarch, who is named king Norandine (Fully to you the matter to recite), Through many and many a year for her did pine, Above all other damsels fair and bright, The king of Cyprus' daughter; whom, in fine, Espoused, he, with his bride, and dame, and knight, To wait upon her home, a fair array, Towards his Syrian realm had shaped his way. XXVII "But as we scoured the fell Carpathian sea, With flowing sheet, at distance from the shore, A storm assailed us, of such cruelty, The tempest even scared our pilot hoar. Drifting three days and nights at random, we Our devious course 'mid threatening waves explore; Then, wet and weary, land 'mid verdant hills, Between well-shaded and refreshing rills. XXVIII "We our pavilions pitch, and, 'mid those groves, Joyfully strain our awnings overhead; And kitchens there construct, and rustic stoves, And carpets for the intended banquet spread. Meanwhile through neighbouring vale the monarch roves, And secret wood, scarce pervious to the tread, Seeking red deer, goat, fallow-buck, and doe; And, following him, two servants bear his bow. XXIX "While, with much solace, seated in a round, We from the chace expect our lord's return, Approaching us along the shore, astound, The orc, that fearful monster, we discern. God grant, fair sir, he never may confound Your eyesight with his semblance foul and stern! Better it is of him by fame to hear, Than to behold him by approaching near. XXX "To calculate the griesly monster's height, (So measureless is he) exceeds all skill; Of fungus-hue, in place of orbs of sight, Their sockets two small bones like berries fill. Towards us, as I say, he speeds outright Along the shore, and seems a moving hill. Tusks jutting out like savage swine he shows, A breast with drivel foul, and pointed nose. XXXI "Running, the monster comes, and bears his snout In guise of brach, who enters on the trail. We who behold him fly (a helpless rout), Wherever terror drives, with visage pale. 'Tis little comfort, that he is without Eye-sight, who winds his plunder in the gale, Better than aught possest of scent and sight: And wing and plume were needed for our flight. XXXII "Some here, some there make off, but little gain By flying him; for swifter is the pest Than the south wind. Of forty, ten, with pain, Swimming aboard the bark in safety rest. Under his arm some wretches of our train He packed, nor empty left his lap or breast: And loaded a capacious scrip beside, Which, like a shepherd's, to his waist was tied. XXXIII "Us to his den the sightless monster carried, Hollowed within a rock, upon the shore; Of snowy marble was that cavern quarried, As white as leaf, unstained by inky score. With him within the cave a matron tarried, Who marked by grief and pain a visage wore. With her were wife and maid, a numerous court, Both fair and foul, of every age and sort. XXXIV "Large as the other, and that grotto near, Almost upon the summit of the rock, Another cavern was contrived, to rear, And from the weather fend his woolly flock, Which he still herded through the changeful year; So numerous, it were hard to count his stock: Wont in due season these to pen or loose, And play the shepherd more for sport than use. XXXV "The flesh of man he savoured more than sheep, And this, before he reached the cave, was seen. Three youths of ours, ere yet he climbed the steep, He are alive, or rather swallowed clean; Then moved the stone, which closed that cavern deep, And lodged us there. With that, to pasture green His flock he led, as wont, the meads among, Sounding the pipe which at his neck was hung. XXXVI "Our lord, meanwhile, returning to the strand, The loss which he had suffered comprehends; For in deep silence, upon every hand, Through empty tent and hut the monarch wends: Nor who has robbed him can be understand; And full of terror to the beach descends; Whence he his sailors in the offing sees Unmoor and spread their canvas to the breeze. XXXVII "As soon as Norandino was in view, They launched and sent their pinnace to convey The monarch thence: but he no sooner knew Of the fell orc, and those he made his prey, Then he, without more thought, would him pursue And follow, wheresoe'er he bent his way. To lose Lucina is such cruel pain, That life is loathsome save he her regain. XXXVIII "When on the newly printed sand his eyes Norandine fixt, he with the swiftness sped With which the rage of love a man supplies, Until he reached the cave of which I said, Where we, enduring greater agonies Than e'er were suffered, there await in dread The orc, and deem at every sound we hear, The famished brute about to re-appear. XXXIX "The monarch to the cave did Fortune guide, When the orc's wife alone was in the lair. Seeing the king: `Fly! -- Woe to thee!' (she cried) `Should the orc take thee!' -- `Woeful every where I cannot choose but be,' (the king replied) `Whether be take or miss me, kill or spare. Not hither I by chance have wandered, I Come with desire beside my wife to die.' XXX "He afterwards the dame for tidings pressed Of those the orc had taken on the shore; And of Lucina above all the rest; If slain or prisoner kept. With kindly lore, She Norandino, in return, addressed; And said Lucina lived, nor need he more Have of her future safety any dread, For the orc on flesh of woman never fed. XLI " `Of this you may behold the proof in me, And all these other dames who with me dwell; Nor me, nor them the orc offends, so we Depart not ever from this caverned cell. But vainly who would from her prison flee, Hopes peace or pardon from our tyrant fell: Buried alive, or bound with griding band, Of, in the sun, stript naked on the sand. XLII " `When hither he to-day conveyed your crew, The females from the males he severed not; But, as he took them, in confusion threw All he had captive made, into that grot. He will scent out their sex; not tremble, you, Lest he the women slay: the others' lot Is fixt; and, of four men or six a-day, Be sure the greedy orc will make his prey. XLIII " `I have no counsel for you how to free The lady; but content thyself to hear, She in no danger of her life will be, Who will our lot, in good or evil, share. But go, for love of Heaven, my son, lest thee The monster smell, and on thy body fare; For when arrived, he sniffs about the house, And, such his subtle scent, can wind a mouse.' XLIV "To her the amorous monarch made reply, That he the cave would not abandon, ere He saw Lucina, and near her to die, Than to live far from her, esteemed more dear. -- Seeing that she can nothing more supply Fitted to shake the purpose of the peer, Upon a new design the matron hits. Pursued with all her pains, with all her wits. XLV "With slaughtered sheep and goat was evermore The cavern filled, the numerous flock's increase, Which served her and her household as a store; And from the ceiling dangled many a fleece. The dame made Norandino from a hoar And huge he-goat's fat bowels take the grease, And with the suet all his members pay, Until he drove his natural scent away. XLVI "And when she thought he had imbibed the smell Which the rank goat exhales, she took the hide, And made him creep into the shaggy fell; Who was well covered by that mantle wide. Him in this strange disguise she from the cell Crawling (for such was her command) did guide, Where, prisoned by a stone, in her retreat, Was hid his beauteous lady's visage sweet. XLVII "Kin Norandine, as bid, took up his ground Before the cavern, on the greensward laid, That he might enter with the flock who wound Homeward; and longing sore, till evening stayed. At eve he hears the hollow elder's sound, Upon whose pipes the wonted tune was played, Calling his sheep from pasture to their rock, By the fell swain who stalked behind his flock. XLVIII "Think if his heart is trembling at its core, When Norandino hears the approaching strains; And now advancing to the cavern door, The sight of that terrific face sustains! But if fear shook him, pity moved him more: You see if he loves well or only feigns! The orc removed the stone, unbarred the cote, And the king entered, amid sheep and goat. XLIX "His flock so housed, to us the orc descended, But first had care the cavern door to close: Then scented all about, and having ended His quest, two wretches for his supper chose. So is remembrance by this meal offended, It makes me tremble yet: this done, he goes; And being gone, the king his goatish vest Casts off, and folds his lady to his breast. L "Whereas she him with pleasure should descry, She, seeing him, but suffers grief and pain. She sees him thither but arrived to die, Who cannot hinder her from being slain. ` "Twas no small joy 'mid all the woes, that.' To him exclaimed Lucina, 'here sustain. That thou wert not among us found to-day, When hither I was brought, the monster's prey. LI " `For though to find myself about to leave This life be bitter and afflict me sore, Such is our common instinct, I should grieve But for myself; but whether thee, before Of after me, the orc of life bereave, Assure thyself thy death will pain me more Than mine.' And thus the dame persists to moan More Norandino's danger than her own. LII " `A hope conducts me here,' the monarch said, `To save thee and thy followers every one; And, if I cannot, I were better dead, Than living without light of thee, my sun! I trust to scape, as hither I have spied; As ye shall all, if, as ourselves have done, To compass our design, you do not shrink To imbue your bodies with the loathsome stink.' LIII "The trick he told, wherewith the monster's smell To cheat, as first to him the wife had told: In any case to cloathe us in the fell, That he may feel is issueing from the fold. As many men as women in the cell, We slay (persuaded by the monarch bold) As many goats as with our number square, Of those which stink the most and oldest are. LIV "We smeared our bodies with the fruitful grease Which round about the fat intestines lay, And cloathed our bodies with the shaggy fleece: This while from golden dwelling broke the day. And now, his flock returning to release, We viewed the shepherd, with the dawning ray; Who, giving breath to the sonorous reeds, Piped forth his prisoned flock to hill and meads. LV "He held his hand before the opened lair, Lest with the herd we issued from the den, And stopt us short; but feeling wool or hair Upon our bodies, let us go again. By such a strange device we rescued were, Cloathed in our shaggy fleeces, dames and men: Nor any issuing thence the monster kept, Till thither, sore alarmed, Lucina crept. LVI "Lucina -- whether she abhorred the scent, And, like us others, loathed herself to smear, -- Or whether with a slower gait she went Than might like the pretended beast's appear, -- Or whether, when the orc her body hent, Her dread so mastered her, she screamed for fear, -- Or that her hair escaped from neck or brow, Was known; nor can I well inform you how. LVII "So were we all intent on our own case, We for another's danger had no eyes: Him, turning at the scream. I saw uncase Already her whom he had made his prize, And force her to the cavern to retrace Her steps: we, couching in our quaint disguise, Wend with the flock, where us the shepherd leads, Through verdant mountains, into pleasant meads. LVIII "There we awaited, till beneath the shade Secure, we saw the beaked orc asleep; When one along the shore of ocean made, And one betook him to the mountain steep. King Norandine his love alone delayed; Who would return disguised among the sheep, Nor from the place depart, while life remained, Unless his faithful consort he regained. LIX "For when before, on the flock issuing out, He saw her prisoned in the cave alone, Into the orc's wide throat he was about To spring; so grief had reason overthrown, And he advanced even to the monster's snout, And, but by little, scaped the grinding stone: Yet him the hope detained amid the flock, Trusting to bear Lucina from the rock. LX "The orc, at eve, when to the cave again He brings the herd, nor finds us in the stall, And knows that he must supperless remain, Lucina guilty of the whole does call, Condemned to stand, fast girded with a chain, In open air, upon the summit tall. The king who caused her woes, with pitying eye Looks on, and pines, -- and only cannot die. LXI "Morning and evening, her, lamenting sore, Ever the unhappy lover might survey; What time he grieving went afield before The issuing flock, or homeward took his way. She, with sad face, and suppliant evermore, Signed that for love of Heaven he would not stay; Since there he tarried at great risk of life. Nor could in any thing assist his wife. LXII "So the orc's wife, as well upon her side, Implored him to depart, but moved him nought; To go without Lucina he denied, And but remained more constant in his thought. In this sad servitude he long was tried, By Love and Pity bound: till Fortune brought A pair of warriors to the rocky won, Gradasso, and Agrican's redoubted son: LXIII "Where, with their arms so wrought the champions brave, They freed Lucina from the chains she wore, (Though he Wit less than Fortune served in save) And running to the sea their burden bore: Her to her father, who was there, they gave. This was at morn, when in the cavern hoar, Mixt with the goats, king Norandino stood, Which ruminating, chewed their grassy food: LXIV "But when, at day-light, 'twas unbarred, and now He was instructed that his wife was gone; For the orc's consort told the tale, and how, In every point, the thing rehearsed was done; He thanked his God, and begged, with promised vow, That, since 'twas granted her such ill to shun, He would direct his wife to some repair, Whence he might free her, by arms, gold, or prayer. LXV "Together with the flat-nosed herd his way He took, and for green meads rejoicing made. He here expected, till the monster lay Extended, underneath the gloomy shade: Then journeyed all the night and all the day; Till, of the cruel orc no more afraid, He climbed a bark on Satalia's strand, And, three days past, arrived on Syrian land. LXVI "In Cyprus, and in Rhodes, by tower and town, Which in near Egypt, Turkey, or Afric lay, The king bade seek Lucina up and down, Nor could hear news of her till the other day. The other day, his father-in-law made known He had her safe with him. What caused her stay In Nicosia was a cruel gale Which had long time been adverse to her sail. LXVII "The king, for pleasure of the tidings true, Prepares the costly feast in solemn state; And will on each fourth moon that shall ensue Make one, resembling this we celebrate. Pleased of that time the memory to renew, That he, in the orc's cavern, had to wait, -- For four months and a day -- which is to-morrow; When he was rescued from such cruel sorrow. LXVIII "The things related I in part descried, And from him, present at the whole, heard more; From Norandine, through calend and through ide, Pent, till he changed to smiles his anguish sore: And if from other you hear aught beside, Say, he is ill instructed in his lore." The Syrian gentleman did thus display The occasion of that feast and fair array. LXIX Large portion of the night, in like discourse, Was by those cavaliers together spent, Who deemed that Love and Pity's mickle force Was proved in that so dread experiment; Then rising, when the supper's sumptuous course Was cleared, to good and pleasant lodgings went; And, as the ensuing morning fairly broke, To sounds of triumph and rejoicing woke. LXX The circling drums' and trumpets' echoing strain Assemble all the town within the square; And now, when mixt with sound of horse and wain, Loud outcries through the streets repeated are, Sir Gryphon dons his glittering arms again, A panoply of those esteemed most rare; Whose mail, impassable by spear or brand, She, the white fay, had tempered with her hand. LXXI The man of Antioch in his company, Armed him (a recreant worse than he was none), Provided by their landlord's courtesy With sturdy spears and good, the course to run; Who with his kindred, a fair chivalry, To bring the warriors to the square is gone; With squires afoot and mounted upon steeds, Whom he bestowed, as aptest for their needs. LXXII They in the square arrived and stood aside, Nor of themselves awhile would make display; Better to see the martial gallants ride By twos and threes, or singly, to the fray. One told, by colours cunningly allied, His joy or sorrow to his lady gay; One, with a painted Love on crest or shield, If she were cruel or were kind, revealed. LXXIII It was the Syrians' practise in that age To arm them in this fashion of the west. Haply this sprung out of their vicinage And constant commerce with the Franks, possest In those days of the sacred heritage, That God incarnate with his presence blest; Which now, to them abandoned by the train Of wretched Christians, heathen hounds profane. LXXIV God's worshippers, where they should couch the lance, For furtherance of his holy faith and true, Against each other's breast the spear advance, To the destruction of the faithful few. You men of Spain, and you, ye men of France, And Switzers, turn your steps elsewhere , and you, Ye Germans, worthier empire to acquire; For that is won for Christ, which you desire. LXXV If verily most Christian you would be, -- I speak to you, that catholic are hight -- Why slain by you Christ's people do I see? Wherefore are they despoiled of their right? Why seek you not Jerusalem to free From renegades? By Turkish Moslemite Impure, why is Byzantium, with the best And fairest portion of the world, possest? LXXVI Thou Spain, hast thou not fruitful Afric nigh? And has she not in sooth offended more Than Italy? yet her to scathe, that high, And noble, enterprize wilt thou give o'er. Alas! thou sleepest, drunken Italy, Of every vice and crime the fetid sewer! Nor grievest, as a hand-maid, to obey, In turn, the nations that have owned thy sway. LXXVII If fear of famishing within thy cave, Switzer, does thee to Lombardy convey, And thou, among our people, dost but crave A hand to give thee daily bread, or slay, -- The Turk has ready wealth; across the wave, Drive him from Europe or from Greece away: So shalt thou in those parts have wherewithal To feed thy hunger, or more nobly fall. LXXVIII I to the German neighbour of thy lair Say what I say to thee; the wealth o' the west, Which Constantine brought off from Rome, is there -- Brought off the choicest, gave away the rest -- There golden Hermus and Pactolus are, Mygdonia and Lydia: nor that country blest, Which many tales for many praises note, If thou wouldst thither wend, is too remote. LXXIX Thou mighty Lion, that art charged to keep The keys of Paradise, a weighty care, Oh! let not Italy lie plunged in sleep, If thy strong hand is planted in her hair. To thee, his shepherd, God, to guide his sheep, Has given that wand and furious name to bear; That thou may'st roar, and wide thine arms extend, And so from greedy wolves thy flock defend. LXXX But whither have I roved! who evermore So from one topic to the other stray? Yet think not I the road I kept before To have missed so far, but I can find my way. I said, the Syrians then observed the lore Or arming like the Christians of that day. So that Damascus' crowded square was bright With corslet, plate, and helm of belted knight. LXXXI The lovely ladies from their scaffolds throw Upon the jousters yellow flowers and red; While these, as loud the brazen trumpets blow, Make their steeds leap and wheel and proudly tread. Each, rode he well or ill, his art would show, And with the goring spur his courser bled. Hence this good cavalier earns fame and praise, While others scornful hoots and laughter raise. LXXXII A suit of arms was prize of the assay, Presented to the king some days before; Which late a merchant found upon the way Returning from Armenia; this the more To grace, a vest, with noblest tissue gay, The Syrian king subjoined, so powdered o'er With jewels, gold, and pearls in rich device, They made the meed a thing of passing price. LXXXIII If the good king had known the panoply, This he had held above all others dear; Nor this had given, as full of courtesy, To be contented for with sword and spear. 'Twere long to tell who so unworthily Had erst mistreated thus the goodly gear, That lay the way the harness had been strowed, A prey to whosoever past the road. LXXXIV Of this you more in other place shall hear. Of Gryphon now I tell, who at the just Arrived, saw broken many a knightly spear, And more than one good stroke and one good thrust. Eight were there who made league together, dear To Norandine, and held in sovereign trust; Youths quick in arms and practised in the shock: All lords, or scions of illustrious stock. LXXXV At open barriers, one by one, the place They kept against all comers for a day; At first with lance, and next with sword or mace, While them the king delighted to survey. Ofttimes they pierce the corslet's iron case, And every thing in fine perform in play, Which foemen do that deadly weapons measure, Save that the king may part them at his pleasure. LXXXVI That witless Antiochite, who, worthily, By name was cowardly Martano hight, Thinking, because his comrade, he must be Partaker of the noble Gryphon's might, Into the martial press rides valiantly, Then stops; and the issue of a furious fight, Which had begun between two cavaliers, To wait, retiring from the strife, appears. LXXXVII Seleucia's lord, of those companions one, Combined in that emprize to keep the place, Who then a course with bold Ombruno run, Wounded the unhappy warrior in mid-face, So that he slew him; mourned by every one, Who as a worthy knight the warrior grace, And over and above his worth, before All others, hold him for his courteous lore. LXXXVIII When vile Martano from his place discerned The fate which might be his with fearful eye, Into his craven nature be returned, And straight began to think how he might fly: But him from flight the watchful Gryphon turned, And, after much ado, with act and cry, Urged him against a knight upon the ground, As at the ravening wolf men slip the hound. LXXXIX Who will pursue the brindled beast for ten, Or twenty yards, and, after, stop to bay; When he beholds his flashing eyes, and when He sees the griesly beast his teeth display. 'Twas thus, before those valiant gentlemen And princes, present there in fair array, Fearful Martano, seized with panic dread, Turned to the right his courser's rein and head. XC Yet he who would excuse the sudden wheel, Upon his courser might the blame bestow: But, after, he so ill his strokes did deal, Demosthenes his cause might well forego. With paper armed he seems, and not with steel, So shrinks he at the wind of every blow: At length he breaks the ordered champions through, Amid loud laughter from the circling crew. XCI Clapping of hands, and cries, at every turn, Were heard from all that rubble widely spread. As a wolf sorely hunted makes return To earth, to his retreat Martano fled. Gryphon remained, and sullied with the scorn Esteemed himself, which on his mate was shed; And rather than be there, he, in his ire, Would gladly find himself i' the midst of fire. XCII With burning heart, and visage red with shame, He thinks the knight's disgrace is all his own, Because by deeds like his with whom he came, He weens the mob expects to see him known. So that it now behoves his valour flame More clear than light, or they, to censure prone, -- Errs he a finger's breadth -- an inch -- will swell His fault, and of that inch will make an ell. XCIII Already he the lance upon his thigh Has rested, little used to miss the foe: Then makes with flowing rein his courser fly, And next, somedeal advanced, directs the blow; And, smiting, puts to the last agony Sidonia's youthful lord, by him laid low. O'ercome with wonder each assistant rises, Whom sore the unexpected deed surprises. XCIV Gryphon returned, and did the weapon wield. Whole and recovered, which he couched before, And in three pieces broke it on the shield Which bold Laodicea's baron bore. Thrice of four times about to press the field He seemed, and lay along the crupper, sore Astound; yet rose at length, unsheathed his blade, Wheeled his good courser, and at Gryphon made. XCV Gryphon, who in his saddle sees the peer Advancing towards him, nor unseated by The encounter, says: "The failure of the spear In a few strokes the sabre shall supply;" And on his temples smote a stroke so shear, It seemed that it descended from the sky; And matched it with another, and again Another, till he stretched him on the plain. XCVI Here two good brothers of Apamia were, In tourney wont to have the upper hand: Corimbo named and Thyrsis was the pair; Both overturned by Gryphon on the land. One at the encounter left his saddle bare, On the other Gryphon used his trenchant brand: This valiant knight, was, in the common trust, Sure to obtain the honours of the just. XCVII Bold Salinterno, mid the warlike train, Was in the lists, vizier and marshal hight, Who had the government of all that reign, And was, withal, a puissant man of might: The tourney's prize he sees, with much disdain, About to be borne off by foreign knight. A lance he snatches, and to Gryphon cries, And him with many menaces defies. XCVIII But he makes answer with a massy spear, Out of ten others chosen as the best; And levelling at the buckler of the peer, For greater surety, pierces plate and breast. 'Twixt rib and rib, it bored the cavalier, Issuing a palm behind. To all the rest, The king excepted, welcome was the blow: For each was greedy Salinterno's foe. XCIX Two of Damascus next Sir Gryphon sped, Hermophilo and Carmondo. This, arraid Under his flag, the king's militia led; That was as lord high admiral obeyed. This lightly at the shock on earth was shed, And that, reversed, upon the ground o'erlaid By his weak horse, too feeble to withstand Sir Gryphon's mighty push and puissant hand. C Yet in the field remained Seleucia's knight, The best of all the other seven at need; And one who well accompanied his might With perfect armour and a gallant steed. Both at the helmet, where it locks, take sight, And with their spears to the encounter speed: But Gryphon hardest smote, whose paynim foe Lost his left stirrup, staggered by the blow. CI They cast the truncheons down, their coursers wheel, And, full of daring, with drawn falchions close. Sir Gryphon was the first a stroke to deal, Which might have split an anvil; at the blow's Descent, the shield is splintered -- bone and steel -- This had its lord mid thousand others chose; And, but 'twas double, and the coat as well, The sword had cleft the thigh on which it fell. CII He of Seleucia at Sir Gryphon's casque, At the same time, so fell a blow addrest, It would have rent and torn the iron mask, Had it not been enchanted like the rest. The paynim's labour is a fruitless task, Of arms so hard Sir Gryphon is possest; Who has the foe's already cleft and broke In many parts, nor thrown away a stroke. CIII Each one might see how much Seleucia's lord Was overmatched by Gryphon, and that day, The worsted men had perished by the sword, Had not the monarch quickly stopt the fray. To his guard king Norandino spake the word, And bade them enter, and the duel stay: They part the knight, whom they asunder bear, And much the king is lauded for his care. CIV The eight, who had to keep the field pretended From all the world, nor yet their part had done On a sole knight, -- their quarrel ill defended, -- Had vanished from the tilt-yard one by one. The others, who with them should have contended, Stood idle; for to answer them was none. Since Gryphon had forestalled, in the debate, What they should all have done against those eight; CV And, for such little time endured the play, Less than an hour sufficed to finish all. But Norandine, the pastime to delay, And to continue it till even-fall, Descending from his place, bade clear the way; And the huge squad divided, at his call, Into two troops, whom, ranked by blood and might, The monarch formed, and marched for other fight. CVI Sir Gryphon, during this, had made return Homeward, with anger and with fury stung; Less thinking of his honours that the scorn Which on the vile Martano had been flung. Hence, from himself the opprobrious shame to turn, Martano now employs his lying tongue; And she, the false and cunning courtezan, Assists him in his scheme as best she can. CVII Whether the youth believed the tale or no, He the excuse received, like one discreet; And deemed it best for them at once to go, And secretly and silently retreat, For fear, that if the populace should know Martano base, they him might ill entreat. So, by short ways and close, they quit the abode, And issue from the gates upon their road. CVIII Sir Gryphon, was he or his horse foredone With toil, or was it sleep his eyes down weighed, Ere yet the troop beyond two miles had gone, At the first inn upon the highway stayed. He doffed his armour all, and morion, And had the steeds of trappings disarrayed; And next alone he to a chamber sped, Locked himself in, undrest, and went to bed. CIX No sooner he his head had rested there, Than, with deep sleep opprest, he closed his eye: So heavily, no badgers in their lair, Or dormice, overcome with slumber, lie. Martano and Origille, to take the air, Entered this while a garden which was nigh; And there the strangest fraud together bred, Which ever entered into mortal head. CX Martano schemed to take away the steed And gear, in which Sir Gryphon had been dight, And stand before the monarch, in the weed Of him who had in joust so proved his might. As he had shaped in thought, he did the deed: He took away the warrior's horse, more white Than milk, his buckler, surcoat, arms, and crest; In all Sir Gryphon's knightly ensigns drest. CXI He, who was clad in trappings not his own, Like the ass mantled in the lion's hide, As he expected, to the king, unknown, Was called in place of Gryphon: when descried Or Norandine, he rising from his throne, Embraced and kissed, and placed him by his side: Nor deems enough to praise and hold him dear, But wills that all around his praise should hear: CXII And bids them the sonorous metal blow, Proclaiming him the conqueror of that day: And round about loud voices, high and low, The unworthy name throughout the lists convey. He wills that, side by side, with him shall go The knight, when homeward he shall take his way; And him such favour shows, intent to please, As might have honoured Mars or Hercules. CXIII Him lodgings fair he gave, wherein to dwell At court; and she who with the peer did ride Was honoured by the courteous king as well, -- False Origille, -- with knight and page supplied. But it is time that I of Gryphon tell; Who unsuspecting, she, or wight beside, Him would with treacherous stratagem deceive, Had fallen asleep, nor ever waked till eve. CXIV When he how late it was, awaking, knew, With speed he from the chamber did withdraw; And hastened where he, with the other crew, Left Origille and her false brother-in-law: And when, nor these, nor, upon better view, His armour nor his wonted clothes he saw, Suspicious waxed; and more suspicion bred The ensigns of his comrade left instead. CXV The host, arriving, him at full possest Of every thing, -- and how, in white array, That warrior, with the lady and the rest, Had to the city measured back their way. By little and by little, Gryphon guessed What love from him had hidden till that day; And knew, to his great sorrow, in the other Origille's paramour, and not her brother. CXVI Now he lamenting for his folly stood, That having heard the truths the pilgrim said, He should have let her story change his mood, Who him before so often had betrayed. He might have venged himself, nor did: -- now wou'd, Too late, inflict the punishment delaid; Constrained (a crying error!) in his need To take that wily treachour's arms and steed. CXVII He better would have gone like naked man, Than braced the unworthy cuirass on his breast; Or hastened the detested shield to span, Or place upon his helm the scorned crest. But of the lover, and that courtezan, He, passion mastering reason, took the quest: And bending to Damascus' gate his way, Arrived an hour before the close of day. CXVIII On the left hand a castle richly dight Stood nigh the gate, to which Sir Gryphon rode. Besides, that it was strong and armed for fight, Filled with rare chambers was the rich abode. The first of Syria, king, and lord, and knight, And lady, in a gentle group bestowed, There in an open gallery fairly met, Were at their glad and costly supper set. CXIX With the high tower the beauteous gallery, clear Beyond the city-wall, projected out, From whence might be discovered, far and near, The spacious fields and different roads about. When Gryphon now, in his opprobrious gear, And arms, dishonoured by the rabble's flout, Makes, by ill fortune, to the gate resort, He by the king is seen, and all his court; CXX And, taken for the man whose crest he wears, In dame and knight moves laughter, through the ring. The vile Martano, as a man who shares The royal grace, sits next below the king; And next, she, whom her love so fitly pairs; Whom Norandino gaily questioning. Demands of them, who is the coward knight, That of his honour makes so passing light; CXXI Who, after feat so base and foul, anew Approaches, with such front and shameless cheer, -- And cries, "It seems a thing unheard, that you, An excellent and worthy cavalier, Should take this man for your companion, who Has not in all our wide Levant his peer. Did you with him for contrast-sake combine, That so your valour might more brightly shine? CXXII "-- But did not love for you my will restrain, By the eternal gods, I truly swear, He should endure such ignominious stain, As I am wont to make his fellows share: Him would I make of my long-nursed disdain Of cowardice perpetual record bear. To you, by whom he hither was conveyed, If now unpunished, let his thanks be paid." CXXIII That vessel of all filthy vices, he, Made answer: "Mighty sir, I cannot say Who is the stranger, that fell in with me Journeying from Antioch hither, by the way: But him I worthy of my company Deemed, by his warlike semblance led astray. I nothing of his deeds have heard or seen, Save what ill feats to-day have witnessed been; CXXIV "Which moved me so, it little lacked but I, For punishment of his unworthy fear, Had put him out of case again to ply, In martial tournament, the sword or spear; And, but in reverence to your majesty And presence, I forbore by hand to rear, Not for his sake: -- nor by thy mercy showed On him, as my companion on the road; CXXV "Whose former fellowship appears a stain; And ever 'twill sit heavy at my heart, If I, uninjured, see the wretch again 'Scape, to the scandal of the warlike art. 'Twere better he from tower, a worthy pain, Were gibbeted, than suffered to depart: Hung as a beacon for the coward's gaze. Such were a princely deed, and worthy praise." CXXVI A voucher he in Origilla had, Who well, without a sign, his purpose read. "I deem not," cried the king, "his works so bad, That they should cost the stranger knight his head: Enough that he again the people glad, For penance of his weighty sin." This said, He quickly called a baron of his crew, And him enjoined the deed he was to do. CXXVII With many armed men that baron fares, And to the city-gate descending, here Collects his troop, and for the attempt prepares, Waiting the coming of the cavalier; And him surprises so at unawares, He, softly, 'twixt two bridges, takes the peer; And him detains, with mockery and scorn, In a dark chamber, till returning morn. CXXVIII The early sun had scarce his golden hair Uplifted from his ancient nurse's breast, Beginning, upon Alpine regions bare, To chase the shades and gild the mountain-crest, When Martan', fearing Gryphon might declare His wrong, and to the king the truth attest, Retorting upon him the slander cast, Took leave, and thence upon his journey past. CXXIX His ready wit a fit excuse supplies Why he stays not, to see the recreant shown. He is with other gifts, beside the prize, Rewarded for the victory, not his own, And letters patent, drawn in ample wise, Wherein his lofty honours wide are blown. Let him depart; I promise he shall meet A guerdon worthy of his treacherous feat. CXXX Gryphon is brought with shame into the square, When it is fully thronged with gazing wight, Whom they of cuirass and of helmet bare, And leave in simple cassock, meanly dight; And, as to slaughter he conducted were, Place on a wain, conspicuous to the sight; Harnessed to which two sluggish cows are seen, Weary and weak, and with long hunger lean. CXXXI Thronging about the ignoble car, appear Brazen-faced boy and girl of evil fame, Who, each in turn, will play the charioteer, And all assail the knight with bitter blame. The boys might be a cause of greater fear, For, joined to mocks and mows, and words of shame, The warrior they with volleyed stones would slay, But that the wiser few their fury stay. CXXXII That which of his disgrace had been the ground, Though no true evidence of guilt, his mail And plate, are dragged in due dishonour round, Suspended at the shameful waggon's tail. The wain is stopt, and to the trumpet's sound, Heralds, in front of a tribunal's pale, His shame, before his eyes, amid the crowd, (Another's evil deed) proclaim aloud. CXXXIII They take their prisoner thence, and so repair In front of temple, dwelling-house, and store; Nor any cruel name of mockery spare, Nor leave unsaid a word of filthy lore; And him at last without the city bear: The foolish rabble, trusting evermore Their thrall to banish to the sound of blows, Who passing little of its prisoner knows. CXXXIV The warrior's gyves no sooner they undo, And from their manacles free either hand, Than Gryphon seizes shield and sword, and, through The rabble, makes long furrows with his brand. With pike and spear unfurnished was the crew, Who without weapons came, a witless band. The rest for other canto I suspend, For, sir, 'tis time this song should have an end. CANTO 18 ARGUMENT Gryphon is venged. Sir Mandricardo goes In search of Argier's king. Charles wins the fight. Marphisa Norandino's men o'erthrows. Due pains Martano's cowardice requite. A favouring wind Marphisa's gallery blows, For France with Gryphon bound and many a knight. The field Medoro and Cloridano tread, And find their monarch Dardinello dead. I High minded lord! your actions evermore I have with reason lauded, and still laud; Though I with style inapt, and rustic lore, You of large portion of your praise defraud: But, of your many virtues, one before All others I with heart and tongue applaud, -- That, if each man a gracious audience finds, No easy faith your equal judgment blinds. II Often, to shield the absent one from blame, I hear you this, or other, thing adduce; Or him you let, at least, an audience claim, Where still one ear is open to excuse: And before dooming men to scaith and shame, To see and hear them ever is your use; And ere you judge another, many a day, And month, and year, your sentence to delay. III Had Norandine been with your care endued, What he by Gryphon did, he had not done. Profit and fame have from your rule accrued: A stain more black than pitch he cast upon His name: through him, his people were pursued And put to death by Olivero's son; Who at ten cuts or thrusts, in fury made, Some thirty dead about the waggon laid. IV Whither fear drives, in rout, the others all, Some scattered here, some there, on every side, Fill road and field; to gain the city-wall Some strive, and smothered in the mighty tide, One on another, in the gateway fall. Gryphon, all thought of pity laid aside, Threats not nor speaks, but whirls his sword about, Well venging on the crowd their every flout. V Of those who to the portal foremost fleed, The readiest of the crowd their feet to ply, Part, more intent upon their proper need Than their friends' peril, raise the draw-bridge high: Part, weeping and with deathlike visage, speed, Nor turn their eyes behind them as they fly: While, through the ample city, outcry loud, And noise, and tumult rises from the crowd. VI Two nimble Gryphon seizes, mid the train, When to their woe the bridge is raised; of one, Upon the field the warrior strews the brain, Which he bears out on a hard grinding stone; Seized by the breast, the other of the twain Over the city-wall by him is thrown, Fear chills the townsmen's marrow, when they spy The luckless wretch descending from the sky. VII Many there were who feared in their alarms, Lest o'er the wall Sir Gryphon would have vaulted; Nor greater panic seized upon those swarms, Than if the soldan had the town assaulted. The sound of running up and down, of arms, Of cry of Muezzins, on high exalted; Of drums and trumpets, heaven, 'twould seem, rebounded, And, that the world was by the noise confounded. VIII But I will to another time delay, What chanced on this occasion, to recount. 'Tis meet I follow Charles upon his way, Hurrying in search of furious Rodomont, Who did the monarch's suffering people slay. I said, with him, the danger to affront, Went Namus, Oliver, the Danish peer, Avino, Avolio, Otho and Berlinghier. IX Eight lances' shock, that eight such warriors guide, Which all at once against the king they rest, Endured the stout and scaly serpent's hide, In which the cruel Moor his limbs had drest. As a barque rights itself, -- the sheet untied, Which held its sail, -- by growing wind opprest; So speedily Sir Rodomont arose, Though a hill had been uprooted by the blows. X Rainier and Guido, Richard, Salomon, Ivan, Ughetto, Turpin, and the twain -- Angiolin, Angelier -- false Ganellon, And Mark and Matthew from St. Michael's plain, With the eight of whom I spake, all set upon The foe, with Edward and Sir Arimane; Who leading succours from the English shore, Had lodged them in the town short time before. XI Not so, well-keyed into the solid stone, Groans upon Alpine height the castle good, When by rude Boreas' rage or Eurus' strown, Uptorn are ash and fir in mountain wood, As groans Sir Rodomont, with pride o'erblown, Inflamed with anger and with thirst of blood: And, as the thunder and the lightning's fire Fly coupled, such his vengeance and his ire. XII He at his head took aim who stood most nigh; Ughetto was the miserable wight, Whom to the teeth he clove, and left to die; Though of good temper was his helmet bright. As well the others many strokes let fly At him, himself; which all the warrior smite, But harm (so hard the dragon's hide) no more, Than needle can the solid anvil score. XIII All the defences, round, abandoned are, The unpeopled city is abandoned all; For, where the danger is the greater, there The many give their aid, at Charles' call: Through every street they hurry to the square, Since flying nought avails, from work and wall. Their bosoms so the monarch's presence warms, That each again takes courage, each takes arms. XIV As when within the closely-fastened cage Of an old lioness, well used to fight, An untamed bull is prisoned, to engage The savage monster, for the mob's delight; The cubs, who see him cresting in his rage, And round the den loud-bellowing, to the sight Of the huge beast's enormous horns unused, Cower at a distance, timid and confused; XV But if the mother spring at him, and hang, Fixing her cruel tusks into his ear, Her whelps as well will blood their greedy fang, And, bold in her defence, assail the steer: One bites his paunch, and one his back: so sprang That band upon the paynim cavalier. From roof and window, and from place more nigh, Poured in a ceaseless shower, the weapons fly. XVI Of cavaliers and footmen such the squeeze, That hardly can the place the press contain: They cluster there as thick as swarming bees, Who thither from each passage troop amain. So that, were they unarmed, and with more ease Than stalks or turnips he could cleave the train, Ill Rodomont in twenty days would clear The gathering crowd, united far and near. XVII Unknowing how himself from thence to free, The paynim by this game is angered sore, Who little thins the gathering rabblery, Staining the ground with thousands slain or more; And all the while, in his extremity, Finds that his breath comes thicker than before; And sees he cannot pierce the hostile round, Unless he thence escape while strong and sound. XVIII The monarch rolls about his horrid eyes, And sees that foes all outlets barricade; But, at the cost of countless enemies, A path shall quickly by his hand be made. Where Fury calls him, lo! the felon hies, And brandishes on high his trenchant blade, To assail the newly entered British band, Which Edward and Sir Ariman command. XIX He who has seen the fence, in well-thonged square, (Against whose stakes the eddying crowd is born) By wild bull broken, that has had to bear, Through the long day, dogs, blows, and ceaseless scorn; Who hunts the scattered people here and there, And this, or that, now hoists upon his horn; Let him as such, or fiercer yet, account, When he breaks forth, the cruel Rodomont. XX At one cross-blow fifteen or twenty foes He hews, as many leaves without a bead, At cross or downright-stroke; as if he rows Trashes in vineyard or in willow-bed, At last all smeared with blood the paynim goes, Safe from the place, which he has heaped with dead; And wheresoe'er he turns his steps, are left Heads, arms, and other members, maimed and cleft. XXI He from the square retires in such a mode, None can perceive that danger him appals; But, during this, what were the safest road, By which to sally, he to thought recals. He comes at last to where the river flowed Below the isle, and past without the walls. In daring men at arms and mob increase, Who press him sore, nor let him part in peace. XXII As the high-couraged beast, whom hunters start In the wild Nomade or Massilian chace, Who, even in flying, shows his noble heart, And threatening seeks his lair with sluggish pace; From that strange wood of sword, and spear, and dart, Turns Rodomont, with action nothing base; And still impeded by the galling foe, Makes for the river with long steps and slow. XXIII He turned upon the rabble-rout who bayed Behind him, thrice or more, by anger driven, And stained anew his falchion, by whose blade More than a hundred deadly wounds were given. But reason, finally, his fury stayed Before the bloody carnage stank to heaven; And he, with better counsel, from the side Cast himself down into Seine's foaming tide. XXIV Athwart the current swam, with arms and all, As if by corks upborn, the cavalier. Though thou Antaeus bred'st, and Hannibal, O Africa! thou never bred'st his peer! -- When now across the stream, without the wall, He turned, and saw the royal town appear, -- To have traversed all the city moved his ire, Leaving it undestroyed by sword or fire; XXV And him so sorely anger stung and pride, Thither he thought a second time to go; And from his inmost bosom groaned and sighed, Nor would depart until he laid it low. But he saw one along the river-side Approach, who made him rage and hate forego; Strait shall you hear who 'twas, approached the king, But first I have to say of other thing. XXVI I have of haughty Discord now to say, To whom the archangel Michael gave command, To heat to enmity and fierce affray The best of Agramant's besieging band. She went that evening from the abbey gray, Her task committing to another's hand; -- Left it to Fraud to feed, till her return, The war, and make the fires she kindled burn; XXVII And she believed, that she with greater power Should go, did Pride with her as well repair; And she (for all were guested in one bower) In search of her had little way to fare. Pride went with her; but, that in hall or tower, A vicar too her charge might duly bear, She for those days she absent thought to be, For her lieutenant left Hypocrisy. XXVIII The implacable Discord went, and with the dame, (Companion of the enterprise, was Pride) Upon her road; and found that, by the same, Was journeying to the paynim camp, beside, Comfortless Jealousy, with whom there came A little dwarf, attending as a guide; Who erst had been sent forward with advice To Sarza's king, by beauteous Doralice. XXIX When she fell into Mandricardo's hand, (I have before recounted when and where) She had in secret given the dwarf command, He to the king should with the tidings fare; By whom she hoped not vainly would be scanned The tale her messenger was charged to bear, But wonderous deeds be done for her relief, With sad and signal vengeance on the thief. XXX Jealousy had that little dwarf espied, And kenned the reason of his mission too, And joined him, journeying with him side by side, Deeming that she therein a part might do. Discord, with pleasure, Jealousy decried, But with more joy, when she the occasion knew Which thither brought the dame, who much (she wist) Might in the task she had in hand assist. XXXI Of means to embroil the Sarzan and the son Of Agrican, she deems herself possest. A certain mode to enrage these two is won; And other means may work upon the rest. She thither with the dwarfish page is gone, Where the fierce Pagan in his clutch had prest Proud Paris, and they reached the river strand, Exactly as the felon swam to land. XXXII As soon as the redoubted Rodomont Knew in the dwarf the courier of his dame, He all his rage extinguished, cleared his front, And felt his courage brighten into flame. All else he deems the courier may recount, Save that a wight had wrought him scaith and shame, And cries (encountering him with chearful brow) "How fares our lady? wither sent art thou?" XXXIII "Nor mine nor thine that lady will I say, Who is another's thrall," the dwarf replied. "We, on our road, encountered yesterday A knight, who seized and bore away the bride." Jealousy, upon this, took up the play, And, cold as asp, embraced the king: her guide Pursued his tale, relating how the train, Their mistress taken, by one man were slain. XXXIV Her flint and steel, fell Discord, as he said, Took forth, and somewhile hammered on the stone. Pride, underneath, the ready tinder spread, And the quick fire was in a moment blown: This on the paynim's soul so fiercely fed, He could not find a resting place: 'mid groan And sob he storms, with horrid face and eye, Which threat the elements and ample sky. XXXV As tiger rages, who in vain descends Into her den, and finds herself alone, And, circling all the cavern, comprehends, At last, that her beloved young are gone; To ire, to rage like hers his wrath extends: Nor night the king regards, nor rock, nor stone, Nor stream: -- Nor length of way nor storm arrest The speed with which he on the plunderer prest. XXXVI So raging, to the pigmy dwarf who bore The news, exclaimed the king, "Now hence away!" Nor horse he waits, nor carriage, nor, before Departing, deigns to his a word to say. He hurries with such speed, that not with more The lizard darts at noon across the way. Horse had he none, but be he whose he might, Would make his own the first which came in sight. XXXVII Discord at this, who read his secret thought, Exclaimed, as she looked smilingly on Pride, Through her he to a courser should be brought, By which new cause of strife should be supplied; And, that by him no other might be caught, She from his path would keep all steeds beside; And knew already where the prize to seek. -- But her I leave, again of Charles to speak. XXXVIII When, on the Saracen's departure, spent, About King Charles, was the consuming flame, He ranged his troops anew: some warriors went To strengthen feeble posts which succours claim; The rest against the Saracens are sent, To give the foe checkmate and end the game; And from St. German's to Saint Victor's gates, He pours the host, which on his signal waits. XXXIX He these at Saint Marcellus' gate, where lay, Outstretched a large circumference of plain, Bade one another wait, in one array, To reunite against the paynim train. Inflaming every one to smite and slay, In guise, that for a record should remain, He made the various troops fall in below Their banners, and the battle-signal blow. XL Agramant has remounted in his sell, While this is doing in his foe's despite, And with the stripling who loved Isabel, Is waging perilous and fearful fight. Lurcanio with Sobrino strives as well; Rinaldo a troop encounters, whom the knight, With Valour and with Fortune for his guide, Charges, and breaks, and routs on every side. XLI While so the battle stands, king Charlemagne Falls on the rear guard of the paynim foe, Where bold Marsilius halts the flower of Spain, And forms the host, his royal flag below. On these king Charlemagne impels his train, Who, foot with horse to flank, against them go. While so the deafening drum and trumpet sounds, 'Twould seem the spacious world the din rebounds. XLII The Saracenic squadrons had begun To bend, and all the army of the Moor Had turned, disordered, broken, and undone, Never to be arrayed or rallied more, But that Grandonio stood, and Falsiron, Tried oftentimes in greater ill before, With Serpentine and Balugantes proud, And the renowned Ferrau, who cried aloud: XLIII "O valiant men," he -- "O companions," cries, "O brethren, stand, and yet your place maintain; Like cobweb-threads our cruel enemies Will find their works, if we our part sustain. What this day Fortune offers to our eyes, If now we conquer, see the praise, the gain! -- If conquered, see the utter loss and shame Which will for ever wait upon your name!" XLIV He in this time a mighty lance had spanned, And spurred at once against Sir Berlinghier, Who Argaliffa guided with his hand, And broke his helmet's frontal with the spear, Cast him on earth, and with the cruel brand Unhorsed perhaps eight other warriors near. His mighty strokes discharging, at each blow, He ever laid at least one horseman low. XLV In other part, Rinaldo, in his mood, Has slain more enemies than I can say, Before the warlike knight no order stood; You might have seen the ample camp give way. No less Zerbino and Lurcanio good Do deeds, which will be told in every day; This, with a thrust, has bold Balastro slain, That Finaduro's helm has cleft in twain. XLVI The first was of the Alzerban army head, Ruled by Tardocco some short time before; The other one the valiant squadrons led Of Saphi, and Morocco, and Zamor. "Where, 'mid the paynims," might to me be said, "Is knight whose sword can cleave or lance can gore?" But step by step I go, and as I wind My way, leave none who merits praise behind. XLVII Zumara's king is not forgotten here, Dardinel, who Sir Dulphin of the mount, Claude of the wood, and Hubert, with the spear, (Of Mirford he) and Elio did dismount, And, with the faulchion, Stamford's cavalier, Sir Anselm, Raymond and Sir Pinnamont From London-town; though valiant were the twain; Two stunned, one wounded, the four others slain. XLVIII Yet will his squadron not so firmly stand, Maugre the valour which his deeds display, So firmly, as to wait the Christian band, In number less, but steadier in array, More used to joust and manage of the brand, And all things appertaining to the gray. Setta and Morocco turned, and, seized with dread, Zumara and Canaries' islesmen fled. XLIX But faster than the rest Alzerba flies, Whom Dardinel opposed, and now with sore Reproach, and now with prayer he moves, and tries What best he deems their courage may restore. "If good Almontes has deserved," he cries, "That you should by his memory set such store, Now shall be seen -- be seen, if you will me, His son, abandon in such jeopardy. L "For sake of my green youth, I pray you stand, That youth whereon your hopes were wont to feed, And suffer not that, scattered by the brand, To Africa be lost our noble seed. Save you united go, be sure the land Is shut against you, wheresoe'er you speed. Too high a wall to climb is mountain-steep, The yawning sea a ditch too wide to leap. LI "Far better 'tis to perish than to be Torn by these dogs, or lie at their control. Since vain is every other remedy, Wait, friends, for love of Heaven, the advancing shoal: They are not gifted with more lives than we; Have but one pair of hands, have but one soul." So saying, the bold youth, amid the crew Of enemies, the Earl of Huntley slew. LII Almontes' memory, through the Moorish bands, Makes every bosom with such ardour glow, They deem 'tis better to use arms and hands In fight, than turn their backs upon the foe. Taller than all William of Burnwich stands, An Englishman, whom Dardinel brings low, And equals with the rest; then smites upon, And cleaves, the head of Cornish Aramon. LIII Down fell this Aramon, and to afford Him succour, thitherward his brother made; But from the shoulder him Zumara's lord Cleft to the fork, with his descending blade; Next Bogio de Vergalla's belly gored, And from his debt absolved (the forfeit paid) Who to return within six months, if life Were granted him, had promised to his wife. LIV Lurcanio next met Dardinello's eye; He upon earth Dorchino had laid low, Pierced through the throat, and hapless Gardo nigh Cleft to the teeth; at him, as all too slow, He from Altheus vainly seeks to fly, Whom as his heart Lurcanio loves, a blow Upon his head behind the Scotchman speeds; And. slaughtered by the stroke, the warrior bleeds. LV Dardinel, to avenge him, took a spear, And, should he lay the fierce Lurcanio dead, Vowed to his Mahomet, if he could hear, The mosque should have his empty arms; this said, Ranging the field in haste, that cavalier He in the flank, with thrust so full and dread, Encountered, that it went through either side: And he to his to strip the baron cried. LVI From me it sure were needless to demand, If Ariodantes, when his brother fell, Was grieved; if he with his avenging hand Among the damned would send Sir Dardinell; But all access the circling troops withstand And bar, no less baptized than infidel: Yet would he venge himself, and with his blade, Now here, now there, an open passage made. LVII He charges, chases, breaks, and overthrows Whoever cross him on the crowded plain; And Dardinello, who his object knows, Would fain the wish content; but him the train Impedes as well, which round about him flows, And renders aye his every purpose vain. If one on all sides thins the Moorish rank, The other slays Scot, Englishman, and Frank. LVIII Fortune still blocked their path throughout the day, So that they met not, 'mid that chivalry, And kept one as a mightier champion's prey; For rarely man escapes his destiny. Behold the good Rinaldo turns that way! That, for this one no refuge there might be. Lo! good Rinaldo comes: him Fortune guides, And for his sword King Dardinel provides. LIX But here enough for this one while is shown Of their illustrious doings in the west; 'Tis time I seek Sir Gryphon, and make known How he, with fury burning in his breast, That rabble-rout had broke and overthrown, Struck with more fear than ever men possest. Thither speeds Norandine on that alarm, And for his guard above a thousand arm. LX King Norandine, girt with peer and knight, Seeing on every side the people fly, Rides to the gates, with squadron duly dight, And at his hest the portals open fly. Meanwhile Sir Gryphon, having put to flight The weak and worthless rabble far and nigh, The scorned arms (to keep him from that train), Such as they were, took up and donned again. LXI And nigh a temple strongly walled, and round Whose base a moat for its protection goes, Upon a little bridge takes up his ground, That him his enemies may not enclose. Lo! loudly shouting, and with threatening sound, A mighty squadron through the gateway flows. The valiant Gryphon changes not his place, And shows how small his fear by act and face. LXII But when, approaching near, he saw the band, He sallied forth to meet them by the way; And wielding still his sword in either hand, Made cruel havoc in the close array. Then on the narrow bridge resumed his stand, Nor there his hunters only held at bay: Anew he sallied, and returned anew, Aye leaving bloody signs when he withdrew. LXIII Fore-stroke and back he deals, and on the ground Horsemen and foot o'erthrows on every side: This while the ample mob the knight surround, And more and more the warfare rages wide. At length Sir Gryphon fears he shall be drowned, (So waxed their numbers) in the increasing tide; And hurt in the left shoulder, through his mail, And thigh, his wind as well begins to fail. LXIV But Valour, who so oft befriends her own, Makes him find grace in Norandino's eyes; Who, while alarmed, he hurries there, o'erthrown So many men, such heaps of dead espies, While he views wounds, which Hector's hand alone He weens could deal, -- to him all testifies That he had put an undeserved shame Upon a cavalier of mighty name. LXV Next seeing him more near, whose falchion's sweep Had dealt such deaths amid his chivalry, And raised about himself that horrid heap, And stained the water with that bloody dye, He thought that he beheld Horatius keep, Singly, the bridge against all Tuscany; And vext, and anxious to remove the stain, Recalled his men, and that with little pain. LXVI And, lifting his bare hand, in sign affied, From ancient times, of treaty and of truce, Repenting him, he to Sir Gryphon cried, "It grieves me sorely, and I cannot choose But own my sin: let counsels which misguide, And my own little wit, such fault excuse. What by the vilest knight I thought to do, I to the best on earth have done in you. LXVII "And though the bitter injuries and shame That have to thee through ignorance been done, Are equalled, and all cancelled by thy fame, And merged, in truth, in glory thou hast won; Whatever satisfaction thou canst claim, Within my power or knowledge, count upon, When I know how atonement may be made, By city, castle, or by money paid. LXVIII "Demand of me this kingdom's moiety, And from this day thou its possessor art, Since not alone thy worth deserves this fee, But merits, I with this should give my heart; Then, pledge of faith and lasting love, to me, In the meanwhile, thy friendly hand impart." So saying, from his horse the king descended, And towards Gryphon his right-hand extended. LXIX When he beheld the monarch's altered cheer, Who bent to clasp his neck, towards him paced, His sword and rancour laid aside, the peer Him humbly underneath the hips embraced. King Norandine, who saw the sanguine smear Of his two wounds, bade seek a leech in haste; And bade them softly with the knight resort Towards the town, and lodge him in his court. LXX Here, wounded, he remained some days before He could bear arms: but him, in the design Of seeking out Sir Aquilant once more, And good Astolpho, left in Palestine, I quit; they vainly did his path explore, After Sir Gryphon left the holy shrine, Through Solyma in every place of note, And many, from the Holy Land remote. LXXI One and the other are alike to seek In the inquiry where the knight may use; But they encounter with the pilgrim-Greek, Who of false Origilla gives them news; Relating, as of her he haps to speak, That towards Antioch she her way pursues, By a new leman of that city charmed, Who her with fierce and sudden flame had warmed. LXXII Aquilant asked him, if he had possest Sir Gryphon of the news to them conveyed, Who, hearing that he had, surmised the rest, -- Where he was gone, and by what motive swayed: He followed Origille, was manifest, And had in quest of her for Antioch made, To take her from his rival, and with view On him some memorable scathe to do. LXXIII Aquilant brooked not Gryphon such a feat, Without him, and alone, should thus assay, And took his armour and pursued his beat; But first besought the duke he would delay To visit France and his paternal seat, Till he from Antioch measured back his way. At Joppa he embarks, who deems by sea The better and securer way to be. LXXIV From the south-east up-sprung so strong a breeze, And which for Gryphon's galley blew so right, That the third day he Tyre's famed city sees, And lesser Joppa quick succeeds to sight. By Zibellotto and Baruti flees, (Cyprus to larboard left) the galley light; From Tripoli to Tortosa shapes her way, And so to Lizza and Lajazzo's bay. LXXV From thence, towards the east the pilot veered Her ready tiller, prompt his course to scan; And straightway for the wide Orontes steered, And watched his time, and for the harbour ran. Aquilant, when his bark the margin neared, Bade lower the bridge, and issued, horse and man, It armour, and along the river wended, Up-stream, till he his way at Antioch ended. LXXVI To inform himself of that Martano bent; And heard that he to Antioch was addrest, With Origilla, where a tournament Was to be solemnized by royal hest. To track whom Aquilant was so intent, Assured that Gryphon had pursued his quest, He Antioch left again that very day, But not by sea again would take his way. LXXVII He towards Lidia and Larissa goes, -- At rich Aleppo makes a longer stay. God, to make plain that he, even here, bestows On evil and on good their fitting pay, At a league's distance from Mamuga, throws Martano in the avenging brother's way, Martano travelling with the tourney's prize, Displayed before his horse in showy wise. LXXVIII Sir Aquilant believed, at the first show, His brother he in vile Martano spied. For arms and vest, more white than virgin snow, The coward in the warrior's sight belied, And sprang towards him, with that joyful "Oh!" By which delight is ever signified; But changed his look and tone, when, nearer brought He sees that he is not the wight he sought: LXXIX And through that evil woman's treachery, Deemed Gryphon murdered by the cavalier; And, "Tell me," he exclaimed, "thou, who must be Traitor and thief -- both written in thy cheer -- Whence are these arms? and wherefore do I thee View on the courser of my brother dear? Say is my brother slaughtered or alive? How didst thou him of horse and arms deprive?" LXXX When Origille hears him, in affright She turns her palfrey, and for flight prepares: But Aquilant, more quick, in her despite, Arrests the traitress, ere she further fares. At the loud threats of that all furious knight, By whom he so was taken unawares, Martan' turns pale and trembles like a leaf, Nor how to act or answer knows the thief. LXXXI Aquilant thundered still, and, to his dread, A falchion, pointed at his gullet, shewed, And swore with angry menaces, the head From him and Origille should be hewed, Save in all points the very truth be said. Awhile on this ill-starred Martano chewed, Revolving still what pretext he might try To lessen his grave fault, then made reply: LXXXII "Know, sir, you see my sister in this dame, And one of good and virtuous parents born, Though she has lately led a life of shame, And been by Gryphon foully brought to scorn; And, for I loathed such blot upon our name, Yet weened that she could ill by force be torn From such a puissant wight, I laid a scheme Her by address and cunning to redeem. LXXXIII "With her I planned the means, who in her breast Nursed the desire a better life to prove, That she, when Gryphon was retired to rest, In silence from the warrior should remove. This done: lest he should follow on our quest, And so undo the web we vainly wove, Him we deprived of horse and arm, and we Are hither come together, as you see." LXXXIV His cunning might have proved of good avail, For Aquilant believed him easily; And, save in taking Gryphon's horse and mail, He to the knight had done no injury; But that he wrought so high the specious tale, As manifested plainly, 'twas a lie. In all 'twas perfect, save that he the dame Had for his sister vouched with whom he came. LXXXV Aquilant had in Antioch chanced to know She was his concubine, -- well certified Of this by many, -- and in furious glow Exclaimed; "Thou falsest robber, thou hast lied!" And dealt, with that, the recreant such a blow, He drove two grinders down his throat; then tied (Not sought Martano with his foe to cope) The caitiff's arms behind him with a rope. LXXXVI And, though she for excuse tried many wiles, Did thus as well by Origille untrue; And till he reached Damascus' lofty piles, Them by town, street, or farm, behind him drew: And will a thousand times a thousand miles, With sorrow and with suffering, drag the two, Till he his brother find; who, at his pleasure, May vengeance to the guilty couple measure. LXXXVII Sir Aquilant made squires and beasts as well Return with him, and to Damascus came; And heard Renown, throughout the city, swell, Plying her ample wings, Sir Gryphon's name. Here, great and little -- every one, could tell 'Twas he that in the tourney won such fame, And had, by one that ill deserved his trust, Been cheated of the honours of the just. LXXXVIII Pointing him out to one another's sight, The hostile people all Martano bayed; "And is not this (they cried) that ribald wight Who in another's spoils himself arrayed, And who the valour of a sleeping knight, With his own shame and infamy o'erlaid? And this the woman of ungrateful mood, Who aids the wicked and betrays the good?" LXXXIX Others exclaimed, "How fittingly combined, Marked with one stamp, and of one race are they!" Some loudly cursed them, and some raved behind, While others shouted, "Hang, burn, quarter, slay!" The throng to view them prest, with fury blind, And to the square before them made its way. The monarch of the tidings was advised, And these above another kingdom prized. XC Attended with few squires the Syrian king, As then he chanced to be, came forth with speed, And with Sir Aquilant encountering, Who Gryphon had avenged with worthy deed, Him honoured with fair cheer, and home would bring, And in his palace lodged, as fitting meed; Having the prisoned pair, with his consent, First in the bottom of a turret pent. XCI Thither they go, where Gryphon from his bed Has not as yet, since he was wounded, stirred; Who at his brother's coming waxes red, Surmising well he of his case has heard: And after Aquilant his say had said, And him somedeal reproached, the three conferred As to what penance to the wicked two, So fallen into their hands, was justly due. XCII 'Tis Aquilant's, 'tis Norandino's will A thousand tortures shall their guerdon be: But Gryphon, who the dame alone can ill Excuse, entreats for both impunity; And many matters urges with much skill. But well is answered: and 'tis ruled, to flea Martano's body with the hangman's scourge, And only short of death his penance urge. XCIII Bound is the wretch, but not 'mid grass and flower, Whose limbs beneath the hangman's lashes burn All the next morn: they prison in the tower Origille, till Lucina shall return; To whom the counselling lords reserve the power To speak the woman's sentence, mild or stern. Harboured, till Gryphon can bear arms, at court, Aquilant fleets the time in fair disport. XCIV The valiant Norandino could not choose (Made by such error temperate and wise), But full of penitence and sorrow, muse, With downcast spirit, and in mournful guise, On having bid his men a knight misuse, Whom all should worthily reward and prize; So that he, night and morning, in his thought, How to content the injured warrior sought. XCV And he determined, in the public sight O' the city, guilty of that injury, With all such honour as to perfect knight Could by a puissant monarch rendered be, Him with the glorious guerdon to requite, Which had been ravished by such treachery: And hence, within a month, proclaimed the intent To hold another solemn tournament. XCVI For which he made what stately preparation Was possible to make by sceptered king. Hence Fame divulged the royal proclamation Throughout all Syria's land, with nimble wing, Phoenicia and Palestine; till the relation Of this in good Astolpho's ears did ring; Who, with the lord who ruled that land in trust, Resolved he would be present at the just. XCVII For a renowned and valiant cavalier Has the true history vaunted, Sansonnet, By Roland christened, Charles (I said), the peer Over the Holy Land as ruler set: He with the duke takes up his load, to steer Thither, where Rumour speaks the champions met. So that his ears, on all sides in the journey, Are filled with tidings of Damascus' tourney. XCVIII Thither the twain their way those countries through, By easy stages and by slow, addrest, That fresh upon the day of joust the two Might in Damascus-town set up their rest. When at the meeting of cross-ways they view A person, who, in movement and in vest, Appears to be a man, but is a maid; And marvellously fierce, in martial raid. XCIX Marphisa was the warlike virgin's name, And such her worth, she oft with naked brand Had pressed Orlando sore in martial game, And him who had Mount Alban in command; And ever, night and day, the armed dame Scowered, here and there, by hill and plain, the land; Hoping with errant cavalier to meet, And win immortal fame by glorious feat. C When Sansonnetto and the English knight She sees approaching her, in warlike weed, Who seem two valiant warriors in her sight, As of large bone, and nerved for doughty deed, On them she fain would prove her martial might, And to defy the pair has moved her steed. When, eyeing the two warriors, now more near, Marphisa recognized the duke and peer. CI His pleasing ways she did in mind retrace, When arms in far Catay with her he bore Called him by name, nor would in iron case; Retain her hand, upraised the casque she wore, And him, advanced, to meet with glad embrace, Though, of all living dames and those of yore, The proudest, she; nor with less courteous mien The paladin salutes the martial queen. CII They questioned one another of their way; And when the duke has said (who first replied) That he Damascus seeks, where to assay Their virtuous deeds, all knights of valour tried The Syrian king invites, in martial play, -- The bold Marphisa, at his hearing cried, (Ever to prove her warlike prowess bent) "I will be with you at this tournament." CIII To have such a comrade either cavalier Is much rejoiced. They to Damascus go, And in a suburb, of the city clear, Are lodged, upon the day before the show; And, till her aged lover, once so dear, Aurora roused, their humble roof below, In greater ease the weary warriors rested Than had they been in costly palace guested. CIV And when the clear and lucid sun again Its shining glories all abroad had spread, The beauteous lady armed, and warriors twain, Having first couriers to the city sped, Who, when 'twas time, reported to the train, That, to see truncheons split in contest dread, King Norandine had come into the square In which the cruel games appointed were. CV Straight to the city ride the martial band, And, through the high-street, to the crowded place; Where, waiting for the royal signal, stand, Ranged here and there, the knights of gentle race. The guerdons destined to the conqueror's hand, In that day's tourney, were a tuck and mace Richly adorned, and, with them, such a steed As to the winning lord were fitting meed. CVI Norandine, sure that, in the martial game, Both prizes destined for the conquering knight, As well as one and the other tourney's fame, Must be obtained by Gryphon, named the white, To give him all that valiant man could claim, Nor could he give the warrior less, with right, The armour, guerdon of this final course Placed with the tuck and mace and noble horse. CVII The arms which in the former joust the due Of valiant Gryphon were, who all had gained, (With evil profit, by the wretch untrue, Martan' usurped, who Gryphon's bearing feigned) To be hung up on high in public view With the rich-flourished tuck, the king ordained, And fastened at the saddle of the steed The mace, that Gryphon might win either meed. CVIII But from effecting what he had intended He was prevented by the warlike maid; Who late into the crowded square had wended, With Sansonnet and England's duke arrayed, Seeing the arms of which I spoke suspended, She straight agnized the harness she surveyed, Once hers, and dear to her; as matters are Esteemed by us as excellent and rare; CIX Though, as a hindrance, she upon the road Had left the arms, when, to retrieve her sword, She from her shoulders slipt the ponderous load, And chased Brunello, worthy of the cord. More to relate were labour ill bestowed, I deem, nor further of the tale record. Enough for me, by you 'tis understood, How here she found anew her armour good. CX You shall take with you, when by manifest And certain tokens they by her were known, She, for no earthly thing, the iron vest And weapons for a day would have foregone. She thinks not if this mode or that be best To have them, anxious to regain her own; But t'wards the arms with hand extended hies, And without more regard takes down the prize. CXI And throwing some on earth, it chanced that more Than was her own she in her hurry took. The Syrian king, who was offended sore, Raised war against her with a single look. For ill the wrong his angered people bore, And, to avenge him, lance and falchion shook; Remembering not, on other day, how dear They paid for scathing errant cavalier. CXII No wishful child more joyfully, 'mid all The flowers of spring-tide, yellow, blue, and red, Finds itself, nor at concert or at ball Dame beauteous and adorned, than 'mid the tread Of warlike steeds, and din of arms, and fall Of darts, and push of spears. -- where blood is shed, And death is dealt, in the tumultuous throng, -- SHE finds herself beyond all credence strong. CXIII She spurred her courser, and with lance in rest, Imperious at the foolish rabble made, And -- through the neck impaled or through the breast, -- Some pierced, some prostrate at the encounter layed. Next this or that she with the falchion prest; The head from one she severed with the blade, And from that other cleft: another sank, Short of right arm or left, or pierced in flank. CXIV Bold Sansonnetto and Astolpho near, Who had, with her, their limbs in harness dight, Though they for other end in arms appear, Seeing the maid and crowd engaged in fight, First lower the helmet's vizor, next the spear, And with their lances charge the mob outright: Then bare their falchions, and, amid the crew, A passage with the trenchant weapons hew. CXV The errant cavaliers who to that stage, To joust, from different lands had made resort, Seeing them warfare with such fury wage, And into mourning changed the expected sport, Because all knew not what had moved the rage Of the infuriate people in that sort, Nor what the insult offered to the king, Suspended stood in doubt and wondering. CXVI Of these, some will the crowded rabble's band (Too late repentant of the feat) befriend: Those, favouring not the natives of the land More than the foreigners, to part them wend. Others more wary, with their reins in hand, Sit watching how the mischief is to end. Gryphon and Aquilant are of the throng Which hurry forward to avenge the wrong. CXVII The pair of warlike brethren witnessing The monarch's drunken eyes with venom fraught, And having heard from many in the ring The occasion which the furious strife had wrought, Himself no whit less injured than the king Of Syria's land, offended Gryphon thought. Each knight, in haste, supplied himself with spear, And thundering vengeance drove in full career. CXVIII On Rabican, pricked forth before his hand, Valiant Astolpho, from the other bound, With the enchanted lance of gold in hand, Which at the first encounter bore to ground What knights he smote with it; and on the sand Laid Gryphon first; next Aquilant he found, And scarcely touched the border of his shield, Ere he reversed the warrior on the field. CXIX From lofty saddle Sansonnet o'erthrew, Famous for price and prowess, many a knight. To the outlet of the square the mob withdrew; The monarch raged with anger and despite. Meanwhile, of the first cuirass and the new Possest, as well as either helmet bright, Marphisa, when she all in flight discerned, Conqueror towards her suburb-inn returned. CXX Sansonnet and Astolpho are not slow In following t'wards the gate the martial maid, (The mob dividing all to let them go) And halt when they have reached the barricade. Gryphon and Aquilant, who saw with woe Themselves on earth at one encounter laid, Their drooping heads, opprest with shame, decline, Nor dare appear before King Norandine. CXXI Seizing their steeds and mounting, either son Of Oliver to seek their foemen went: With many of his vassals too is gone The king; on death or vengeance all intent. The foolish rabble cry, "Lay on, lay on." And stand at distance and await the event. Gryphon arrived where the three friends had gained A bridge, and facing round the post maintained. CXXII He, at the first approach, Astolpho knew, For still the same device had been his wear, Even from the day he charmed Orrilo slew, His horse, his arms the same: him not with care Sir Gryphon had remarked, nor stedfast view, When late he jousted with him in the square: He knows him here and greets; next prays him show Who the companions are that with him go; CXXIII And why they had those arms, without the fear Of Syria's king, pulled down, and to his slight. Of his champions England's cavalier, Sir Gryphon courteously informed aright. But little of those arms, pursued the peer, He knew, which were the occasion of the fight; But (for he thither with Marphisa came And Sansonnet) had armed to aid the dame. CXXIV While he and Gryphon stood in colloquy, Aquilant came, and knew Astolpho good, Whom he heard speaking with his brother nigh, And, though of evil purpose, changed his mood. Of Norandine's trooped many, these to spy; But came not nigh the warriors where they stood: And seeing them in conference, stood clear, Listening, in silence, and intent to hear. CXXV Some one who hears Marphisa hold is there, Famed, through the world, for matchless bravery, His courser turns, and bids the king have care, Save he would lose his Syrian chivalry, To snatch his court, before all slaughtered are, From the hand of Death and of Tisiphone: For that 'twas verily Marphisa, who Had borne away the arms in public view. CXXVI As Norandine is told that name of dread, Through the Levant so feared on every side, Whose mention made the hair on many a head Bristle, though she was often distant wide. He fears the ill may happen which is said, Unless against the mischief he provide; And hence his meiny, who have changed their ire Already into fear, he bids retire. CXXVII The sons of Oliver, on the other hand, With Sansonnetto and the English knight, So supplicate Marphisa, she her brand Puts up, and terminates the cruel fight; And to the monarch next, amid his brand, Cries, proudly, "Sir, I know not by what right Thou wouldst this armour, not thine own, present To him who conquers in thy tournament. CXXVIII "Mine are these arms, which I, upon a day, Left on the road which leads from Armeny, Because, parforce a-foot, I sought to stay A robber, who had sore offended me. The truth of this my ensign may display. Which here is seen, if it be known to thee." With that she on the plate which sheathed the breast (Cleft in three places) showed a crown imprest. CXXIX "To me this an Armenian merchant gave, 'Tis true," replied the king, "some days ago; And had you raised your voice, the arms to crave, You should have had them, whether yours or no. For, notwithstanding I to Gryphon gave The armour, I so well his nature know, He freely would resign the gift he earned, That it by me to you might be returned. CXXX "Your allegation needs not to persuade These arms are yours -- that they your impress bear; Your word suffices me, by me more weighed Than all that other witness could declare. To grant them yours is but a tribute paid To Virtue, worthy better prize to wear. Now have the arms, and let us make accord; And let some fairer gift the knight reward." CXXXI Gryphon, who little had those arms at heart, But much to satisfy the king was bent, Replied: "You recompense enough impart, Teaching me how your wishes to content." -- "Here is my honour all at sake," apart, "Meseemeth," said Marphisa, and forewent Her claim for Gryphon's sake, with courteous cheer; And, as his gift, in fine received the gear. CXXXII To the city, their rejoicings to renew, In love and peace they measured back their way. Next came the joust, of which the honour due, And prize was Sansonnet's; since from the fray Abstained Astolpho and the brethren two, And bold Marphisa, best of that array, Like faithful friends and good companions; fain That Sansonnet the tourney's meed should gain. CXXXIII Eight days or ten in joy and triumph dwell The knights with Norandine; but with such strong Desire of France the warriors' bosoms swell, Which will not let them thence be absent long, They take their leave. Marphisa, who as well Thither would go, departs the troop among. Marphisa had long time, with sword and lance, Desired to prove the paladins of France; CXXXIV And make experiment, if they indeed Such worth as is by Rumour voiced display. Sansonnet leaves another, in his stead, The city of Jerusalem to sway, And now these five, in chosen squadron speed, Who have few peers in prowess, on their way. Dismist by Norandine, to Tripoli They wend, and to the neighbouring haven hie. CXXXV And there a carack find, about to steer For western countries, taking in her store: They, with the patron, for themselves and gear, And horses, make accord; a seaman hoar Of Luna he: the heavens, on all sides clear, Vouch many days' fair weather. From the shore They loose, with sky serene, and every sail Of the yare vessel stretched by favouring gale. CXXXVI The island of the amorous deity Breathed upon them an air, in her first port, Which not alone to man does injury, But moulders iron, and here life is short; -- A marsh the cause, -- and Nature certainly Wrongs Famagosta, poisoning, in such sort, That city with Constantia's fen malign, To all the rest of Cyprus so benign. CXXXVII The noxious scents that from the marish spring, After short sojourn there, compel their flight. The barque to a south-easter every wing Extends, and circles Cyprus to the right, Makes Paphos' island next, and, anchoring, The crew and warriors on the beach alight; Those to ship merchandize, and these, at leisure, To view the laughing land of Love and Pleasure. CXXXVIII Inland six miles or seven from thence, a way Scales, with an easy rise, a pleasant hill; Which myrtle, orange, cedar-tree, and bay, And other perfumed plants by thousands fill; Thyme, marjoram, crocus, rose, and lily gay From odoriferous leaf such sweets distill, That they who sail the sea the fragrance bland, Scent in each genial gale which blows from land. CXXXIX A fruitful rill, by limpid fountain fed, Waters, all round about, the fertile space. The land of Venus truly may be said That passing joyous and delightful place: For every maid and wife, who there is bred, Is through the world beside, unmatched in grace: And Venus wills, till their last hour be tolled, That Love should warm their bosoms, young and old. CXL 'Twas here they heard the same which they before Of the orc and of Lucina, erst had heard In Syria; how she to return once more In Nicosia, to her lord prepared. Thence (a fair wind now blowing from the shore) His bark for sea the ready Patron cleared, Hawled up his anchor, westward turned the head Of the good ship, and all his canvas spread. CXLI To the north wind, which blew upon their right, Stretching to seaward, they their sails untie: When lo! a south-south-wester, which seemed light, In the beginning, while the sun was high, And afterwards increased in force t'wards night, Raised up the sea against them mountains high; With such dread flashes, and loud peals of thunder, As Heaven, to swallow all in fire, would sunder. CXLII The clouds their gloomy veil above them strain, Nor suffer sun or star to cheer the view. Above the welkin roared, beneath the main; On every side the wind and tempest grew; Which, with sharp piercing cold and blinding rain, Afflicted sore the miserable crew. While aye descending night, with deeper shade, The vext and fearful billows overlayed. CXLIII The sailors, in this war of wind and flood, Were prompt to manifest their vaunted art. One blowing through the shrilling whistle stood, And with the signal taught the rest their part. One clears the best bower anchor: one is good To lower, this other to hawl home or start The braces; one from deck the lumber cast, And this secured the tiller, that the mast. CXLIV The cruel wind increased throughout the night, Which grew more dismal and more dark than hell. The wary Patron stood to sea outright, Where he believed less broken was the swell; And turned his prow to meet, with ready sleight, The buffets of the dreadful waves which fell; Never without some hope, that at day-break The storm might lull, or else its fury slake. CXLV It lulls not, nor its fury slakes, but grown Wilder, shows worse by day, -- if this be day, Which but by reckoning of the hours is known, And not by any cheering light or ray. Now, with more fear (his weaker hope o'erthrown). The sorrowing Patron to the wind gives way, He veers his barque before the cruel gale, And scowers the foaming sea with humble sail. CXLVI While Fortune on the sea annoys this crew, She grants those others small repose by land, Those left in France, who one another slew, -- The men of England and the paynim band. These bold Rinaldo broke and overthrew; Nor troops nor banners spread before him stand: I speak of him, who his Baiardo fleet Had spurred the gallant Dardinel to meet. CXLVII The shield, of which Almontes' son was vain, That of the quarters, good Rinaldo spied; And deemed him bold, and of a valiant strain, Who with Orlando's ensign dared to ride. Approaching nearer, this appeared more plain, When heaps of slaughtered men he round him eyed. "Better it were," he cried, "to overthrow This evil plant, before it shoot and grow." CXLVIII Each to retreat betook him, where the peer His face directed, and large passage made. Nor less the Saracens than faithful, clear The way, so reverenced is Fusberta's blade. Save Dardinel, Mount Alban's cavalier, Saw none, nor he to chase his prey delayed. To whom, "He cast upon thee mickle care, Poor child, who of that buckler left thee heir. CXLIX "I seek thee out to prove (if thou attend My coming) how thou keep'st the red and white, For thou, save this from me thou canst defend, Canst ill defend it from Orlando's might." To him the king: "Now clearly comprehend, I what I bear, as well defend in fight; And I more honour hope than trouble dread From my paternal quartering, white and red. CL "Have thou no hope to make me fly, or yield To thee my quarters, though a child I be; My life shalt thou take from me, if my shield; But I, in God, well hope the contrary. -- This as it may! -- shall none, in fighting field, Say that I ever shamed my ancestry." So said, and grasping in his hand the sword, The youthful king assailed Mount Alban's lord. CLI Upon all parts, a freezing fear goes through The heart blood of each trembling paynim nigh, When they amazed the fierce Rinaldo view; Who charged the monarch with such enmity, As might a lion, which a bullock, new To stings of love, should in a meadow spy. The Moor smote first, but fruitless was his task, Who beat in vain upon Mambrino's casque. CLII Rinaldo smiled, and said: "I'd have thee know If I am better skilled to find the vein." He spurs, and lets with that the bridle go, And a thrust pushes with such might and main, -- A thrust against the bosom of his foe, That at his back the blade appears again. Forth issued blood and soul, and from his sell Lifeless and cold the reeling body fell. CLIII As languishes the flower of purple hue, Which levelled by the passing ploughshare lies; Or as the poppy, overcharged with dew, In garden droops its head in piteous wise: From life the leader of Zumara's crew So past, his visage losing all its dyes; So passed from life; and perished with their king, The heart and hope of all his following. CLIV As waters will sometime their course delay, Stagnant, and penned in pool by human skill, Which, when the opposing dyke is broke away, Fall, and with mighty noise the country fill: 'Twas so the Africans, who had some stay, While Dardinello valour did instil, Fled here and there, dismayed on every side, When they him hurtling form his sell descried. CLV Letting the flyers fly, of those who stand Firm in their place, Rinaldo breaks the array; Ariodantes kills on every hand; Who ranks well nigh Rinaldo on that day. These Leonetto's, those Zerbino's brand O'erturns, all rivals in the glorious fray. Well Charles and Oliver their parts have done, Turpin and Ogier, Guido and Salomon. CLVI In peril were the Moors, that none again Should visit Heatheness, that day opprest: But that the wise and wary king of Spain, Gathered, and from the field bore off the rest: To sit down with his loss he better gain Esteemed, that here to hazard purse and vest: Better some remnant of the host to save, Than bid whole squadrons stand and find a grave. CLVII He bids forthwith the Moorish ensigns be Borne to the camp, which fosse and rampart span. With the bold monarch of Andology, The valiant Portuguese, and Stordilan. He sends to pray the king of Barbary, To endeavour to retire, as best be can; Who will no little praise that day deserve, If he his person and his place preserve. CLVIII That king, who deemed himself in desperate case, Nor ever more Biserta hoped to see; For, with so horrible and foul a face He never Fortune had beheld, with glee Heard that Marsilius had contrived to place Part of his host in full security; And faced about his banners and bade beat Throughout his broken squadrons a retreat. CLIX But the best portion neither signal knew, Nor listened to the drum or trumpet's sound. So scared, so crowded is the wretched crew, That many in Seine's neighbouring stream are drowned, Agramant, who would form the band anew, (With him Sobrino) scowers the squadrons round; And with them every leader good combines To bring the routed host within their lines. CLX But nought by sovereign or Sobrino done, Who, toiling, them with prayer or menace stirred, To march, where their ill-followed flags are gone. Can bring (I say not all) not even a third. Slaughtered or put to flight are two for one Who 'scapes, -- nor he unharmed: among that herd, Wounded is this behind, and that before, And wearied, one and all, and harassed sore. CLXI And even within their lines, in panic sore, They by the Christian bands are held in chase; And of all needful matters little store Was made there, for provisioning the place. Charlemagne wisely by the lock before Would grapple Fortune, when she turned her face, But that dark night upon the field descended, And hushed all earthly matters and suspended: CLXII By the Creator haply hastened, who Was moved to pity for the works he made. The blood in torrents ran the country through, Flooding the roads: while on the champaign laid Were eighty thousand of the paynim crew, Cut off that day by the destroying blade: Last trooped from caverns, at the midnight hour, Villain and wolf to spoil them and devour. CLXIII King Charles returns no more within the town, But camps without the city, opposite The Moor's cantonments, and bids up and down, And round, high-piled and frequent watch-fires light. The paynim fashions ditch and bastion, Rampart and mine, and all things requisite; Visits his outposts and his guards alarms, Nor all the livelong night puts off his arms. CLXIV That livelong night the foes, throughout their tents, As insecure and with their scathe deprest, Poured tears, and uttered murmurs and laments; But, as they could, their sounds of woe supprest. One grief for slaughtered friends or kindred vents; Some are by sorrows of their own distrest, As wounded or as ill at ease; but more Tremble at mischief which they deem in store. CLXV Two Moors amid the paynim army were, From stock obscure in Ptolomita grown; Of whom the story, an example rare Of constant love, is worthy to be known: Medoro and Cloridan were named the pair; Who, whether Fortune pleased to smile or frown, Served Dardinello with fidelity, And late with him to France had crost the sea. CLXVI Of nimble frame and strong was Cloridane, Throughout his life a follower of the chase. A cheek of white, suffused with crimson grain, Medoro had, in youth a pleasing grace. Nor bound on that emprize, 'mid all the train, Was there a fairer or more jocund face. Crisp hair he had of gold, and jet-black eyes: And seemed an angel lighted from the skies. CLXVII These two were posted on a rampart's height, With more to guard the encampment from surprise, When 'mid the equal intervals, at night, Medoro gazed on heaven with sleepy eyes. In all his talk, the stripling, woful wight, Here cannot choose, but of his lord devise, The royal Dardinel; and evermore Him, left unhonoured on the field, deplore. CLXVIII Then, turning to his mate, cries: "Cloridane, I cannot tell thee what a cause of woe It is to me, my lord upon the plain Should lie, unworthy food for wolf or crow! Thinking how still to me he was humane, Meseems, if in his honour I forego This life of mine, for favours so immense I shall but make a feeble recompense. CLXIX "That he may lack not sepulture, will I Go forth, and seek him out among the slain; And haply God may will that none shall spy Where Charles's camp lies hushed. Do thou remain; That, if my death be written in the sky, Thou may'st the deed be able to explain. So that if Fortune foil so fear a feat, The world, through Fame, my loving heart may weet." CLXX Amazed was Cloridan a child should show Such heart, such love, and such fair loyalty; And fain would make the youth his though forego, Whom he held passing dear; but fruitlessly Would move his stedfast purpose; for such woe Will neither comforted nor altered be. Medoro is disposed to meet his doom, Or to enclose his master in the tomb. CLXXI Seeing that nought would bend him, nought would move, "I too will go," was Cloridan's reply, "In such a glorious act myself will prove; As well such famous death I cover, I: What other thing is left me, here above, Deprived of thee, Medoro mine? To die With thee in arms is better, on the plain, Than afterwards of grief, should'st thou be slain." CLXXII And thus resolved, disposing in their place Their guard's relief, depart the youthful pair, Leave fosse and palisade, and, in small space, Are among ours, who watch with little care: Who, for they little fear the paynim race, Slumber with fires extinguished everywhere. 'Mid carriages and arms, they lie supine Up to the eyes, immersed in sleep and wine. CLXXIII A moment Cloridano stopt and cried: "Not to be lost are opportunities. This troop, by whom my master's blood was shed, Medoro, ought not I to sacrifice? Do thou, lest any one this way be led, Watch everywhere about, with ears and eyes. For a wide way, amid the hostile horde, I offer here to make thee with my sword." CLXXIV So said he, and his talk cut quickly short, Coming where learned Alpheus slumbered nigh; Who had the year before sought Charles's court, In medicine, magic, and astrology Well versed; but now in art found small-support, Or rather found that it was all a lie. He had foreseen, that he his long-drawn life Should finish in the bosom of his wife. CLXXV And now the Saracen with wary view Has pierced his weasand with the pointed sword. Four others he neat that Diviner, slew, Nor gave the wretches time to say a word. Sir Turpin in his story tells not who, And Time had of their names effaced record. Palidon of Moncalier next he speeds; One who securely sleeps between two steeds. CLXXVI Next came the warrior where, with limbs outspread, Pillowed on barrel, lay the wretched Gryll: This he had drained, and undisturbed by dread, Hoped to enjoy a peaceful sleep and still. The daring Saracen lopt off his head, Blood issues from the tap-hole, with a rill Of wine; and he, well drenched with many a can, Dreams that he drinks, dispatched by Cloridan. CLXXVII Next Gryll, Andropono and Conrad hight, A Greek and German, at two thrusts he gored, Who in the air had past large part of night With dice and goblet; blest it at that board They still had watched, till, clothed in amber light, The radiant sun had traversed Indus' ford! But mortals Destiny would set at nought If every wight futurity were taught. CLXXVIII As, in full fold, a lion long unfed, Whom wasting famine had made lean and spare, Devours and rends, and swallows, and lays dead The feeble flock, which at his mercy are; So, in their sleep, the cruel paynim bled Our host, and made wide slaughter everywhere: Nor blunted was the young Medoro's sword, But he disdained to smite the ignoble horde. CLXXIX He to Labretto's duke, leaving those dead, Had come, who slumbered with a gentle mate, Each clasping each so closely in their bed, That air between them could not penetrate. From both Medoro cleanly lopt the head. Oh! blessed way of death! oh! happy fate! For 'tis my trust, that as their bodies, so Their souls embracing to their bourne shall go. CLXXX Malindo, with Andalico, he slew, His brother, sons to the earl of Flanders they: To whom has bearings (each to arms was new) Charles had the lilies given; because that day The monarch had beheld the valiant two With crimsoned staves, returning from the fray; And them with lands in Flanders vowed to glad; And would, but that Medoro this forbad. CLXXXI Rearing the insidious blade, the pair are near The place, where round King Charles' pavilion Are tented warlike paladin and peer, Guarding the side that each is camped upon. When in good time the paynims backward steer, And sheathe their swords, the impious slaughter done; Deeming impossible, in such a number, But they must light on one who does not slumber. CLXXXII And though they might escape well charged with prey, To save themselves they think sufficient gain. Thither by what he deems the safest way (Medoro following him) went Cloridane Where, in the field, 'mid bow and falchion, lay, And shield and spear, in pool of purple stain, Wealthy and poor, the king and vassal's corse, And overthrown the rider and his horse. CLXXXIII The horrid mixture of the bodies there Which heaped the plain where roved these comrades sworn, Might well have rendered vain their faithful care Amid the mighty piles, till break of morn, Had not the moon, at young Medoro's prayer, Out of a gloomy cloud put forth her horn. Medoro to the heavens upturns his eyes Towards the moon, and thus devoutly cries: CLXXXIV "O holy goddess! whom our fathers well Have styled as of a triple form, and who Thy sovereign beauty dost in heaven, and hell, And earth, in many forms reveal; and through The greenwood holt, of beast and monster fell, -- A huntress bold -- the flying steps pursue, Show where my king, amid so many lies, Who did, alive, thy holy studies prize." CLXXXV At the youth's prayer from parted cloud outshone (Were it the work of faith or accident) The moon, as fair, as when Endymion She circled in her naked arms: with tent, Christian or Saracen, was Paris-town Seen in that gleam, and hill and plain's extent. With these Mount Martyr and Mount Levy's height, This on the left, and that upon the right. CLXXXVI The silvery splendor glistened yet more clear, There where renowned Almontes' son lay dead. Faithful Medoro mourned his master dear, Who well agnized the quartering white and red, With visage bathed in many a bitter tear (For he a rill from either eyelid shed), And piteous act and moan, that might have whist The winds, his melancholy plaint to list; CLXXXVII But with a voice supprest: not that he aught Regards if any one the noise should hear, Because he of his life takes any thought; Of which loathed burden he would fain be clear; But, lest his being heard should bring to nought The pious purpose which has brought them here. The youths the king upon their shoulders stowed; And so between themselves divide the load. CLXXXVIII Hurrying their steps, they hastened, as they might, Under the cherished burden they conveyed; And now approaching was the lord of light, To sweep from heaven the stars, from earth the shade. When good Zerbino, he, whose valiant sprite Was ne'er in time of need by sleep down-weighed, From chasing Moors all night, his homeward way Was taking to the camp at dawn of day. CLXXXIX He has with him some horsemen in his train, That from afar the two companions spy. Expecting thus some spoil or prize to gain, They, every one, towards that quarter hie. "Brother, behoves us," cried young Cloridane, "To cast away the load we bear, and fly: For 'twere a foolish thought (might well be said) To lose two living men, to save one dead: CXC And dropt the burden, weening his Medore Had done the same by it, upon his side: But that poor boy, who loved his master more, His shoulders to the weight, alone, applied; Cloridan hurrying with all haste before, Deeming him close behind him or beside; Who, did he know his danger, him to save A thousand deaths, instead of one, would brave. CXCI Those horsemen, with intent to make the two Yield themselves prisoners to their band, or die, Some here, some there, disperse the champaign through, And every pass and outlet occupy. The captain, little distant from his crew, Is keener than the rest the chase to ply; And, when he sees them hurrying in such guise, Is certain that the twain are enemies. CXCII Of old an ancient forest clothed that lair, Of trees and underwood a tangled maze; Of salvage beasts alone the wild repair, And, like a labyrinth, full of narrow ways: Here from the boughs such shelter hope the pair As may conceal them well from hostile gaze. But him I shall expect who loves the rhyme, To listen to my tale some other time. CANTO 19 ARGUMENT Medoro, by Angelica's quaint hand, Is healed, and weds, and bears her to Catay. At length Marphisa, with the chosen band, After long suffering, makes Laiazzi's bay. Guido the savage, bondsman in the land, Which impious women rule with civil sway, With Marphisa strives in single fight, And lodges her and hers at full of night. I By whom he is beloved can no one know, Who on the top of Fortune's wheel is seated; Since he, by true and faithless friends, with show Of equal faith, in glad estate is greeted. But, should felicity be changed to woe, The flattering multitude is turned and fleeted! While he who loves his master from his heart, Even after death performs his faithful part. II Were the heart seen as is the outward cheer, He who at court is held in sovereign grace, And he that to his lord is little dear, With parts reversed, would fill each other's place; The humble man the greater would appear, And he, now first, be hindmost in the race. But be Medoro's faithful story said, The youth who loved his lord, alive or dead. III The closest path, amid the forest gray, To save himself, pursued the youth forlorn; But all his schemes were marred by the delay Of that sore weight upon his shoulders born. The place he knew not, and mistook the way, And hid himself again in sheltering thorn. Secure and distant was his mate, that through The greenwood shade with lighter shoulders flew. IV So far was Cloridan advanced before, He heard the boy no longer in the wind; But when he marked the absence of Medore, It seemed as if his heart was left behind. "Ah! how was I so negligent," (the Moor Exclaimed) "so far beside myself, and blind, That I, Medoro, should without thee fare, Nor know when I deserted thee or where?" V So saying, in the wood he disappears, Plunging into the maze with hurried pace; And thither, whence he lately issued, steers, And, desperate, of death returns in trace. Cries and the tread of steeds this while he hears, And word and the tread of foemen, as in chase: Lastly Medoro by his voice is known, Disarmed, on foot, 'mid many horse, alone. VI A hundred horsemen who the youth surround, Zerbino leads, and bids his followers seize The stripling: like a top, the boy turns round And keeps him as he can: among the trees, Behind oak, elm, beech, ash, he takes his ground, Nor from the cherished load his shoulders frees. Wearied, at length, the burden he bestowed Upon the grass, and stalked about his load. VII As in her rocky cavern the she-bear, With whom close warfare Alpine hunters wage, Uncertain hangs about her shaggy care, And growls in mingled sound of love and rage, To unsheath her claws, and blood her tushes bare, Would natural hate and wrath the beast engage; Love softens her, and bids from strife retire, And for her offspring watch, amid her ire. VIII Cloridan who to aid him knows not how, And with Medoro willingly would die, But who would not for death this being forego, Until more foes than one should lifeless lie, Ambushed, his sharpest arrow to his bow Fits, and directs it with so true an eye, The feathered weapon bores a Scotchman's brain, And lays the warrior dead upon the plain. IX Together, all the others of the band Turned thither, whence was shot the murderous reed; Meanwhile he launched another from his stand, That a new foe might by the weapon bleed, Whom (while he made of this and that demand, And loudly questioned who had done the deed) The arrow reached -- transfixed the wretch's throat, And cut his question short in middle note. X Zerbino, captain of those horse, no more Can at the piteous sight his wrath refrain; In furious heat, he springs upon Medore, Exclaiming, "Thou of this shalt bear the pain." One hand he in his locks of golden ore Enwreaths, and drags him to himself amain; But, as his eyes that beauteous face survey, Takes pity on the boy, and does not slay. XI To him the stripling turns, with suppliant cry, And, "By thy God, sir knight," exclaims, "I pray, Be not so passing cruel, nor deny That I in earth my honoured king may lay: No other grace I supplicate, nor I This for the love of life, believe me, say. So much, no longer, space of life I crave. As may suffice to give my lord a grave. XII "And if you needs must feed the beast and bird, Like Theban Creon, let their worst be done Upon these limbs; so that by me interred In earth be those of good Almontes' son." Medoro thus his suit, with grace, preferred, And words -- to move a mountain, and so won Upon Zerbino's mood, to kindness turned, With love and pity he all over burned. XIII This while, a churlish horseman of the band, Who little deference for his lord confest, His lance uplifting, wounded overhand The unhappy suppliant in his dainty breast. Zerbino, who the cruel action scanned, Was deeply stirred, the rather that, opprest And livid with the blow the churl had sped, Medoro fell as he was wholly dead. XIV So grieved Zerbino, with such wrath was stung, "Not unavenged shalt thou remain," he cries; Then full of evil will in fury sprung Upon the author of the foul emprize. But he his vantage marks, and, from among The warriors, in a moment slips and flies. Cloridan who beholds the deed, at sight Of young Medoro's fall, springs forth to fight; XV And casts away his bow, and, 'mid the band Of foemen, whirls his falchion, in desire Rather of death, than hoping that his hand May snatch a vengeance equal to his ire. Amid so many blades, he views the sand Tinged with his blood, and ready to expire, And feeling he the sword no more can guide, Lets himself drop by his Medoro's side. XVI The Scots pursue their chief, who pricks before, Through the deep wood, inspired by high disdain, When he has left the one and the other Moor, This dead, that scarce alive, upon the plain. There for a mighty space lay young Medore, Spouting his life-blood from so large a vein, He would have perished, but that thither made A stranger, as it chanced, who lent him aid. XVII By chance arrived a damsel at the place, Who was (though mean and rustic was her wear) Of royal presence and of beauteous face, And lofty manners, sagely debonair: Her have I left unsung so long a space, That you will hardly recognise the fair. Angelica, in her (if known not) scan, The lofty daughter of Catay's great khan. XVIII Angelica, when she had won again The ring Brunello had from her conveyed, So waxed in stubborn pride and haught disdain, She seemed to scorn this ample world, and strayed Alone, and held as cheap each living swain, Although, amid the best, by Fame arrayed: Nor brooked she to remember a galant In Count Orlando or king Sacripant; XIX And above every other deed repented, That good Rinaldo she had loved of yore; And that to look so low she had consented, (As by such choice dishonoured) grieved her sore. Love, hearing this, such arrogance resented, And would the damsel's pride endure no more. Where young Medoro lay he took his stand, And waited her, with bow and shaft in hand. XX When fair Angelica the stripling spies, Nigh hurt to death in that disastrous fray, Who for his king, that there unsheltered lies, More sad than for his own misfortune lay, She feels new pity in her bosom rise, Which makes its entry in unwonted way. Touched was her haughty heart, once hard and curst, And more when he his piteous tale rehearsed. XXI And calling back to memory her art, For she in Ind had learned chirurgery, (Since it appears such studies in that part Worthy of praise and fame are held to be, And, as an heir-loom, sires to sons impart, With little aid of books, the mystery) Disposed herself to work with simples' juice, Till she in him should healthier life produce; XXII And recollects a herb had caught her sight In passing hither, on a pleasant plain, What (whether dittany or pancy hight) I know not; fraught with virtue to restrain The crimson blood forth-welling, and of might To sheathe each perilous and piercing pain, She found it near, and having pulled the weed, Returned to seek Medoro on the mead. XXIII Returning, she upon a swain did light, Who was on horseback passing through the wood. Strayed from the lowing herd, the rustic wight A heifer, missing for two days, pursued. Him she with her conducted, where the might Of the faint youth was ebbing with his blood: Which had the ground about so deeply dyed, Life was nigh wasted with the gushing tide. XXIV Angelica alights upon the ground, And he her rustic comrade, at her hest. She hastened 'twixt two stones the herb to pound, Then took it, and the healing juice exprest: With this did she foment the stripling's wound, And, even to the hips, his waist and breast; And (with such virtue was the salve endued) It stanched his life-blood, and his strength renewed; XXV And into him infused such force again, That he could mount the horse the swain conveyed; But good Medoro would not leave the plain Till he in earth had seen his master laid. He, with the monarch, buried Cloridane, And after followed whither pleased the maid, Who was to stay with him, by pity led, Beneath the courteous shepherd's humble shed. XXVI Nor would the damsel quit the lowly pile (So she esteemed the youth) till he was sound; Such pity first she felt, when him erewhile She saw outstretched and bleeding on the ground. Touched by his mien and manners next, a file She felt corrode her heart with secret wound; She felt corrode her heart, and with desire, By little and by little warmed, took fire. XXVII The shepherd dwelt, between two mountains hoar, In goodly cabin, in the greenwood shade, With wife and children; and, short time before, The brent-new shed had builded in the glade. Here of his griesly wound the youthful Moor Was briefly healed by the Catayan maid; But who in briefer space, a sorer smart Than young Medoro's, suffered at her heart. XXVIII A wound far wider and which deeper lies, Now in her heart she feels, from viewless bow; Which from the boy's fair hair and beauteous eyes Had the winged archer dealt: a sudden glow She feels, and still the flames increasing rise; Yet less she heeds her own than other's woe: -- Heeds not herself, and only to content The author of her cruel ill is bent. XXIX Her ill but festered and increased the more The stripling's wounds were seen to heal and close: The youth grew lusty, while she suffered sore, And, with new fever parched, now burnt, now froze: From day to day in beauty waxed Medore: She miserably wasted; like the snow's Unseasonable flake, which melts away Exposed, in sunny place, to scorching ray. XXX She, if of vain desire will not die, Must help herself, nor yet delay the aid. And she in truth, her will to satisfy, Deemed 'twas no time to wait till she was prayed. And next of shame renouncing every tye, With tongue as bold as eyes, petition made, And begged him, haply an unwitting foe, To sheathe the suffering of that cruel blow. XXXI O Count Orlando, O king of Circassy, Say what your valour has availed to you! Say what your honour boots, what goodly fee Remunerates ye both, for service true! Sirs, show me but a single courtesy, With which she ever graced ye, -- old or new, -- As some poor recompense, desert, or guerdon, For having born so long so sore a burden! XXXII Oh! couldst thou yet again to life return, How hard would this appear, O Agricane! In that she whilom thee was wont to spurn, With sharp repulse and insolent disdain. O Ferrau, O ye thousand more, forlorn, Unsung, who wrought a thousand feats in vain For this ungrateful fair, what pain 'twould be Could you within his arms the damsel see! XXXIII To pluck, as yet untouched, the virgin rose, Angelica permits the young Medore. Was none so blest as in that garden's close Yet to have set his venturous foot before. They holy ceremonies interpose, Somedeal to veil -- to gild -- the matter o'er. Young Love was bridesman there the tie to bless, And for brideswoman stood the shepherdess. XXXIV In the low shed, with all solemnities, The couple made their wedding as they might; And there above a month, in tranquil guise, The happy lovers rested in delight. Save for the youth the lady has no eyes, Nor with his looks can satisfy her sight. Nor yet of hanging on his neck can tire, Of feel she can content her fond desire. XXXV The beauteous boy is with her night and day, Does she untent herself, or keep the shed. Morning or eve they to some meadow stray, Now to this bank, and to that other led: Haply, in cavern harboured, at mid-day, Grateful as that to which Aeneas fled With Dido, when the tempest raged above, The faithful witness to their secret love. XXXVI Amid such pleasures, where, with tree o'ergrown, Ran stream, or bubbling fountain's wave did spin, On bark or rock, if yielding were the stone, The knife was straight at work or ready pin. And there, without, in thousand places lone, And in as many places graved, within, MEDORO and ANGELICA were traced, In divers cyphers quaintly interlaced. XXXVII When she believed they had prolonged their stay More than enow, the damsel made design In India to revisit her Catay, And with its crown Medoro's head entwine. She had upon her wrist an armlet, gay With costly gems, in witness and in sign Of love to her by Count Orlando borne, And which the damsel for long time had worn. XXXVIII On Ziliantes, hid beneath the wave, This Morgue bestowed; and from captivity The youth (restored to Monodantes grave, His ancient sire, through Roland's chivalry) To Roland in return the bracelet gave: Roland, a lover, deigned the gorgeous fee To wear, with the intention to convey The present to his queen, of whom I say. XXXIX No love which to the paladin she bears, But that it costly is and wrought with care, This to Angelica so much endears, That never more esteemed was matter rare: This she was suffered, in THE ISLE OF TEARS, I know not by what privilege, to wear, When, naked, to the whale exposed for food By that inhospitable race and rude. XL She, not possessing wherewithal to pay The kindly couple's hospitality, Served by them in their cabin, from the day She there was lodged, with such fidelity, Unfastened from her arm the bracelet gay, And bade them keep it for her memory. Departing hence the lovers climb the side Of hills, which fertile France from Spain divide. XLI Within Valencia or Barcelona's town The couple thought a little to remain, Until some goodly ship should make her boun To loose for the Levant: as so the twain Journey, beneath Gerona, -- coming down Those mountains -- they behold the subject main; And keeping on their left the beach below, By beaten track to Barcelona go. XLII But, ere they there arrive, a crazed wight They find, extended on the outer shore; Who is bedaubed like swine, in filthy plight, And smeared with mud, face, reins, and bosom o'er' He comes upon them, as a dog in spite Swiftly assails the stranger at the door; And is about to do the lovers scorn, But to the bold Marphisa I return -- XLIII Marphisa, Astolpho, Gryphon, Aquilant. Of these and of the others will I tell: Who, death before their eyes, the vext Levant Traverse, and ill resist the boisterous swell. While aye more passing proud and arrogant, Waxes in rage and threat the tempest fell. And now three days the angry gale has blown, Nor signal of abatement yet has shown. XLIV Waves lifted by the waxing tempest start Castle and flooring, and, if yet there be Aught standing left in any other part, 'Tis cut away and cast into the sea. Here, pricking out their course upon the chart, One by a lantern does his ministry, Upon a sea-chest propt; another wight Is busied in the well by torch's light. XLV This one beneath the poop, beneath the prow That other, stands to watch the ebbing sand; And (each half-glass run out) returns to know What way the ship has made, and towards what land. Thence all to speak their different thoughts, below, To midships make resort, with chart in hand; There where the mariners, assembled all, Are met in council, at the master's call. XLVI One says: "Abreast of Limisso are we Among the shoals" -- and by his reckoning, nigh The rocks of Tripoli and bark must be, Where shipwrecked, for the most part, vessels lie. Another: "We are lost on Sataly, Whose coast makes many patrons weep and sigh." According to their judgment, all suggest Their treasons, each with equal dread opprest. XLVII More spitefully the wind on the third day Blows, and the sea more yeasty billows rears: The fore-mast by the first is borne away, The rudder by the last, with him who steers. Better than steel that man will bide the assay, -- Of marble breast -- who has not now his fears. Marphisa, erst so confident 'mid harms, Denied not but that day she felt alarms. XLVIII A pilgrimage is vowed to Sinai, To Cyprus and Gallicia, and to Rome, Ettino, and other place of sanctity, If such is named, and to the holy tomb. Meanwhile, above the sea and near the sky, The bark is tost, with shattered plank and boom; From which the crew had cut, in her distress, The mizenmast, to make her labour less. XLIX They bale and chest and all their heavy lumber Cast overboard, from poop, and prow, and side; And every birth and cabin disencumber Of merchandize, to feed the greedy tide. Water to water others of the number Rendered, by whom the spouting pumps were plied. This in the hold bestirs himself, where'er Planks opened by the beating sea appear. L They in this trouble, in this woe, remained For full four days; and helpless was their plight, And a full victory the sea had gained, If yet a little had endured its spite: But them with hope of clearer sky sustained The wished appearance of St. Elmo's light, Which (every spar was gone) descending glowed Upon a boat, which in the prow was stowed. LI When, flaming, they the beauteous light surveyed, All those aboard kneeled down in humble guise, And Heaven for peace and for smooth water prayed, With trembling voices and with watery eyes. Nor longer waxed the storm, which had dismayed, Till then enduring in such cruel wise. North-wester or cross-wind no longer reigns; But tyrant of the sea the south remains. LII This on the sea remained so passing strong, And from its sable mouth so fiercely blew, And bore with it so swift a stream and strong Of the vext waters, that it hurried through Their tumbling waves the shattered bark along, Faster than gentle falcon ever flew; And sore the patron feared, to the world's brink It would transport his bark, or wreck or sink. LIII For this the master finds a remedy, Who bids them cast out spars, and veer away A line which holds this float, and as they flee, So, by two-thirds, their furious course delay. This counsel boots, and more the augury From him whose lights upon the gunwale play. This saves the vessel, haply else undone; And makes her through the sea securely run. LIV They, driven on Syria, in Laiazzo's bay A mighty city rise; so nigh at hand, That they can from the vessel's deck survey Two castles, which the port within command. Pale turns the patron's visage with dismay, When he perceives what is the neighbouring land, Who will not to the port for shelter hie, Nor yet can keep the open sea, nor fly. LV They cannot fly, nor yet can keep the sea; For mast and yards are gone, and by the stroke Of the huge billows beating frequently, Loosened is plank, and beam and timber broke: And certain death to make the port would be, Or to be doomed to a perpetual yoke. For each is made a slave, or sentenced dead, Thither by evil Chance or Error led. LVI Sore dangerous 'twas to doubt; lest hostile band Should sally from the puissant town in sight, With armed barks, and upon theirs lay hand, In evil case for sea, and worse for fight. What time the patron knows not what command To give, of him inquires the English knight What kept his mind suspended in that sort, And why at first he had not made the port. LVII To him relates the patron how a crew Of murderous women tenanted that shore, Which, by their ancient law, enslave or slew All those whom Fortune to this kingdom bore; And that he only could such for eschew That in the lists ten champions overbore, And having this achieved, the following night In bed should with ten damsels take delight. LVIII And if he brings to end the former feat, But afterwards the next unfinished leaves, They kill him, and as slaves his following treat, Condemned to delve their land or keep their beeves. -- If for the first and second labour meet -- He liberty for all his band achieves, Not for himself; who there must stay and wed Ten wives by him selected for his bed. LIX So strange a custom of the neighbouring strand Without a laugh Astolpho cannot hear; Sansonet and Marphisa, near at hand, Next Aquilant, and he, his brother dear, Arrive: to them the patron who from land Aye keeps aloof, explains the cause of fear, And cries: "I liefer in the sea would choke, Than here of servitude endure the yoke." LX The sailors by the patron's rede abide, And all the passengers affrighted sore; Save that Marphisa took the other side With hers, who deemed that safer was the shore Than sea, which raging round them, far and wide, Than a hundred thousand swords dismayed them more. Them little this, or other place alarms, So that they have but power to wield their arms. LXI The warriors are impatient all to land: But boldest is of these the English peer; Knowing how soon his horn will clear the strand, When the scared foe its pealing sound shall hear. To put into the neighbouring port this band Desires, and are at strife with those who fear. And they who are the strongest, in such sort Compel the patron, that he makes the port. LXII Already when their bark was first espied At sea, within the cruel city's view, They had observed a galley, well supplied With practised mariners and numerous crew (While them uncertain counsels did divide) Make for their wretched ship, the billows through: Her lofty prow to their short stern and low These lash, and into port the vessel tow. LXIII They thitherward were worked with warp and oar, Rather than with assistance of the sail; Since to lay starboard course or larboard more, No means were left them by the cruel gale. Again their rugged rhind the champions wore, Girding the faithful falchion with the mail, And with unceasing hope of comfort fed Master and mariners opprest with dread. LXIV Like a half-moon, projected from the beach, More than four miles about, the city's port; Six hundred paces deep; and crowning each Horn of the circling haven, was a fort; On every side, secure from storm or breach, (Save only from the south, a safe resort) In guise of theatre the town extended About it, and a hill behind ascended. LXV No sooner there the harboured ship was seen (The news had spread already through the land) Than thitherward, with martial garb and mien, Six thousand women trooped, with bow in hand; And, to remove all hope of flight, between One castle and the other, drew a band; And with strong chains and barks the port enclosed; Which ever, for that use, they kept disposed. LXVI A dame, as the Cumean sybil gray, Or Hector's ancient mother of renown, Made call the patron out, and bade him say, If they their lives were willing to lay down; Or were content beneath the yoke to stay, According to the custom of the town, -- One of two evils they must choose, -- be slain, Or captives, one and all, must there remain. LXVII " 'Tis true, if one so bold and of such might Be found amid your crew," (the matron said), "That he ten men of ours engage in fight, And can in cruel battle lay them dead, And, after, with ten women, in one night, Suffice to play the husband's part in bed, He shall remain our sovereign, and shall sway The land, and you may homeward wend your way. LXVIII "And at your choice to stay shall also be, Whether a part or all, but with this pact, That he who here would stay and would be free, Can with ten dames the husband's part enact. But if your chosen warrior fall or flee, By his ten enemies at once attacked, Or for the second function have not breath, To slavery you we doom, and him to death." LXIX At what she deemed the cavaliers would start, The beldam found them bold; for to compete With those they should engage, and play their part The champions hoped alike in either feat. Nor failed renowned Marphisa's valiant heart, Albeit for the second dance unmeet; Secure, where nature had her aid denied, The want should with the falchion be supplied. LXX The patron is commanded their reply Resolved in common council to unfold; The dames at pleasure may their prowess try, And shall in lists and bed allow them bold. The lashings from the vessels they untie, The skipper heaves the warp, and bids lay hold, And lowers the bridge; o'er which, in warlike weed, The expectant cavaliers their coursers lead. LXXI These through the middle of the city go, And see the damsels, as they forward fare, Ride through the streets, succinct, in haughty show, And arm, in guise of warriors, in the square. Nor to gird sword, nor fasten spur below, Is man allowed, nor any arm to wear; Excepting, as I said, the ten; to follow The ancient usage which those women hallow. LXXII All others of the manly sex they seat, To ply the distaff, broider, card and sow, In female gown descending to the feet, Which renders them effeminate and slow; Some chained, another labour to complete, Are tasked, to keep their cattle, or to plough. Few are the males; and scarce the warriors ken, Amid a thousand dames, a hundred men. LXXIII The knights determining by lot to try Who in their common cause on listed ground, Should slay the ten, with whom they were to vie, And in the other field ten others wound, Designed to pass the bold Marphisa by, Believing she unfitting would be found; And would be, in the second joust at eve, Ill-qualified the victory to achieve. LXXIV But with the others she, the martial maid, Will run her risque; and 'tis her destiny. "I will lay down this life," the damsel said, "Rather than you lay down your liberty. But this" -- with that she pointed to the blade Which she had girt -- "is your security, I will all tangles in such manner loose, As Alexander did the Gordian noose. LXXV "I will not henceforth stranger shall complain, So long as the world lasts, of this repair." So said the maid, nor could the friendly train Take from her what had fallen to her share. Then, -- either every thing to lose, or gain Their liberty, -- to her they leave the care. With stubborn plate and mail all over steeled, Ready for cruel fight, she takes the field. LXXVI High up the spacious city is place, With steps, which serve as seats in rising rows; Which for nought else is used, except the chase, Tourney, or wrestling match, or such-like shows. Four gates of solid bronze the rabble flows In troubled tide; and to Marphisa bold, That she may enter, afterwards is told. LXXVII On pieballed horse Marphisa entered, -- spread Were circles dappling all about his hair, -- Of a bold countenance and little head, And beauteous points, and haughty gait and air. Out of a thousand coursers which he fed, Him, as the best, and biggest, and most rare, King Norandino chose, and, decked with brave And costly trappings, to Marphisa gave. LXXVIII Through the south gate, from the mid-day, the plain Marphisa entered, nor expected long, Before she heard approaching trumpet-strain Peal through the lists in shrilling notes and strong; And, looking next towards the northern wain, Saw her ten opposites appear: among These, as their leader, pricked a cavalier, Excelling all the rest in goodly cheer. LXXIX On a large courser came the leading foe, Which was, excepting the near foot behind And forehead, darker than was ever crow: His foot and forehead with some white were signed. The horseman did his horse's colours show In his own dress; and hence might be divined, He, as the mournful hue o'erpowered the clear, Was less inclined to smile, than mournful tear. LXXX At once their spears in rest nine warriors laid, When the trump sounded, in the hostile train, But he in black no sign of jousting made, As if he held such vantage in disdain: Better he deemed the law were disobeyed, Than that his courtesy should suffer stain. The knight retires apart, and sits to view What against nine one single lance can do. LXXXI Of smooth and balanced pace, the damsel's horse To the encounter her with swiftness bore; Who poised a lance so massive in the course, It would have been an overweight for four. She, disembarking, as of greatest force, The boom had chosen out of many more. At her fierce semblance when in motion, quail A thousand hearts, a thousand looks grow pale. LXXXII The bosom of the first she opens so, As might surprise, if naked were the breast: She pierced the cuirass and the mail below; But first a buckler, solid and well prest, A yard behind the shoulders of the foe Was seen the steel, so well was it addrest. Speared on her lance she left him on the plain, And at the others drove with flowing rein; LXXXIII And so she shocked the second of the crew, And dealt the third so terrible a blow, From sell and life, with broken spine, the two She drove at once. So fell the overthrow, And with such weight she charged the warriors through! So serried was the battle of the foe! -- I have seen bombard open in such mode The squadrons, as that band Marphisa strowed. LXXXIV Many good spears were broken on the dame, Who was as little moved as solid wall, When revellers play the chace's merry game, Is ever moved by stroke of heavy ball. So hard the temper of her corslet's mail, The strokes aye harmless on the breast-plate fall, Whose steel was heated in the fires of hell, And in Avernus' water slaked by spell. LXXXV At the end of the career, she checked her steed, Wheeled him about, and for a little stayed; And then against the others drove at speed, Broke them, and to the handle dyed her blade. Here shorn of arms, and there of head, they bleed; And other in such manner cleft the maid, That breast, and head, and arms together fell, Belly and legs remaining in the sell. LXXXVI With such just measure him she cleaves, I say, Where the two haunches and the ribs confine: And leaves him a half figure, in such way As what we before images divine, Of silver, oftener made of wax, survey; Which supplicants from far and near enshrine, In thanks for mercy shown, and to bestow A pious quittance for accepted vow. LXXXVII Marphisa next made after one that flew, And overtook the wretch, and cleft (before He the mid square had won) his collar through, So clean, no surgeon ever pieced it more. One after other, all in fine she slew, Or wounded every one she smote so sore, She was secure, that never more would foe Arise anew from earth, to work her woe. LXXXVIII The cavalier this while had stood aside, Who had the ten conducted to the place, Since, with so many against one to ride, Had seemed to him advantage four and base; Who, now he by a single hand espied So speedily his whole array displaced, Pricked forth against the martial maid, to show 'Twas courtesy, not fear, had made him slow. LXXXIX He, signing with his right hand, made appear That he would speak ere their career was run, Nor thinking that beneath such manly cheer A gentle virgin was concealed, begun: "I wot thou needs must be, sir cavalier, Sore wearied with such mighty slaughter done; And if I were disposed to weary thee More than thou art, it were discourtesy. XC "To thee, to rest until to-morrow's light, Then to renew the battle, I concede. No honour 'twere to-day to prove my might On thee, whom weak and overwrought I read." -- "Arms are not new to me, nor listed fight; Nor does fatigue so short a toil succeed," Answered Marphisa, "and I, at my post, Hope to prove this upon thee, to thy cost. XCI "I thank thee for thy offer of delay, But need not what thy courtesy agrees; And yet remains so large a space of day 'Twere very shame to spend it all in ease." -- "Oh! were I (he replied) so sure to appay My heart with everything which best would please, As thine I shall appay in this! -- but see, That ere thou thinkest, daylight fail not thee." XCII So said he, and obedient to his hest Two spears, say rather heavy booms, they bear. He to Marphisa bids consigns the best, And the other takes himself: the martial pair Already, with their lances in the rest, Wait but till other blast the joust declare. Lo! earth and air and sea the noise rebound, As they prick forth, at the first trumpet's sound! XCIII No mouth was opened and no eyelid fell, Nor breath was drawn, amid the observant crew: So sore intent was every one to spell Which should be conqueror of the warlike two. Marphisa the black champion from his sell, So to o'erthrow he shall not rise anew, Levels her lance; and the black champion, bent To slay Marphisa, spurs with like intent. XCIV Both lances, made of willow thin and dry, Rather than stout and stubborn oak, appeared; So splintered even to the rest, they fly: While with such force the encountering steeds careered, It seemed, as with a scythe-blade equally The hams of either courser had been sheared. Alike both fall; but voiding quick the seat, The nimble riders start upon their feet. XCV Marphisa in her life, with certain wound, A thousand cavaliers on earth had laid; And never had herself been borne to ground; Yet quitted now the saddle, as was said. Not only at the accident astound, But nigh beside herself, remained the maid. Strange to the sable cavalier withal, Unwont to be unhorsed, appeared his fall. XCVI They scarcely touch the ground before they gain Their feet, and now the fierce assault renew, With cut and thrust; which now with shield the twain Or blade ward off, and now by leaps eschew. Whether the foes strike home, or smite in vain, Blows ring, and echo parted aether through. More force those shields, those helms, those breast-plates show Than anvils underneath the sounding blow. XCVII If heavy falls the savage damsel's blade, That falls not lightly of her warlike foe. Equal the measure one the other paid; And both receive as much as they bestow. He who would see two daring spirits weighed, To seek two fiercer need no further go. Nor to seek more dexterity or might; For greater could not be in mortal wight. XCVIII The women who have sate long time, to view The champions with such horrid strokes offend, Nor sign of trouble in the warriors true Behold, nor yet of weariness, commend Them with just praises, as the worthiest two That are, where'er the sea's wide arms extend. They deem these of mere toil and labour long Must die, save they be strongest of the strong. XCIX Communing with herself, Marphisa said, "That he moved not before was well for me! Who risqued to have been numbered with the dead, If he at first had joined his company. Since, as it is, I hardly can make head Against his deadly blows." This colloquy She with herself maintained, and while she spoke, Ceased not to ply her sword with circling stroke. C " 'Twas well for me," the other cried again, "That to repose I did not leave the knight. I now from him defend myself with pain, Who is o'erwearied with the former fight: What had he been, renewed in might and main, If he had rested till to-morrow's light? Right fortunate was I, as man could be, That he refused my proffered courtesy!" CI Till eve they strove, nor did it yet appear Which had the vantage of the doubtful fray: Nor, without light, could either foe see clear Now to avoid the furious blows; when day Was done, again the courteous cavalier To his illustrious opposite 'gan say; "What shall we do, since ill-timed shades descend, While we with equal fortune thus contend?" CII "Meseems, at least, that till to-morrow's morn 'Twere better thou prolonged thy life: no right Have I thy doom, sir warrior, to adjourn Beyond the limits of one little night. Nor will I that by me the blame be born That thou no longer shalt enjoy the light. With reason to the sex's charge, by whom This place is governed, lay thy cruel doom." CIII "If I lament thee and thy company, HE knows, by whom all hidden things are spied. Thou and thy comrades may repose with me, For whom there is no safe abode beside: Since leagued against you in conspiracy Are all those husbands by thy hand have died. For every valiant warrior of the men Slain in the tourney, consort was of ten. CIV "The scathe they have to-day received from thee, Would ninety women wreak with vengeful spite; And, save thou take my hospitality, Except by them to be assailed this night." -- "I take thy proffer in security," (Replied Marphisa), "that the faith so plight, And goodness of thy heart, will prove no less, Than are thy corporal strength and hardiness. CV "But if, as having to kill me, thou grieve, Thou well mayst grieve, for reasons opposite; Nor hast thou cause to laugh, as I conceive, Nor hitherto has found me worst in fight. Whether thou wouldst defer the fray, or leave, Or prosecute by this or other light, Behold me prompt thy wishes to fulfil; Where and whenever it shall be thy will!" CVI So by consent the combatants divided, Till the dawn broke from Ganges' stream anew; And so remained the question undecided, Which was the better champion of the two, To both the brothers and the rest who sided Upon that part, the liberal lord did sue With courteous prayer, that till the coming day They would be pleased beneath his roof to stay. CVII They unsuspecting with the prayer complied, And by the cheerful blaze of torches white A royal dome ascended, with their guide, Divided into many bowers and bright. The combatants remain as stupified, On lifting up their vizors, at the sight One of the other; for (by what appears) The warrior hardly numbers eighteen years. CVIII Much marvels with herself the gentle dame, That one so young so well should do and dare. Much marvels he (his wonderment the same) When he her sex agnizes by her hair. Questioning one another of their name, As speedily reply the youthful pair. But how was hight the youthful cavalier, Await till the ensuing strain to hear. CANTO 20 ARGUMENT Guido and his from that foul haunt retire, While all Astolpho chases with his horn, Who to all quarters of the town sets fire, Then roving singly round the world is borne. Marphisa, for Gabrina's cause, in ire Puts upon young Zerbino scathe and scorn, And makes him guardian of Gabrina fell, From whom he first learns news of Isabel. I Great fears the women of antiquity In arms and hallowed arts as well have done, And of their worthy works the memory And lustre through this ample world has shone. Praised is Camilla, with Harpalice, For the fair course which they in battle run. Corinna and Sappho, famous for their lore, Shine two illustrious light, to set no more. II Women have reached the pinnacle of glory, In every art by them professed, well seen; And whosoever turns the leaf of story, Finds record of them, neither dim nor mean. The evil influence will be transitory, If long deprived of such the world had been; And envious men, and those that never knew Their worth, have haply hid their honours due. III To me it plainly seems, in this our age Of women such is the celebrity, That it may furnish matter to the page, Whence this dispersed to future years shall be; And you, ye evil tongues which foully rage, Be tied to your eternal infamy, And women's praises so resplendent show, They shall, by much, Marphisa's worth outgo. IV To her returning yet again; the dame To him who showed to her such courteous lore, Refused not to disclose her martial name, Since he agreed to tell the style be bore. She quickly satisfied the warrior's claim; To learn his title she desired so sore. "I am Marphisa," the virago cried: All else was known, as bruited far and wide. V The other, since 'twas his to speak, begun With longer preamble: "Amid your train, Sirs, it is my belief that there is none But has heard mention of my race and strain. Not Pontus, Aethiopia, Ind alone, With all their neighbouring realms, but France and Spain Wot well of Clermont, from whose loins the knight Issued who killed Almontes bold in fight, VI "And Chiareillo and Mambrino slew, And sacked the realm whose royal crown they wore. Come of this blood, where Danube's waters, through Eight horns or ten to meet the Euxine pour, Me to the far-renowned Duke Aymon, who Thither a stranger roved, my mother bore. And 'tis a twelvemonth now since her, in quest Of my French kin, I left with grief opprest. VII "But reached not France, for southern tempest's spite Impelled me hither; lodged in royal bower Ten months or more; for -- miserable wight! -- I reckon every day and every hour. Guido the Savage I by name am hight, Ill known and scarcely proved in warlike stower. Here Argilon of Meliboea I Slew with ten warriors in his company. VIII "Conqueror as well in other field confessed, Ten ladies are the partners of my bed: Selected at my choice, who are the best And fairest damsels in this kingdom bred: These I command, as well as all the rest, Who of their female band have made me head; And so would make another who in fight, Like me, ten opposites to death would smite." IX Sir Guido is besought of them to say Why there appear so few of the male race, And to declare if women there bear sway O'er men, as men o'er them in other place. He: "Since my fortune has been here to stay, I oftentimes have heard relate the case; And now (according to the story told) Will, since it pleases you, the cause unfold. X "When, after twenty years, the Grecian host Returned from Troy (ten years hostility The town endured, ten weary years were tost The Greeks, detained by adverse winds at sea), They found their women had, for comforts lost, And pangs of absence, learned a remedy; And, that they might not freeze alone in bed, Chosen young lovers in their husbands' stead. XI "With others' children filled the Grecian crew Their houses found, and by consent was past A pardon to their women; for they knew How ill they could endure so long a fast. But the adulterous issue, as their due, To seek their fortunes on the world were cast: Because the husbands would not suffer more The striplings should be nourished from their store. XII "Some are exposed, and others underhand Their kindly mothers shelter and maintain: While the adults, in many a various band, Some here, some there dispersed, their living gain. Arms are the trade of some, by some are scanned Letters and arts; another tills the plain: One serves in court, by other guided go The herd as pleases her who rules below. XIII "A boy departed with they youthful peers, Who was of cruel Clytemnestra born; Like lily fresh (he numbered eighteen years) Or blooming rose, new-gathered from the thorn. He having armed a bark, his pinnace steers In search of plunder, o'er the billows borne. With him a hundred other youths engage, Picked from all Greece, and of their leader's age. XIV "The Cretans, who had banished in that day Idomeneus the tyrant of their land, And their new state to strengthen and upstay, Were gathering arms and levying martial band, Phalantus' service by their goodly pay Purchased (so hight the youth who sought that strand), And all those others that his fortune run, Who the Dictaean city garrison. XV "Amid the hundred cities of old Crete, Was the Dictaean the most rich and bright; Of fair and amorous dames the joyous seat, Joyous with festive sports from morn to night: And (as her townsmen aye were wont to greet The stranger) with such hospitable rite They welcomed these, it little lacked but they Granted them o'er their households sovereign sway. XVI "Youthful and passing fair were all the crew, The flower of Greece, who bold Phalantus led; So that with those fair ladies at first view, Stealing their hearts, full well the striplings sped. Since, fair in deed as show, they good and true Lovers evinced themselves and bold in bed. And in few days to them so grateful proved, Above all dearest things they were beloved. XVII "After the war was ended on accord, For which were hired Phalantus and his train, And pay withdrawn, nor longer by the sword Was aught which the adventurous youth can gain, And they, for this, anew would go aboard, The unhappy Cretan women more complain, And fuller tears on this occasion shed, That if their fathers lay before them dead. XVIII "Long time and sorely all the striplings bold Were, each apart, by them implored to stay: Who since the fleeting youths they cannot hold, Leave brother, sire, and son, with these to stray, Of jewels and of weighty sums of gold Spoiling their households ere they wend their way, For so well was the plot concealed, no wight Throughout all Crete was privy to their flight. XIX "So happy was the hour, so fair the wind, When young Phalantus chose his time to flee, They many miles had left the isle behind, Ere Crete lamented her calamity. Next, uninhabited by human kind, This shore received them wandering o'er the sea. 'Twas here they settled, with the plunder reft, And better weighed the issue of their theft. XX "With amorous pleasures teemed this place of rest, For ten days, to that roving company: But, as oft happens that in youthful breast Abundance brings with it satiety, To quit their women, with one wish possest, The band resolved to win their liberty; For never burden does so sore oppress As woman, when her love breeds weariness. XXI "They, who are covetous of spoil and gain, And ill-bested withal in stipend, know That better means are wanted to maintain So many paramours, than shaft and bow; And leaving thus alone the wretched train, Thence, with their riches charged the adventurers go For Puglia's pleasant land: there founded near The sea, Tarentum's city, as I hear. XXII "The women when they find themselves betrayed Of lovers by whose faith they set most store, For many days remain so sore dismayed, That they seem lifeless statues on the shore. But seeing lamentations nothing aid, And fruitless are the many tears they pour, Begin to meditate, amid their pains, What remedy for such an ill remains. XXIII "Some laying their opinions now before The others, deem that to return to Crete Is in their sad estate the wiser lore, Throwing themselves at sire and husband's feet, Than in those wilds, and on that desert shore, To pine of want. Another troop repeat, They should esteem it were a worthier notion To cast themselves into the neighbouring ocean; XXIV "And lighter ill, if they as harlots went About the world, -- beggars or slaves to be, Than offer up themselves for punishment, Well merited by their iniquity. Such and like schemes the unhappy dames present, Each harder than the other. Finally, One Orontea amid these upstood, Who drew her origin from Minos' blood. XXV "Youngest and fairest of the crew betrayed She was, and wariest, and who least had erred, Who to Phalantus' arms had come a maid, And left for him her father: she in word, As well as in a kindling face, displayed How much with generous wrath her heart was stirred; Then, reprobating all advised before, Spake; and adopted saw her better lore. XXVI "She would not leave the land they were upon, Whose soil was fruitful, and whose air was sane, Throughout which many limpid rivers ran, Shaded with woods, and for the most part plain; With creek and port, where stranger bark could shun Foul wind or storm, which vexed the neighbouring main, That might from Afric or from Egypt bring Victual or other necessary thing. XXVII "For vengeance (she opined) they there should stay Upon man's sex, which had so sore offended. She willed each bark and crew which to that bay For shelter from the angry tempest wended, They should, without remorse, burn, sack, and slay, Nor mercy be to any one extended. Such was the lady's motion, such the course Adopted; and the statute put in force. XXVIII "The women, when they see the changing heaven Turbid with tempest, hurry to the strand, With savage Orontea, by whom given Was the fell law, the ruler of the land; And of all barks into their haven driven Make havoc dread with fire and murderous brand, Leaving no man alive, who may diffuse Upon this side or that the dismal news. XXIX " 'Twas thus with the male sex at enmity, Some years the lonely women lived forlorn: Then found that hurtful to themselves would be The scheme, save changed; for if from them were born None to perpetuate their empery, The idle law would soon be held in scorn, And fail together with the fruitful reign, Which they had hoped eternal should remain. XXX "So that some deal its rigour they allay, And in four years, of all who made repair Thither, by chance conducted to this bay, Chose out ten vigorous cavaliers and fair; That for endurance in the amorous play Against those hundred dames good champions were: A hundred they; and, of the chosen men, A husband was assigned to every ten. XXXI "Ere this, too feeble to abide the test, Many a one on scaffold lost his head. Now these ten warriors so approved the best, Were made partakers of their rule and bed; First swearing at the sovereign ladies' hest, That they, if others to that port are led, No mercy shall to any one afford, But one and all will put them to the sword. XXXII "To swell, and next to child, and thence to fear The women turned to teeming wives began Lest they in time so many males should bear As might invade the sovereignty they plan, And that the government they hold so dear Might finally from them revert to man. And so, while these are children yet, take measure, They never shall rebel against their pleasure. XXXIII "That the male sex may not usurp the sway, It is enacted by the statute fell, Each mother should one boy preserve, and slay The others, or abroad exchange or sell. For this, they these to various parts convey, And to the bearers of the children tell, To truck the girls for boys in foreign lands, Or not, at least, return with empty hands. XXXIV "Nor by the women one preserved would be, If they without them could the race maintain. Such all their mercy, all the clemency The law accords for theirs, not others' gain. The dames all others sentence equally; And temper but in this their statute's pain, That, not as was their former practice, they All in their rage promiscuously slay. XXXV "Did ten or twenty persons, or yet more, Arrive, they were imprisoned and put by; And every day one only from the store Of victims was brought out by lot to die, In fane by Orontea built, before An altar raised to Vengeance; and to ply As headsman, and dispatched the unhappy men, One was by lot selected from the ten. XXXVI "To that foul murderous shore by chance did fare, After long years elapsed, a youthful wight, Whose fathers sprung from good Alcides were, And he, of proof in arms, Elbanio hight; There was he seized, of peril scarce aware, As unsuspecting such a foul despite: And, closely guarded, into prison flung, Kept for like cruel use the rest among. XXXVII "Adorned with every fair accomplishment, Of pleasing face and manners was the peer, And of a speech so sweet and eloquent, Him the deaf adder might have stopt to hear; So that of him to Alexandria went Tidings as of a precious thing and rare. She was the daughter of that matron bold, Queen Orontea, that yet lived, though old. XXXVIII "Yet Orontea lived, while of that shore The other settlers all were dead and gone; And now ten times as many such or more Had into strength and greater credit grown. Nor for ten forges, often closed, in store Have the ill-furnished band more files than one; And the ten champions have as well the care To welcome shrewdly all who thither fare. XXXIX "Young Alexandria, who the blooming peer Burned to behold so praised on every part, The special pleasure him to see and hear, Won from her mother; and, about to part From him, discovers that the cavalier Remains the master of her tortured heart; Finds herself bound, and that 'tis vain to stir, -- A captive made by her own prisoner. XL " `I pity,' (said Elbanio) 'lady fair, Was in this cruel region known, as through All other countries near or distant, where The wandering sun sheds light and colouring hue, I by your beauty's kindly charms should dare (Which make each gentle spirit bound to you) To beg my life; which always, at your will, Should I be ready for your love to spill. XLI " `But since deprived of all humanity Are human bosoms in this cruel land, I shall not now request my life of thee, (For fruitless would, I know, be the demand) But, whether a good knight or bad I be, Ask but like such to die with arms in hand, And not as one condemned to penal pain; Or like brute beast in sacrifice be slain.' XLII "The gentle maid, her eye bedimmed with tear, In pity for the hapless youth, replied: `Though this land be more cruel and severe Than any other country, far and wide, Each woman is not a Medaea here As thou wouldst make her; and, if all beside Were of such evil kind, in me alone Should an exception to the rest be known. XLIII " `And though I, like so many here, of yore Was full of evil deeds and cruelty, I can well say, I never had before A fitting subject for my clemency. But fiercer were I than a tiger, more Hard were my heart than diamonds, if in me All hardness did not vanish and give place Before your courage, gentleness, and grace. XLIV " `Ah! were the cruel statute less severe Against the stranger to these shores conveyed! So should I not esteem my death too dear A ransom for thy worthier life were paid. But none is here so great, sir cavalier, Nor of such puissance as to lend thee aid; And what thou askest, though a scanty grace, Were difficult to compass in this place. XLV " `And yet will I endeavour to obtain For thee, before thou perish, this content; Though much, I fear, 'twill but augment thy pain. And thee protracted death but more torment.' `So I the ten encounter,' (said again Elbanio), `I at heart, am confident Myself to save, and enemies to slay; Though made of iron were the whole array.' XLVI "To this the youthful Alexandria nought Made answer, saving with a piteous sigh; And from the conference a bosom brought, Gored with deep wounds, beyond all remedy. To Orontea she repaired, and wrought On her to will the stripling should not die, Should he display such courage and such skill As with his single hand the ten to kill. XLVII "Queen Orontea straightway bade unite Her council, and bespoke the assembled band: `It still behoves us place the prowest wight Whom we can find, to guard our ports and strand. And, to discover whom to take or slight, 'Tis fitting that we prove the warrior's hand; Lest, to our loss, the election made be wrong, And we enthrone the weak and slay the strong. XLVIII " `I deem it fit, if you the counsel shown Deem fit as well, in future to ordain, That each upon our coast by Fortune thrown, Before he in the temple shall be slain, Shall have the choice, instead of this, alone Battle against ten others to maintain; And if he conquer, shall the port defend With other comrades, pardoned to that end. XLIX " `I say this, since to strive against our ten, It seems, that one imprisoned here will dare: Who, if he stands against so many men, By Heaven, deserves that we should hear his prayer; But if he rashly boasts himself, again As worthily due the punishment should bear.' Here Orontea ceased; on the other side, To her the oldest of the dames replied. L " `The leading cause, for which to entertain This intercourse with men we first agreed, Was not because we, to defend this reign, Of their assistance stood in any need; For we have skill and courage to maintain This of ourselves, and force, withal, to speed. Would that we could in all as well avail Without their succour, nor succession fail! LI " `But since this may not be, we some have made (These few) partakers of our company; That, ten to one, we be not overlaid; Nor they possess them of the sovereignty. Not that we for protection need their aid, But simply to increase and multiply. Than be their powers to this sole fear addressed, And be they sluggards, idle for the rest. LII " `To keep among us such a puissant wight Our first design would render wholly vain. If one can singly slay ten men in fight, How many women can he not restrain? If our ten champions had possessed such might, They the first day would have usurped the reign. To arm a hand more powerful than your own Is an ill method to maintain the throne. LIII " `Reflect withal, that if your prisoner speed So that he kill ten champions in the fray, A hundred women's cry, whose lords will bleed Beneath his falchion, shall your ears dismay. Let him not 'scape by such a murderous deed; But, if he would, propound some other way. -- Yet if he of those ten supply the place, And please a hundred women, grant him grace.' LIV "This was severe Artemia's sentiment, (So was she named) and had her counsel weighed, Elbanio to the temple had been sent, To perish by the sacrificial blade. But Orontea, willing to content Her daughter, to the matron answer made; And urged so many reasons, and so wrought, The yielding senate granted what she ought. LV "Elbanio's beauty (for so fair to view Never was any cavalier beside) So strongly works upon the youthful crew, Which in that council sit the state to guide, That the opinion of the older few That like Artemia think, is set aside; And little lacks but that the assembled race Absolve Elbanio by especial grace. LVI "To pardon him in fine the dames agreed: But, after slaying his half-score, and when He in the next assault as well should speech, Not with a hundred women, but with ten; And, furnished to his wish with arms and steed, Next day he was released from dungeon-den, And singly with ten warriors matched in plain, Who by his arm successively were slain. LVII "He to new proof was put the following night, Against ten damsels naked and alone; When so successful was the stripling's might, He took the 'say of all the troop, and won Such grace with Orontea, that the knight Was by the dame adopted for her son; And from her Alexandria had to wife, With those whom he had proved in amorous strife. LVIII "And him she left with Alexandria, heir To this famed city, which from her was hight, So he and all who his successors were, Should guard the law which willed, whatever wight, Conducted hither by his cruel star, Upon this miserable land did light, Should have his choice to perish by the knife, Or singly with ten foes contend to strife. LIX "And if he should dispatch the men by day, At night should prove him with the female crew; And if so fortunate that in this play He proved again the conqueror, he, as due, The female band, as prince and guide, should sway, And his ten consorts at his choice renew: And reign with them, till other should arrive Of stouter hand, and him of life deprive. LX "They for two thousand years nigh past away This usage have maintained, and yet maintain The impious rite; and rarely passes day But stranger wight is slaughtered in the fane. If he, Elbanio-like, ten foes assay, (And such sometimes is found) he oft is slain In the first charge: nor, in a thousand, one The other feat, of which I spake, has done, LXI "Yet some there are have done it, though so few, They may be numbered on the fingers; one Of the victorious cavaliers, but who Reigned with his ten short time, was Argilon: For, smote by me, whom ill wind hither blew, The knight to his eternal rest is gone. Would I with him that day had filled a grave, Rather than in such scorn survive a slave! LXII "For amorous pleasures, laughter, game, and play, Which evermore delight the youthful breast; The gem, the purple garment, rich array, And in his city place before the rest. Little, by Heaven, the wretched man appay Who of his liberty is dispossest: And not to have the power to leave this shore To me seems shameful servitude and sore. LXIII "To know I wear away life's glorious spring In such effeminate and slothful leisure Is to my troubled heart a constant sting, And takes away the taste of every pleasure. Fame bears my kindred's praise on outstretched wing, Even to the skies; and haply equal measure I of the glories of my blood might share If I united with my brethren were. LXIV "Methinks my fate does such injurious deed By me, condemned to servitude so base, As he who turns to grass the generous steed To run amid the herd of meaner race, Because unfit for war or worthier meed, Through blemish, or disease of sight or pace. Nor hoping but by death, alas! to fly So vile a service, I desire to die." LXV Here Guido ceased to address the martial peers, And cursed withal the day, in high disdain, That he achieved o'er dames and cavaliers The double victory which bestowed that reign. Astolpho hides his name, and silent hears, Until to him by many a sign is plain That this Sir Guido is, as he had said, The issue of his kinsman Aymon's bed. LXVI Then cried: "The English duke, Astolpho, I Thy cousin am," and clipt him round the waist, And in a kindly act of courtesy, Not without weeping, kist him and embraced. Then, "Kinsman dear, thy birth to certify No better sign thy mother could have placed About thy neck. Enough! that sword of thine, And courage, vouch thee of our valiant line." LXVII Guido, who gladly would in other place So near a kin have welcomed, in dismay Beholds him here and with a mournful face; Knowing, if he himself survives the fray, Astolpho will be doomed to slavery base, His fate deferred but till the following day; And he shall perish, if the duke is free: So that one's good the other's ill shall be. LXVIII He grieves, as well, the other cavaliers Should through his means for ever captive be; Nor, that he should, if slain, those martial peers Deliver by his death from slavery. Since if Marphisa from one quicksand clears The troop, yet these from other fails to free, She will have won the victory in vain; For they will be enslaved, and she be slain. LXIX On the other hand, the stripling's age, in May Of youth, with courtesy and valour fraught, Upon the maid and comrades with such sway, Touching their breasts with love and pity, wrought That they of freedom, for which he must pay The forfeit of his life, nigh loathed the thought; And if Marphisa him perforce must kill, She is resolved as well herself to spill. LXX "Join thou with us," she to Sir Guido cried, "And we from hence will sally." -- "From within These walls to sally" -- Guido on his side Answered, "Ne'er hope: With me you lose or win." "-- I fear not, I," the martial maid replied, "To execute whatever I begin; Nor know what can securer path afford Than that which I shall open with my sword. LXXI "Such proof of thy fair prowess have I made, With thee I every enterprise would dare. To-morrow when about the palisade The crowds assembled in the circus are, Let us on every side the mob invade, Whether they fly or for defence prepare; Then give the town to fire, and on their bed Of earth to wolf and vulture leave the dead." LXXII He: "Ready shalt thou find me in the strife To follow thee or perish at thy side: But let us hope not to escape with life. Enough, is vengeance somedeal satisfied Ere death; for oft ten thousand, maid and wife, I in the place have witnessed; and, outside, As many castle, wall and port, defend. Nor know I certain way from hence to wend." LXXIII "And were there more (Marphisa made reply) Than Xerxes led, our squadrons to oppose, More than those rebel spirits from the sky Cast out to dwell amid perpetual woes, All in one day should by this weapon die, Wert thou with me, at least, not with my foes." To her again, "No project but must fail, (Sir Guido said) I know, save this avail." LXXIV "This only us can save, should it succeed; This, which but now remembered I shall teach. To dames alone our laws the right concede To sally, or set foot upon the beach, And hence to one of mine in this our need Must I commit myself, and aid beseech; Whose love for me, by perfect friendship tied, Has oft by better proof than this been tried. LXXV "No less than me would she desire that I Should 'scape from slavery, so she went with me; And that, without her rival's company, She of my lot should sole partaker be. She bark or pinnace, in the harbour nigh, Shall bid, while yet 'tis dark, prepare for sea; Which shall await your sailors, rigged and yare For sailing, when they thither shall repair. LXXVI "Behind me, in a solid band comprest, Ye merchants, mariners and warriors, who, Driven to this city, have set up your rest Beneath this roof (for which my thanks are due) -- You have to force your way with stedfast breast, If adversaries interrupt our crew. 'Tis thus I hope, by succour of the sword, To clear a passage through the cruel horde." LXXVII "Do as thou wilt," Marphisa made reply, "I of escape am confident withal: And likelier 'twere that by my hand should die The martial race, encompassed by this wall, Than any one should ever see me fly, Or guess by other sign that fears appall. I would my passage force in open day, And shameful in my sight were other way. LXXVIII "I wot if I were for a woman known, Honour and place from women I might claim, Here gladly entertained, and classed as one Haply among their chiefs of highest fame: But privilege or favour will I none Unshared by those with whom I hither came. Too base it were, did I depart or free Remain, to leave the rest in slavery." LXXIX These speeches by Marphisa made, and more, Showed that what only had restrained her arm Was the respect she to the safety bore Of the companions whom her wrath might harm; By this alone withheld form taking sore And signal vengeance on the female swarm. And hence she left in Guido's care to shape What seemed the fittest means for their escape. LXXX Sir Guido speaks that night with Alery (So the most faithful of his wives was hight) Nor needs long prayer to make the dame agree, Disposed already to obey the knight. She takes a ship and arms the bark for sea, Stowed with her richest chattels for their flight; Feigning design, as soon as dawn ensues, To sail with her companions on a cruise. LXXXI She into Guido's palace had before Bid sword and spear and shield and cuirass bear; With the intent to furnish from this store, Merchants and sailors that half naked were. Some watch, and some repose upon the floor, And rest and guard among each other share; Oft marking, still with harness on their backs, If ruddy yet with light the orient wax. LXXXII Not yet from earth's hard visage has the sun Lifted her veil of dim and dingy dye; Scarcely Lycaon's child, her furrow done, Has turned about her ploughshare in the sky; When to the theatre the women run Who would the fearful battle's end espy, As swarming bees upon their threshold cluster, Who bent on change of realm in springtide muster. LXXXIII With warlike trumpet, drum, and sound of horn, The people make the land and welkin roar; Summoning thus their chieftain to return, And end of unfinished warfare. Covered o'er With arms stand Aquilant and Gryphon stern, And the redoubted duke from England's shore. Marphisa, Dudo, Sansonet, and all The knights or footmen harboured in that hall. LXXXIV Hence to descend towards the sea or port The way across the place of combat lies; Nor was there other passage, long or short. Sir Guido so to his companions cries: And having ceased his comrades to exhort, To do their best set forth in silent wise, And in the place appeared, amid the throng, Head of a squad above a hundred strong. LXXXV Toward the other gate Sir Guido went, Hurrying his band, but, gathered far and nigh The mighty multitude, for aye intent To smite, and clad in arms, when they descry The comrades whom he leads, perceive his bent, And truly deem he is about to fly. All in a thought betake them to their bows, And at the portal part the knight oppose. LXXXVI Sir Guido and the cavaliers who go Beneath that champion's guidance, and before The others bold Marphisa, were not slow To strike, and laboured hard to force the door. But such a storm of darts from ready bow, Dealing on all sides death or wounding sore, Was rained in fury on the troop forlorn, They feared at last to encounter skaith and scorn. LXXXVII Of proof the corslet was each warrior wore, Who without this would have had worse to fear: Sansonnet's horse was slain, and that which bore Marphisa: to himself the English peer Exclaimed, "Why wait I longer? As if more My horn could ever succour me than here. Since the sword steads not, I will make assay If with my bugle I can clear the way." LXXXVIII As he was customed in extremity, He to his mouth applied the bugle's round; The wide world seemed to tremble, earth and sky, As he in air discharged the horrid sound. Such terror smote the dames, that bent to fly, When in their ears the deafening horn was wound, Not only they the gate unguarded left, But from the circus reeled, of wit bereft. LXXXIX As family, awaked in sudden wise, Leaps from the windows and from lofty height, Periling life and limb, when in surprise They see, now near, the fire's encircling light, Which had, while slumber sealed their heavy eyes, By little and by little waxed at night: Reckless of life, thus each, impelled by dread, At sound of that appalling bugle fled. XC Above, below, and here and there, the rout Rise in confusion and attempt to fly. At once, above a thousand swarm about Each entrance, to each other's lett, and lie In heaps: from window these, or stage without, Leap headlong; in the press these smothered die. Broken is many an arm, and many a head; And one lies crippled, and another dead. XCI Amid the mighty ruin which ensued, Cries pierce the very heavens on every part. Where'er the sound is heard, the multitude, In panic at the deafening echo, start. When you are told that without hardihood Appear the rabble, and of feeble heart, This need not more your marvel; for by nature The hare is evermore a timid creature. XCII But of Marphisa what will be your thought, And Guido late so furious? -- of the two Young sons of Olivier, that lately wrought Such deeds in honour of their lineage? who Lately a hundred thousand held as nought, And now, deprived of courage, basely flew, As ring-doves flutter and as coneys fly, Who hear some mighty noise resounding nigh. XCIII For so to friend as stranger, noxious are The powers that in the enchanted horn reside. Sansonet, Guido, follow, with the pair Or brethren bold, Marphisa terrified. Nor flying, can they to such distance fare, But that their ears are dinned. On every side Astolpho, on his foaming courser borne, Lends louder breath to his enchanted horn. XCIV One sought the sea, and one the mountain-top, One fled the hide herself in forest hoar; And this, who turned not once nor made a stop, Not for ten days her headlong flight forbore: These from the bridge in that dread moment drop, Never to climb the river's margin more. So temple, house and square and street were drained, That nigh unpeopled the wide town remained. XCV Marphisa, Guido, and the brethren two, With Sansonetto, pale and trembling, hie Towards the sea, and behind these the crew Of frighted mariners and merchants fly; And 'twixt the forts, in bark, prepared with view To their escape, discover Alery; Who in sore haste receives the warriors pale, And bids them ply their oars and make all sail. XCVI The duke within and out the town had bear From the surrounding hills to the sea-side, And of its people emptied every street. All fly before the deafening sound, and hide: Many in panic, seeking a retreat, Lurk, in some place obscure and filthy stied; Many, not knowing whither to repair, Plunge in the neighbouring sea, and perish there. XCVII The duke arrives, seeking the friendly band, Whom he had hoped to find upon the quay; He turns and gazes round the desert strand, And none is there -- directs along the bay His eyes, and now, far distant from the land, Beholds the parting frigate under way. So that the paladin, for his escape -- The vessel gone -- must other project shape. XCVIII Let him depart! nor let it trouble you That he so long a road must beat alone; Where, never without fear, man journeys through Wild paynim countries: danger is there none, But what he with his bugle may eschew, Whose dread effect the English duke has shown; And let his late companions be our care, Who trembling to the beach had made repair. XCIX They from that cruel and ensanguined ground To seaward, under all their canvas, bore; And having gained such offing, that the sound Of that alarming horn was heard no more, Unwonted shame inflicted such a wound, That all a face of burning crimson wore. One dares not eye the other, and they stand With downcast looks, a mute and mournful band. C Fixed on his course, the pilot passes by Cyprus and Rhodes, and ploughs the Aegean sea: Beholds a hundred islands from him fly, And Malea's fearful headland; fanned by free And constant wind, sees vanish from the eye The Greek Morea; rounding Sicily, Into the Tuscan sea his frigate veers, And, coasting Italy's fair region, steers: CI Last rises Luna, where his family Is waiting his return, the patron hoar Gives thanks to God at having passed the sea Without more harm, and makes the well-known shore. Here, offering passage to their company, They find a master, ready to unmoor For France, and that same day his pinnace climb; Thence wafted to Marseilles in little time. CII There was not Bradamant, who used to sway The land, and had that city in her care, And who (if present there) to make some stay Would have compelled them by her courteous prayer. They disembarked; and that same hour away Did bold Marphisa at a venture fare; Bidding adieu to salvage Guido's wife, And to the four, her comrades in the strife: CIII Saying she deems unfitting for a knight To fare in like great fellowship; that so The starlings and the doves in flock unite, And every beast who fears -- the stag and doe; But hawk and eagle, that in other's might Put not their trust, for ever singly go; And lion, bear, and tyger, roam alone, Who fear no prowess greater than their own. CIV But none with her opine, and, in the lack Of a companion, singly must she fare, So then, alone and friendless, she a track Uncouth pursues, and through a wooded lair. Gryphon the white and Aquilant the black Take road more beaten with the other pair; And on the following day a castle see, Within which they are harboured courteously. CV Courteously I, in outward show, would say; For soon the contrary was made appear. Since he, the castellain, who with display Of kindness sheltered them and courteous cheer, The night ensuing took them as they lay Couched in their beds, secure and void of fear. Nor from the snare would he his prisoners loose, Till they had sworn to observe an evil use. CVI But I will first pursue the martial maid, Ere more of these, fair sir, I shall proclaim. Beyond the Durence, Rhone, and Saone she strayed, And to the foot of sunny mountain came; And there approaching in black gown arrayed, Beside a torrent, saw an ancient dame; Who with long journey weak, and wearied sore, Appeared, but pined by melancholy more. CVII This was the beldam who had wont to ply Serving the robbers in the caverned mount; Whither stern Justice sent (that they might die By that good paladin) Anglante's count. The aged harridan, for cause which I To you shall in another place recount, Now many days by path obscure had flown, Still fearing lest her visage should be known. CVIII The semblance now of foreign cavalier She in Marphisa saw, in arms and vest; And hence she flies not her, though wont to fear, (As being natives of that land) the rest; -- Nay, with security and open cheer, Stops at the ford the damsel to arrest: Stops at the ford -- where that old beldam meets Marphisa, and with fair encounter greets. CIX And next implored the maid, she of her grace Would bear her on the croupe to the other shore. Marphisa, who was come of gentle race, The hag with her across the torrent bore; And is content to bear, till she can place In a securer road the beldam hoar, Clear of a spacious marish: as its end They see a cavalier towards them wend. CX In shining armour and in fair array, The warrior rode on saddle richly wrought Towards the river, and upon his way With him a single squire and damsel brought. Of passing beauty was the lady gay, But little pleasing was her semblance haught; All overblown with insolence and pride, Worthy the cavalier who was her guide. CXI He of Maganza was a count, who bore The lady with him (Pinabello hight): The same who Bradamant, some months before, Had plunged into a hollow cave in spite. Those many sobs, those burning sighs and sore, Those tears which had nigh quenched the warrior's sight, -- All for the damsel were, now at his side; And then by that false necromancer stied. CXII But when the magic tower upon the hill Was razed, the dwelling of Atlantes hoar, And every one was free to rove at will, Through Bradamant's good deed and virtuous lore, The damsel, who had been compliant still With the desires of Pinabel before, Rejoined him, and now journeying in a round With him, from castle was to castle bound. CXIII As wanton and ill-customed, when she spies Marphisa's aged charge approaching near, She cannot rein her saucy tongue, but plies Here, in her petulance, with laugh and jeer. Marphisa haught, unwont in any wise Outrage from whatsoever part to hear, Makes answer to the dame, in angry tone, That handsomer than her she deems the crone. CXIV And that she this would prove upon her knight With pact that she might strip the bonnibell Of gown and palfrey, if, o'erthrown in fight, Her champion from his goodly courser fell. -- In silence to have overpast the slight Would have been sin and shame in Pinabel, Who for short answer seized his shield and spear, And wheeled, and drove at her in fierce career. CXV Marphisa grasped a mighty lance, and thrust, Encountering him, at Pinabello's eyes; And stretched him so astounded in the dust, That motionless an hour the warrior lies. Marphisa, now victorious in the just, Gave orders to strip off the glorious guise And ornaments wherewith the maid was drest, And with the spoils her ancient crone invest; CXVI And willed that she should don the youthful weed, Bedizened at the haughty damsel's cost; And took away as well the goodly steed Which her had thither borne, and -- bent to post On her old track -- with her the hag will speed, Who seems most hideous when adorned the most. Three days the tedious road the couple beat, Without adventure needful to repeat. CXVII On the fourth day they met a cavalier, Who came in fury galloping alone. If you the stranger's name desire to hear, I tell you 'twas Zerbino, a king's son, Of beauty and of worth example rare, Now grieved and angered, as unvenged of one, Who a great act of courtesy, which fain The warrior would have done, had rendered vain. CXVIII Vainly the young Zerbino, through the glade, Had chased that man of his, who this despite Had done him, who himself so well conveyed Away and took such 'vantage in his flight, So hid by wood and mist, which overlaid The horizon and bedimmed the morning-light, That he escaped Zerbino's grasp, and lay Concealed until his wrath was past away. CXIX Zerbino laughed parforce, when he descried That beldam's face, though he was full of rage; For too ill-sorted seemed her vest of pride With her foul visage, more deformed by age; And to the proud Marphisa, at her side The prince, exclaimed, "Sir warrior, you are sage, In having chosen damsel of a sort, Whom none, I ween, will grudge you should escort." CXX Older than Sibyl seemed the beldam hoar, (As far as from her wrinkles one might guess), And in the youthful ornaments she wore, Looked like an ape which men in mockery dress; And now appears more foul, as angered sore, While rage and wrath her kindled eyes express. For none can do a woman worse despite Than to proclaim her old and foul to sight. CXXI To have sport of him -- as she had -- an air Of wrath the maid assumed upon her part, And to the prince, "By Heaven, more passing fair Is this my lady than thou courteous art," Exclaimed in answer; "though I am aware What thou hast uttered comes not from thy heart. Thou wilt not own her beauty; a device Put on to masque thy sovereign cowardice. CXXII "And of what stamp would be that cavalier Who found such fair and youthful dame alone, Without protection, in the forest drear, Nor sought to make the lovely weft his own?" -- "So well she sorts with thee," replied the peer, " `Twere ill that she were claimed by any one: Nor I of her would thee in any wise Deprive; God rest thee merry with thy prize! CXXIII "But would thou prove what is my chivalry, On other ground I to thy wish incline; Yet deem me not of such perversity As to tilt with thee for this prize of thine. Or fair or foul, let her remain thy fee; I would not, I, such amity disjoin. Well are ye paired, and safely would I swear That thou as valiant art as she is fair." CXXIV To him Marphisa, "Thou in thy despite Shalt try to bear from me the dame away. I will not suffer that so fair a sight Thou shouldst behold, nor seek to gain the prey." To her the prince, "I know not wherefore wight Should suffer pain and peril in affray, Striving for victory, where, for his pains, The victor losses, and the vanquished gains." CXXV "If this condition please not, other course Which ill thou canst refuse, I offer thee," (Marphisa cried): "If thou shalt me unhorse In this our tourney, she remains with me: But if I win, I give her thee parforce. Then prove we now who shall without her be. Premised, if loser, thou shalt be her guide, Wherever it may please the dame to ride." CXXVI "And be it so," Zerbino cried, and wheeled Swiftly his foaming courser for the shock, And rising in his stirrups scowered the field, Firm in his seat, and smote, with levelled stock, For surer aim, the damsel in mid-shield; But she sate stedfast as a metal rock, And at the warrior's morion thrust so well, She clean out-bore him senseless from the sell. CXXVII Much grieved the prince, to whom in other fray The like misfortune had not chanced before, Who had unhorsed some thousands in his day: Now shamed, he thought for ever. Troubled sore, And mute long space upon the ground he lay, And, when 'twas recollected, grieved the more, That he had promised, and that he was bound, To accompany the hag where'er she wound. CXXVIII Turning about to him the victoress cried, Laughing, "This lady I to thee present, And the more beauty is in her descried, The more that she is thine I am content, Now in my place her champion and her guide. But do not thou thy plighted faith repent, So that thou fail, as promised, to attend The dame, wherever she may please to wend." CXXIX Without awaiting answer, to career She spurred her horse, and vanished in the wood. Zerbino, deeming her a cavalier, Cried to the crone, "By whom am I subdued?" And, knowing 'twould be poison to his ear, And that it would inflame his angered blood, She in reply, "It was a damsel's blow Which from thy lofty saddle laid thee low. CXXX "She, for her matchless force, deservedly Usurps from cavalier the sword and lance; And even from the east is come to try Her strength against the paladins of France." Not only was his cheek of crimson dye, Such shame Zerbino felt as his mischance, Little was wanting (so his blushes spread) But all the arms he wore had glowed as red. CXXXI He mounts, and blames himself in angry wise, In that he had no better kept his seat. Within herself the beldam laughs, and tries The Scottish warrior more to sting and heat. To him for promised convoy she applies; And he, who knows that there is no retreat, Stands like tired courser, who in pensive fit, Hangs down his ears, controlled by spur and bit. CXXXII And, sighing deeply, cries, in his despair, "Fell Fortune, with what change dost thou repay My loss! she who was fairest of the fair, Who should be mine, by thee is snatched away! And thinkest thou the evil to repair With her whom thou hast given to me this day? Rather than make like ill exchange, less cross It were to undergo a total loss. CXXXIII "Her, who for virtue and for beauteous form Was never equalled, nor will ever be, Thou on the rocks hast wrecked, in wintry storm, As food for fowls and fishes of the sea; And her who should have fed the earth-bred worm Preserved beyond her date, some ten or score Of years, to harass and torment me more." CXXXIV So spake Zerbino, and like grief displaid, In his despairing words and woful mien, For such an odious acquisition made, As he had suffered when he lost his queen. The aged woman now, from what he said, Though she before Zerbino had not seen, Perceived 'twas him of whom, in the thieves' hold, Isabel of Gallicia erst had told. CXXXV If you remember what was said before, This was the hag who 'scaped out of the cave, Where Isabella, who had wounded sore Zerbino's heart, was long detained a slave; Who oft had told how she her native shore Had left, and, launching upon ocean's wave Her frigate, had been wrecked by wind and swell Upon the rocky shallows near Rochelle. CXXXVI And she to her Zerbino's goodly cheer And gentle features had pourtrayed so well, That the hag hearing him, and now more near, Letter her eyes upon his visage dwell, Discerned it was the youth for whom, whilere, Had grieved at heart the prisoned Isabel; Whose loss she in the cavern more deplored, Than being captive to the murderous horde. CXXXVII The beldam, hearing what in rage and grief Zerbino vents, perceives the youth to be Deceived, and cheated by the false belief That Isabel had perished in the sea; And though she might have given the prince relief, Knowing the truth, in her perversity What would have made him joyful she concealed, And only what would cause him grief revealed. CXXXVIII "Hear, you that are so proud," (the hag pursues) "And flout me with such insolence and scorn, You would entreat me fair to have the news I know of her whose timeless death you mourn; But to be strangled would I rather choose, And be into a thousand pieces torn. Whereas if you had made me kinder cheer, Haply from me the secret might you hear." CXXXIX As the dog's rage is quickly overblown, Who flies the approaching robber to arrest, If the thief proffer piece of bread or bone, Of offer other lure which likes him best; As readily Zerbino to the crone Humbled himself, and burned to know the rest; Who, in the hints of the old woman, read That she had news of her he mourned as dead. CXL And with more winning mien to her applied, And her did supplicate, entreat, conjure, By men and gods, the truth no more to hide, Did she benign or evil lot endure. The hard and pertinacious crone replied, "Nought shalt thou hear, thy comfort to assure. Isabel has not yielded up her breath, But lives a life she would exchange for death. CXLI "She, since thou heardest of her destiny, Within few days, has fallen into the power Of more than twenty. If restored to thee, Think now, if thou hast hope to crop her flower." -- "Curst hag, how well thou shapest thy history, Yet knowest it is false! Her virgin dower Secure from brutal wrong, would none invade, Though in the power of twenty were the maid." CXLII Questioning of the maid, he when and where She saw her, vainly asked the beldam hoar, Who, ever restive to Zerbino's prayer, To what she had rehearsed would add no more. The prince in the beginning spoke her fair, And next to cut her throat in fury swore. But prayers and menaces alike were weak; Nor could he make the hideous beldam speak. CXLIII At length Zerbino to his tongue gave rest, Since speaking to the woman booted nought; Scarcely his heart found room within his breast, Such dread suspicion had her story wrought. He to find Isabella was so pressed, Her in the midst of fire he would have sought; But could not hurry more than was allowed By her his convoy, since he so had vowed. CXLIV They hence, by strange and solitary way, Rove, as the beldam does her will betoken, Nor climbing, nor descending hill, survey Each other's face, nor any word is spoken. But when the sun upon the middle day Had turned his back, their silence first was broken By cavalier encountered in their way: What followed the ensuing strain will say. CANTO 21 ARGUMENT Zerbino for Gabrina, who a heart Of asp appears to bear, contends. O'erthrown, The Fleming falls upon the other part, Through cause of that despised and odious crone, He wounded sore, and writhing with the smart, The beldam's treason to the prince makes known, Whose scorn and hatred hence derive new force. Towards loud cries Zerbino spurs his horse. I No cord I well believe is wound so tight Round chest, nor nails the plank so fastly hold, As Faith enwraps an honourable sprite In its secure, inextricable, fold; Nor holy Faith, it seems, except in white Was mantled over in the days of old; So by the ancient limner ever painted, As by one speck, one single blemish tainted. II Faith should be kept unbroken evermore, With one or with a thousand men united; As well if given in grot or forest hoar, Remote from town and hamlet, as if plighted Amid a crowd of witnesses, before Tribunal, and in act and deed recited: Nor needs the solemn sanction of an oath: It is sufficient that we pledge our troth. III And this maintains as it maintained should be, In each emprize the Scottish cavalier, And gives good proof of his fidelity, Quitting his road with that old crone to steer; Although this breeds the youth such misery, As 'twould to have Disease itself as near, Or even Death; but with him heavier weighed That his desire the promise he had made. IV Of him I told who felt at heart such load, Reflecting she beneath his charge must go, He spake no word; and thus in silent mode Both fared: so sullen was Zerbino's woe. I said how vexed their silence, as they rode, Was broke, when Sol his hindmost wheels did show, By an adventurous errant cavalier, Who in mid pathway met the crone and peer. V The hag, who the approaching warrior knew, (Hermonides of Holland he was hight) That bore upon a field of sable hue A bar of vermeil tint, transversely dight, Did humbly now to good Zerbino sue, -- Her pride abased, and look of haught despite -- And him reminded of the promise made, When her Marphisa to his care conveyed. VI Because as foe to her and hers she knew The knight they were encountering, who had slain Her only brother and her father true; And was advised, the traitor would be fain By her, the remnant of her race, to do What he had perpetrated on the twain. "Woman, while guarded by my arm (he said) I will not thou shouldst any danger dread." VII As nearer now, the stranger knight espied That face, which was so hateful in his sight, With menacing and savage voice he cried, "Either with me prepare thyself to fight, Or arm thee not on that old woman's side, Who by my hand shall perish, as is right. If thou contendest for her, thou art slain; For such their portion is who wrong maintain." VIII Him young Zerbino answered courteously, Twas sign of evil and ungenerous will, And corresponded not with chivalry, That he a woman should desire to kill; Yet if the knight persists, he will not flee -- But bids him well consider first how ill 'Twould sound, that he, a gentle knight and good, Should wish to dip his hand in woman's blood. IX This and yet more he vainly says; nor stand They idle long; from word they pass to deed; And having compassed on the level land Enough of ground, encounter on the mead. Not fired in some rejoicing, from the hand Discharged, so fast the whistling rockets speed, As the two coursers bear the cavaliers To hurtle in mid space with rested spears. X Hermonides of Holland levelled low, And for the youth's left flank the stroke intended; But his weak lance was shivered by the blow, And little the opposing Scot offended: But vain was not the spear-thrust of his foe, Who bored his opposite's good shield, and rended His shoulder, by the lance pierced through and through, And good Hermonides on earth o'erthrew. XI Thinking him slain who only lay amazed, By pity prest, Zerbino leapt to ground, And from his deathlike face the vizor raised; And he, as wakened out of sleep profound, In silence, hard upon Zerbino gazed; Then cried, "It does not me, in truth, confound, To think that I am overthrown by thee, Who seem'st the flower of errant chivalry. XII "But it with reason grieves me this is done Upon account of a false woman's spite; Whose wicked cause I know not why you own, An office ill according with your might: And when to you the occasion shall be known Which urges me her wickedness to quite, Whene'er you think on it, you will repent How she by you was saved, and I was shent. XIII "And if enough of breath, although I fear The contrary, is left me to expound Her evil actions, I shall make appear She in all guilt transgresses every bound. I had a brother once: the youthful peer Set out from Holland's isle, our natal ground, To serve Heraclius, 'mid his knights arrayed, Who then the Grecian empire's sceptre swayed. XIV "Brother in arms and bosom-friend installed Here was he by a baron of that court, Who, in a pleasant site, and strongly walled, On Servia's distant frontier had a fort. Argaeus he of whom I tell was called, Husband of that ill hag, whom in such sort He loved, as passed all mean, and misbecame One of his worth and honourable fame. XV "But she, more volatile than leaf, when breeze Of autumn most its natural moisture dries, And strips the fluttering foliage from the trees, Which, blown about, before its fury flies, Changes her humour, and her husband sees, Whom she some time had loved, with other eyes, And in her every wish and every thought Schemes how my brother's love may best be bought. XVI "But not Acroceraunus fronts the brine, -- Ill-famed -- against whose base the billow heaves, Nor against Boreas stands the mountain pine, That has a hundred times renewed its leaves, And towering high on Alp or Apennine, With its fast root the rock as deeply cleaves, So firmly as the youth resists the will Of that foul woman, sink of every ill. XVII "Now, as it oft befalls a cavalier Who seeks and finds adventure, high and low, It happened that my gentle brother near His comrade's fort was wounded by a foe; Where often, uninvited by the peer, He guested, was his host with him or no; And thither he resorted from the field, There to repose until his wounds were healed. XVIII "While there he wounded lay, upon some need It chanced Argaeus was compelled to ride. Quickly that wanton, from his presence freed, As was her use, my brother's fealty tried. But he, as one unstained in thought and deed, So fell a goad no longer would abide; And to preserve his faith, as lures increased, Of many evils chose what seemed the least. XIX "To break communion with the cavalier, To him -- of many -- seemed the lightest ill, And go so far, that wanton should not hear More of his name: this purpose to fulfil Was honester (though quitting one so dear Was hard) than to content her evil will, Of her foul wishes to her lord impart, Who cherished her as fondly as his heart. XX "And though yet smarting with his wounds and pined, He dons his arms, and from the tower departs; And wanders thence with firm and constant mind, Ne'er to return again into those parts. But nought availed the purpose he designed; His projects Fortune baffled with new arts. This while, behold! the castellain returned, And bathed in bitter tears the wife discerned. XXI "And with flushed face, and hair in disarray, He asks of her what had disturbed her mood; Who, ere she in reply a word will say, Is vainly more than once to answer wooed; And all the while is thinking in what way The knight can best with vengeance be pursued. And well it suited with her fickle vein, Lightly to change her love into disdain. XXII " `Ah! why should I conceal (in fine she cried) The fault committed while you were away? For though I it from all the world should hide, This would my conscience to myself bewray. The soul, which is with secret evil dyed, Does with such penitence its fault appay, As every corporal sufferance exceeds That thou couldst deal me for my evil deeds; XXIII " `If evil be the deed, when done parforce. But, be it what it may, the mischief know; Then, with my sword from this polluted corse, Delivered, let my spotless spirit go; And quench these wretched eyes, which in remorse, I, if I lived, on earth must ever throw, As the least penance of so foul a blame, And, look on whom they may, must blush for shame. XXIV " `My honour has been ruined by thy mate, Who to this body violence has done, And fearing lest I all to thee relate, Without farewell the graceless churl is gone.' She by this story made her husband hate The youth, than whom before was dearer none. Argaeus credits all, without delay Arms him, and, breathing vengeance, posts away. XXV "In knowledge of that country not to seek, He overtook the knight in little space; For my poor brother, yet diseased and weak, Rode, unsuspicious, at an easy pace; Argaeus, eager his revenge to wreak, Assailed him straight in a sequestered place. My brother would excuse him if he might, But his indignant host insists on fight. XXVI "This one was sound and full of new disdain, That weak and friendly, as aye wont to be: My brother was ill fitted to sustain His altered comrade's new-born enmity. Philander, then unmeriting such pain, (So was the stripling named, described by me) Not gifted with the power to undergo Such fierce assault, was taken by the foe. XXVII " `Forbid it, Heaven! I should be led astray So by just wrath and thy iniquity, (To him Argaeus cried) as thee to slay, Who loved thee once, and certes thou lovedst me, Though in the end thou ill didst this display, I yet desire this ample world may see That, measured by my deeds, I rank above Thyself in hate as highly as in love. XXVIII " `In other mode shall I chastise the deed, Than spilling more of thine ill blood.' The peer, This said, commands his followers, on a steed, Of verdant boughs composed to place a bier, And with the knight half-lifeless homeward speed, And in a tower enclose the cavalier; There dooms the guiltless stripling to remain, And suffer prisonment's perpetual pain. XXIX "Yet nothing but his former liberty Thence to depart was wanting to the knight; In all the rest, as one at large and free, He ordered, and was still obeyed aright. But that ill dame her former phantasy Pursuing ever with unwearied sprite, Having the keys, repaired nigh every day To the close turret where the prisoner lay. XXX "And evermore my brother she assailed, And with more boldness prest her former suit. `Mark what to thee fidelity availed!' (She cries) `which all mere perfidy repute. With what triumphant joy shalt thou be hailed! What noble spoils are thine, what happy fruit! Oh what a worthy guerdon is thy meed! Branded by all men for a traitor's deed! XXXI " `How well thou mightst have given, and without stain Of thine own honour, what I sought of thee! Now of so rigorous mood the worthy gain Have and enjoy. In close captivity Thou art; nor ever hope to break thy chain, Unless thou soften thy obduracy. But, if compliant, I a mean can frame To render thee thy liberty and fame.' XXXII " `No, no; have thou no hope,' (replied the knight,) `That my true faith shall ever change, although It thus should happen that, against all right, I should so hard a sentence undergo. Let the world blame. Enough that in HIS sight -- Who sees and judges every thing below, And in HIS grace divine my fame can clear -- My innocence unsullied shall appear. XXXIII " `Does not Argaeus deem enough to sty Me in his prison, let him take away This noisome life. Nor yet may Heaven deny Its meed, though ill the world my work appay. And yet he who condemns me may, when I Am parted from this tenement of clay, Perceive that he has wronged me in the end, And shall bewail when dead his faithful friend.' XXXIV "Thus oftentimes that shameless woman prest The good Philander, but obtained no fruit. Nursing her blind desires, which knew not rest In seeking what her wicked love may boot, She her old vices, in her inmost breast, Ransacks for what may best the occasion suit, And sifts them all: then, having overrun A thousand evil thoughts, resolved on one. XXXV "Six months she waited ere again she sought The prisoner's tower, as she was wont before: From which the sad Philander hoped and thought That love to him the dame no longer bore. Lo! Fortune for her an occasion wrought, (To evil deed propitious evermore) To give effect, with memorable ill, To her irrational and evil will. XXXVI "The husband had an ancient feud with one Who was by name Morando hight the fair; Who even within the fort would often run In its lord's absence; but the knight's repair At the wide distance of ten miles would shun, Was he assured the castellain was there: Who now, to lure him thither, bruited how He for Jerusalem was bound by vow. XXXVII "Said he would go; and went. Thus each who spies His outset, of his journey spreads the fame: Nor he, who only on his wife relies, Trusts any with his purpose but the dame, And home returned when dusky waxed the skies; Nor ever, save at evening, thither came; And with changed ensigns, at the dawn of day, Unseen of any, always went his way. XXXVIII "He now on this side, now on the other side, Roved round his castle but to ascertain If credulous Morando, who to ride Thither was wonted, would return again. All day he in the forest used to hide, And, when he saw the sun beneath the main, Came to the tower, and, through a secret gate, Was there admitted by his faithless mate. XXXIX "Thus every one, except his consort ill, Argaeus many miles away suppose: She, when 'tis time her errand to fulfil, Hatching new mischief, to my brother goes. Of tears she has a ready shower at will, Which from her eyes into her bosom flows, ` -- Where shall I succour find, now needed most, So that my honour be not wholly lost, XL " `And, with my own, my wedded lord's?' (she cries;) `I should feel no alarm, if he were here. Thou knowst Morando, know if deities Or men he in Argaeus' absence fear. He at this time tries all extremities; Nor servant have I but by threat or prayer He him to further his desire has swayed; Nor know I whither to recur for aid. XLI " `Of my lord's absence hearing the report, And that he would not quickly homeward fare, He had the insolence within my court, Upon no other pretext to repair; Who, were my absent lord within his fort, So bold a deer not only would not dare, But would not deem himself secure withal, By Heaven! at three miles' distance from his wall. XLII " `And what he erst by messenger had sought, From me to-day has sued for face to face; And in such manner that long time I thought Dishonour must have followed and disgrace; And if I had not humbly him besought, And feigned to yield to him with ready grace, He haply would have ravished that by force, Which he expects to win by milder course. XLIII " `I promise, not designing to comply, For void is contract made in fear; alone From his ill purpose would I put him by, And what he then parforce would else have done. So stands the case: the single remedy Lies in yourself: my honour else is gone, And that of my Argaeus; which as dear, Or more so, than your own you vowed whilere. XLIV " `If you refuse me, I shall say, you show That you have not the faith which you pretended, But that in cruelty you said me no, When vainly were my tears on you expended, And no wise for Argaeus' sake, although With this pretext you have yourself defended. Our loves bad been concealed and free from blame; But here I stand exposed to certain shame.' XLV " `To me such preface needs not (said anew The good Philander), bound by amity To my Argaeus still; thy pleasure shew: I what I ever was will be, and I, Although from him I bear such ill undue, Accuse him not; for him would I defy Even death itself; and let the world, allied With my ill destiny, against me side!' XLVI "The impious woman answered, ` 'Tis my will Thou slay him who would do us foul despite; Nor apprehend to encounter any ill: For I the certain mean will tell aright. He will return, his purpose to fulfil, At the third hour, when darkest is the night; And, at a preconcerted signal made, Be without noise by me within conveyed. XLVII " `Let it not irk thee to await the peer Within my chamber, where no light will be; Till I shall make him doff his warlike gear, And, almost naked, yield him up to thee.' So did his wife into that quicksand steer Her hapless husband (it appears to me) If wife she rightly could be called; more fell And cruel than a fury sprung from hell. XLVIII "She drew my brother forth, that guilty night, With his good arms in hand, and him again Secreted in the chamber without light, Till thither came the wretched castellain. As it was ordered, all fell out aright, For seldom ill design is schemed in vain. So fell Argaeus by Philander's sword, Who for Morando took the castle's lord. XLIX "One blow divided head and neck; for nought Was there of helm, the warrior to defend. Without a struggle was Argaeus brought To his unhappy life's disastrous end, And he who slew him never had such thought, Nor this would have believed: to aid his friend Intent, (strange chance!) he wrought him in that blow The worst that could be done by mortal foe. L "When now, unknown, on earth Argaeus lay, My brother to Gabrina gave the blade, (So was she named) who lived but to betray. She, who discovery had till then delayed, Wills that Philander with a light survey The man whom he on earth has lifeless laid, And she, with the assistance of the light, Shows him Argaeus in the murdered wight. LI "And threatens, save he with desires comply To which her bosom had been long a prey, What he would be unable to deny She to the assembled household will display, And he like traitor and assassin die, Upon her tale, in ignominious way: And minds him fame is not to be despised, Albeit so little life by him be prized. LII "Philander stood oppressed with grief and fear, When his mistake to him the woman showed, And to have slain her in his wrath went near, And long be doubted, so his choler glowed; And, but that Reason whispered in his ear That he was in an enemy's abode, For lack of faulchion in his empty sheath, He would have torn her piece-meal with his teeth. LIII "As sometimes vessel by two winds which blow From different points is vext upon the main, And now one speeds the bark an-end, and now Another squall impels her back again; Still on her poop assailed, or on her prow, Till she before the strongest flies amain: Philander, so distraught by two designs, Takes what he pregnant with least ill opines. LIV "Reason demonstrates with what peril fraught His case, not more with death than lasting stain, If in the castle were that murder taught; Nor any time has he to sift his brain. Will he or nill he, in conclusion nought Is left him but the bitter cup to drain. Thus in his troubled heart prevailing more, His fear his resolution overbore. LV "The fear of shameful punishment's pursuit Made him with many protestations swear To grant in every thing Gabrina's suit, If from the fortilage they safely fare. So plucks that impious dame, parforce, the fruit Of her desires, and thence retreat the pair. Thus home again the young Philander came, Leaving behind him a polluted name; LVI "And deeply graven in his bosom bore The image of his friend so rashly slain; By this to purchase, to his torment sore, A Progne, a Medea; impious gain! -- And but his knightly faith, and oaths he swore, Were to his fury as a curbing rein, From him when safe she would have met her fate; But lived subjected to his bitterest hate. LVII "Thenceforth he nevermore was seen to smile: All his discourse was sad, and still ensued Sobs from his breast; afflicted in the style Of vext Orestes, when he in his mood Had slain his mother and Aegysthus vile; By vengeful furies for the deed pursued. Till broken by the ceaseless grief he fed, He sickened and betook himself to bed. LVIII "Now in the harlot, when she had discerned This other set by her so little store, The former amorous flame was quickly turned Into despiteous rage and hatred sore; Nor with less wrath she towards my brother burned Than for Argaeus she had felt before; And she disposed herself, in treasons versed, To slay her second husband like the first. LIX "Of a deceitful leech she made assay, Well fitted for the work she had in hand, Who better knew what deadly poisons slay Than he the force of healing syrup scanned; And promised him his service to repay With a reward exceeding his demand, When he should, with some drink of deadly might, Of her detested husband rid her sight. LX "In presence of myself and more beside, The wicked elder, with his deadly dole, Approaching my unhappy brother, cried, `It was a sovereign drink to make him whole.' But here a new device Gabrina tried, And, ere the sickly man could taste the bowl, To rid her of accomplice in the deed, Or to defraud him of his promised meed; LXI "Seized on his hand, the instant he presented The poison to my brother. `Ill my fear, (Exclaimed the dame) by you would be resented, Excited for a spouse I hold so dear. I, that the beverage has not been fermented With evil drug and poisonous, will be clear; Nor deem it meet that you to him convey The proffered bowl, unless you take the say.' LXII "In what condition think you, sir, remained The wretched elder by his fears opprest? Thus by the woman's suddenness constrained, He had no time for thinking what were best. He, lest more doubt of him be entertained, Tastes of the chalice, at Gabrina's hest; And the sick man, emboldened so, drinks up All the remainder of the poisoned cup. LXIII "As the trained hawk of crooked talon who Clutches the partridge, when about to eat, Is by the dog, she deems her comrade true, O'ertaken and defrauded of the meat; So on ill gain intent, the leech, in lieu Of the expected aid, received defeat. Hear, thus, what sovereign wickedness will dare, And be like fate each greedy miscreant's share! LXIV "This past and done, the leech would homeward speed, That he, to counteract the pest he bore Within his bowels, in this fearful need, Might use some secret of his cunning lore; But this the wicked dame would not concede, Forbidding him to issue thence before His patient's stomach should the juice digest, And its restoring power be manifest. LXV "No prayer will move, nor offered price will buy The woman's leave to let him thence depart. The desperate man who saw that death was nigh, And sure to follow, quickly changed his part; And told the story to the standers-by; Nor could she cover it with all her art. Thus what he wont to do by many a one, That goodly doctor by himself has done; LXVI "And follows with his soul my brother true, That hence, already freed, was gone before. We, the assistants, that the matter knew From the old man who lingered little more, Took that abominable monster, who More cruel was than beast in forest hoar, And, prisoned in a darksome place, reserved To perish in the fire, as she deserved." LXVII So said Hermonides, and had pursued His tale, and told how she from prison fled; But suffered from his wound a pang so shrewd, He fell reversed upon his grassy bed. Meanwhile two squires, who served him in the wood, A rustic bier of sturdy branches spread. Their master upon this the servants lay, Who could not thence be borne in other way. LXVIII Zerbino, in excuse, assured the peer, He grieved so good a knight to have offended; But, as was still the use of cavalier, Had guarded her who in his guidance wended; Nor had he else preserved his honour clear: For when the dame was to his care commended, Her to defend his promise he had plight From all men, to the utmost of his might. LXIX He, if he might, is any thing beside, Would readily assist him in his need. -- His only wish, (the cavalier replied,) Was, he might be from ill Gabrina freed, Ere him some mighty mischief should betide, Of future penitence the bitter seed. Gabrina keeps on earth her downcast eye; For ill the simple truth admits reply. LXX Zerbino thence, upon the promised way, With the old woman in his escort, went, And inly cursed her all the livelong day, That in her cause that baron he had shent. And having heard the knight her guilt display, Who was instructed in her evil bent, He -- if before he had her at despite -- So loathed her, she was poison to his sight. LXXI Well read in young Zerbino's hate, the dame Would not by him in malice be outdone, Nor bated him an inch, but in that game Of deadly hatred set him two for one. Her face was with the venom in a flame Wherewith her swelling bosom overrun. 'Twas thus in such concord as I say, These through the ancient wood pursued their way. LXXII When, lo! as it is now nigh eventide, They a mixt sound of blows and outcries hear, Which seem a sign of battle fiercely plied, And (as the deafening noise demonstrates) near. To mark what this might be, towards that side Whence came the tumult, moved the Scottish peer; Nor is in following him Gabrina slow: What chanced in other canto you shall know. CANTO 22 ARGUMENT Atlantes' magic towers Astolpho wight Destroys, and frees his thralls from prison-cell. Bradamant finds Rogero, who in fight O'erthrows four barons from the warlike sell, When on their way to save an errant knight Doomed to devouring fire: the four who fell For impious Pinnabel maintained the strife, Whom, after, Bradamant deprives of life. I Ye courteous dames, and to your lovers dear, You that are with one single love content; Though, 'mid so many and many, it is clear Right few of you are of such constant bent; Be not displeased at what I said whilere, When I so bitterly Gabrina shent, Nor if I yet expend some other verse In censure of the beldam's mind perverse. II Such was she; and I hide not what is true; So was enjoined me for a task by one Whose will is law; therefore is honour due To constant heart throughout my story done. He who betrayed his master to the Jew For thirty pence, nor Peter wronged, nor John, Nor less renowned is Hypermnestra's fame, For her so many wicked sisters' shame. III For one I dare to censure in my lays, For so the story wills which I recite, On the other hand, a hundred will I praise, And make their virtue dim the sun's fair light; But turning to the various pile I raise, (Gramercy! dear to many) of the knight Of Scotland I was telling, who hard-by Had heard, as was rehearsed, a piercing cry. IV He entered, 'twixt two hills, a narrow way, From whence was heard the cry; nor far had hied, Ere to a vale he came shut out from day, Where he before him a dead knight espied. Who I shall tell; but first I must away From France, in the Levant to wander wide, Till I the paladin Astolpho find, Who westward had his course from thence inclined. V I in the cruel city left the peer, Whence, with the formidable bugle's roar, He had chased the unfaithful people in their fear, And has preserved himself from peril sore; And with the sound had made his comrades rear Then sail, and fly with noted scorn that shore. Now following him, I say, the warrior took The Armenian road, and so that land forsook. VI He, after some few days, in Natoly Finds himself, and towards Brusa goes his ways; Hence wending, on the hither side o' the sea, Makes Thrace; through Hungary by the Danube lays His course, and as his horse had wings to flee, Traverses in less time than twenty days Both the Moravian and Bohemian line; Threaded Franconia next, and crost the Rhine. VII To Aix-la-Chapelle thence, through Arden's wood, Came and embarked upon the Flemish strand. To sea, with southern breeze his vessel stood; And, so the favouring wind her canvas fanned, That he, at little distance, Albion viewed By noon, and disembarked upon her land. He backed his horse, and so the rowels plied, In London he arrived by even-tide. VIII Here, learning afterwards that Otho old Has lain for many months in Paris-town, And that anew nigh every baron bold Has after his renowned example done, He straightway does for France his sails unfold, And to the mouth of Thames again is gone. Whence issuing forth, with all his canvas spread, For Calais he directs the galley's head. IX A breeze which, from the starboard blowing light, Had tempted forth Astolpho's bark to sea, By little and by little, waxed in might, And so at last obtains the mastery, The pilot is constrained to veer outright, Lest by the billows swampt his frigate be, And he, departing from his first design, Keeps the bark straight before the cresting brine. X Now to the right, now to the other hand, Sped by the tempest, through the foaming main, The vessel ran; she took the happy land At last nigh Rouen; and forthwith, in chain And plate Astolpho cased, and girt with brand, Bade put the saddle upon Rabicane; Departed thence, and (what availed him more Than thousands armed) with him his bugle bore; XI And traversing a forest, at the feet Of a fair hill, arrived beside a font, What time the sheep foregoes his grassy meat, Penned in the cabin or the hollow mount; And, overcome by feverish thirst and heat, Lifted the weighty morion from his front; Tethered his courser in the thickest wood, And, with intent to drink, approached the flood. XII His lips he had not wetted in its bed Before a youthful rustic, ambushed near, Sprang from a copse, backed Rabican, and fled With the good courser of the cavalier. Astolpho hears the noise and lifts his head, And, when he sees his mighty loss so clear, Satiate, although he had not drunk, upstarts, And after the young churl in fury darts. XIII That robber did not let the courser strain At speed, or he had from the warrior shot; But loosening now and tightening now the rein, Fled at a gallop or a steady trot. From the deep forest issued forth the twain, After long round, and reached in fine the spot Where so many illustrious lords were shent: Worse prisoners they than if in prison pent! XIV On Rabican, who with the wind might race, The villain sped, within the enchanter's won. Impeded by his shield and iron case, Parforce Astolpho far behind him run; Yet there arrives as well, but every trace Of what the warrior had pursued is gone. He neither Rabican nor thief can meet, And vainly rolls his eyes and plies his feet. XV He plies his feet, and searches still in vain Throughout the house, hall, bower, or galleried rows: Yet labours evermore, with fruitless pain And care, to find the treacherous churl; nor knows Where he can have secreted Rabicane, Who every other animal outgoes: And vainly searches all day the dome about, Above, below, within it, and without. XVI He, wearied and confused with wandering wide, Perceived the place was by enchantment wrought, And of the book he carried at his side, By Logistilla given in India, thought; Bestowed, should new enchantment him betide, That needful succour might therein be sought. He to the index turns, and quickly sees What pages show the proper remedies. XVII I' the book, of that enchanted house at large Was written, and in this was taught the way To foil the enchanter, and to set at large The different prisoners, subject to his sway. Of these illusions and these frauds in charge, A spirit pent beneath the threshold lay; And the stone raised which kept him fast below, With him the palace into smoke would go. XVIII Astolpho with desire to bring to end An enterprise so passing fair, delays No more, but to the task his force does bend, And prove how much the heavy marble weighs. As old Atlantes sees the knight intend To bring to scorn his art and evil ways, Suspicious of the ill which may ensue, He moves to assail him with enchantments new. XIX He, with his spells and shapes of devilish kind, Makes the duke different from his wont appear; To one a giant, and to one a hind, To other an ill-visaged cavalier; Each, in the form which in the thicket blind The false enchanter wore, beholds the peer. So that they all, with purpose to have back What the magician took, the duke attack. XX The Child, Gradasso, Iroldo, Bradamant, Prasildo, Brandimart, and many more, All, cheated by this new illusion, pant To slay the English baron, angered sore; But he abased their pride and haughty vaunt, Who straight bethought him of the horn be bore. But for the succour of its echo dread, They, without fail, had laid Astolpho dead. XXI But he no sooner has the bugle wound And poured a horrid larum, than in guise Of pigeons at the musquet's scaring sound, The troop of cavaliers affrighted flies. No less the necromancer starts astound, No less he from his den in panic hies; Troubled and pale, and hurrying evermore Till out of hearing of the horrid roar XXII The warder fled; with him his prisoned train, And many steeds as well are fled and gone; (These more than rope is needed to restrain) Who after their astounded masters run, Scared by the sound; nor cat nor mouse remain, Who seem to hear in it, "Lay on, lay on." Rabican with the rest had broke his bands, But that he fell into Astolpho's hands. XXIII He, having chased the enchanter Moor away, Upraised the heavy threshold from the ground; Beneath which, figures and more matters lay, That I omit; desirous to confound The spell which did the magic dome upstay, The duke made havock of whate'er he found, As him the book he carried taught to do: And into mist and smoke all past from view. XXIV There he found fastened by a golden chain Rogero's famous courser, him I say Given by the wizard, that to the domain Of false Alcina him he might convey: On which, equipt with Logistilla's rein, To France Rogero had retraced his way, And had from Ind to England rounded all The right-hand side of the terrestrial ball. XXV I know not if you recollect how tied To a tree Rogero left his rein, the day Galaphron's naked daughter from his side Vanished, and him did with that scorn appay. The courser, to his wonder who espied, Returned to him whom he was used to obey; Beneath the old enchanter's care to dwell, And stayed with him till broken was the spell. XXVI At nought Astolpho could more joyous be Than this; of all things fortunate the best: In that the hippogryph so happily Offered himself; that he might scower the rest, (As much he coveted) of land and sea, And in few days the ample world invest. Him well he knew, how fit for his behoof; For of his feats he had elsewhere made proof. XXVII Him he that day in India proved, when sped He was by sage Melissa, from the reign Of that ill woman who him, sore bested, Had changed from man to myrtle on the plain; Had marked and noted how his giddy head Was formed by Logistilla to the rein; And saw how well instructed by her care Rogero was, to guide him every where. XXVIII Minded to take the hippogryph, he flung The saddle on him, which lay near, and bitted The steed, by choosing, all the reins among, This part or that, until his mouth was fitted: For in that place were many bridles hung, Belonging to the coursers which flitted. And now alone, intent upon his flight, The thought of Rabicane detained the knight. XXIX Good cause he had to love that Rabicane, For better horse was not to run with lance, And him had he from the remotest reign Of India ridden even into France: After much thought, he to some friend would fain Present him, rather than so, left to chance, Abandon there the courser, as a prey, To the first stranger who should pass that way. XXX He stood upon the watch if he could view Some hunter in the forest, or some hind, To whom he might commit the charge, and who Might to some city lead the horse behind. He waited all that day and till the new Had dawned, when, while the twilight yet was blind, He thought he saw, as he expecting stood, A cavalier approaching through the wood. XXXI But it behoves that, ere the rest I say, I Bradamant and good Rogero find. After the horn had ceased, and, far away, The beauteous pair had left the dome behind, Rogero looked, and knew what till that day He had seen not, by Atlantes rendered blind. Atlantes had effected by his power, They should not know each other till that hour. XXXII Rogero looks on Bradamant, and she Looks on Rogero in profound surprise That for so many days that witchery Had so obscurred her altered mind and eyes. Rejoiced, Rogero clasps his lady free, Crimsoning with deeper than the rose's dyes, And his fair love's first blossoms, while he clips The gentle damsel, gathers from her lips. XXXIII A thousand times they their embrace renew, And closely each is by the other prest; While so delighted are those lovers two, Their joys are ill contained within their breast. Deluded by enchantments, much they rue That while they were within the wizard's rest, They should not e'er have one another known, And have so many happy days foregone. XXXIV The gentle Bradamant, who was i' the vein To grant whatever prudent virgin might, To solace her desiring lover's pain, So that her honour should receive no slight; -- If the last fruits he of her love would gain, Nor find her ever stubborn, bade the knight, Her of Duke Aymon through fair mean demand; But be baptized before he claimed her hand. XXXV Rogero good, who not alone to be A Christian for the love of her were fain, As his good sire had been, and anciently His grandsire and his whole illustrious strain, But for her pleasure would immediately Resign whatever did of life remain, Says, "I not only, if 'tis thy desire, Will be baptized by water, but by fire." XXXVI Then on his way to be baptized he hied, That he might next espouse the martial may, With Bradamant; who served him as a guide To Vallombrosa's fane, an abbey gray, Rich, fair, nor less religious, and beside, Courteous to whosoever passed that way; And they encountered, issuing from the chase, A woman, with a passing woful face. XXXVII Rogero, as still courteous, still humane To all, but woman most, when he discerned Her dainty visage furrowed by a rain Of lovely tears, sore pitied her, and burned With the desire to know her grievous pain; And having to the mournful lady turned, Besought her, after fair salute, to show What cause had made her eyes thus overflow. XXXVIII And she, uplifting their moist rays and bright, Most kindly to the inquiring Child replied; And of the cause of her unhappy plight, Him, since he sought it, fully satisfied. "Thou hast to understand, O gentle knight, My visage is so bathed with tears," she cried, "In pity to a youth condemned to die This very day, within a town hard by. XXXIX "Loving a gentle lady and a gay, The daughter of Marsilius, king of Spain, And feigning, veiled in feminine array, The modest roll of eye and girlish strain, With her each night the amorous stripling lay, Nor any had suspicion of the twain: But nought so hidden is, but searching eye In the long run the secret will espy. XL "One first perceived it, and then spoke with two, Those two with more, till to the king 'twas said; Of whom but yesterday a follower true Gave order to surprise the pair in bed, And in the citadel the prisoners new, To separate dungeons in that fortress led; Nor think I that enough of day remains To save the lover from his cruel pains. XLI "I fled, not to behold such cruelty, For they alive the wretched youth will burn; Nor think I aught could more afflicting be Than such fair stripling's torment to discern, Or that hereafter thing can pleasure me So much, but that it will to trouble turn, If memory retrace the cruel flame Which preyed upon his fair and dainty frame." XLII Touched deeply, Bradamant his danger hears, In heart sore troubled at the story shown; As anxious for the lover, it appears, As if he were a brother of her own: Nor certes wholly causeless are her fears, As in an after verse will be made known, Then, to Rogero: "Him to keep from harms, Meseems we worthily should turn our arms." XLIII And to that melancholy damsel said: "Place us but once within the walls, and I, So that the youth be not already dead, Will be your warrant that he shall not die." Rogero, who the kindly bosom read Of Bradamant, still full of piety, Felt himself but all over with desire To snatch the unhappy stripling from the fire. XLIV And to the maid, whose troubled face apears Bathed with a briny flood, "Why wait we? -- need Is here of speedy succour, not of tears. Do you but where the youth is prisoned lead; Him from a thousand swords, a thousand spears, We vow to save; so it be done with speed. But haste you, lest too tardy be our aid, And he be burnt, which succour is delayed." XLV The haughty semblance and the lofty say Of these, who with such wondrous daring glowed, That hope, which long had ceased to be her stay, Again upon the grieving dame bestowed: But, for she less the distance of the way Dreaded, than interruption of the road, Lest they, through this, should take that path in vain, The damsel stood suspended and in pain. XLVI Then said: "If to the place our journey lay By the highroad, which is both straight and plain, That we in time might reach it, I should say, Before the fire was lit; but we must strain By path so foul and crooked, that a day To reach the city would suffice with pain; And when, alas! we thither shall have sped, I fear that we shall find the stripling dead." XLVII "And wherefore take we not the way most near?" Rogero answers; and the dame replies, "Because fast by where we our course should steer, A castle of the Count of Poictiers lies: Where Pinnabel for dame and cavalier Did, three days past, a shameful law devise; Than whom more worthless living wight is none, The Count Anselmo d'Altaripa's son. XLVIII "No cavalier or lady by that rest Without some noted scorn and injury goes; Both of their coursers here are dispossest, And knight his arms and dame her gown foregoes. No better cavaliers lay lance in rest, Nor have for years in France against their foes, Than four, who for Sir Pinnabel have plight Their promise to maintain the castle's right. XLIX "Whence first arose the usage, which began But three days since, you now, sir knight, shall hear; And shall the cause, if right or evil, scan, Which moved the banded cavaliers to swear. So ill a lady has the Castellan, So wayward, that she is without a peer: Who, on a day, as with the count she went, I know not whither, by a knight was shent. L "This knight, as flouted by that bonnibel, For carrying on his croup an ancient dame, Encountered with her champion Pinnabel, Of overweening pride and little fame: Him he o'erturned, made alight as well, And put her to the proof, if sound or lame; -- Left her on foot, and had that woman old In the dismounted damsel's garment stoled. LI "She, who remained on foot, in fell despite, Greedy of vengeance, and athirst for ill, Leagued with the faithless Pinnabel, a wight All evil prompt to further and fulfil, Says she shall never rest by day nor night, Nor ever know a happy hour, until A thousand knights and dames are dispossest Of courser, and of armour, and of vest. LII "Four puissant knights arrived that very day It happened, at a place of his, and who Had all of them from regions far away Come lately to those parts: so many true And valiant warriors, skilled in martial play, Our age has seen not. These the goodly crew: Guido the savage, but a stripling yet, Gryphon, and Aquilant, and Sansonet! LIII "Them at the fortilage, of which I told, Sir Pinnabel received with semblance fair, Next seized the ensuing night the warriors bold In bed, nor loosed, till he had made them swear That (he such period fixt) they in his hold Should be his faithful champions for a year And month; and of his horse and arms deprive Whatever cavalier should there arrive. LIV "And any damsel whom the stranger bore With him, dismount, and strip her of her vest. So, thus surprised, the warlike prisoners swore; So were constrained to observe the cruel hest, Though grieved and troubled: nor against the four, It seems, can any joust, but vails his crest. Knight infinite have come, but one and all, Afoot and without arms have left that Hall. LV "Their order is, who from the castle hies, The first by lot, shall meet the foe alone, But if he find a champion of such guise As keeps the sell, while he himself is thrown, The rest must undertake the enterprise, Even to the death, against that single one, Ranged in a band. If such each single knight, Imagine the assembled warriors' might! LVI "Nor stands it with our haste, which all delay, All let forbids, that you beside that tower Be forced to stop and mingle in the fray: For grant that you be conquerors in the stower, (And as your presence warrants well, you may,) 'Tis not a thing concluded in an hour. And if all day he wait our succour, I Much fear the stripling in the fire will die." LVII "Regard we not this hindrance of our quest," Rogero cried, "But do we what we may! Let HIM who rules the heavens ordain the rest, Or Fortune, if he leave it in her sway; To you shall by this joust be manifest If we can aid the youth; for whom to-day They on a ground so causeless and so slight, As you to us rehearsed, the fire will light." LVIII Rogero ceased; and in the nearest way The damsel put the pair without reply: Nor these beyond three miles had fared, when they Reached bridge and gate, the place of forfeitry, Of horse and arms and feminine array, With peril sore of life. On turret high, Upon first sight of them, a sentinel Beat twice upon the castle's larum-bell. LIX And lo, in eager hurry from the gate An elder trotting on hackney made! And he approaching cried, "Await, await! -- Hola! halt, sirs, for here a fine is paid: And I to you the usage shall relate, If this has not to you before been said." And to the three forthwith began to tell The use established there by Pinnabel. LX He next proceeds, as he had wont before To counsel other errant cavalier. "Unrobe the lady," (said the elder hoar,) "My sons, and leave your steeds and martial geer; Nor put yourselves in peril, and with four Such matchless champions hazard the career. Clothes, arms, and coursers every where are rife; But not to be repaired is loss of life." LXI " -- No more!" (Rogero said) "No more! for I Am well informed of all, and hither speed With the intention, here by proof to try If, what my heart has vouched, I am in deed. For sign or threat I yield not panoply, If nought beside I hear, nor vest nor steed. And this my comrade, I as surely know, These for mere words as little will forego. LXII "But let me face to face, by Heaven, espy Those who would take my horse and arms away; For we have yet beyond that hill to hie, And little time can here afford to stay." "Behold the man," that ancient made reply, "Clear of the bridge!" -- Nor did in this missay; For thence a warrior pricked, who, powdered o'er With snowy flowers, a crimson surcoat wore. LXIII Bradamant for long time with earnest prayer, For courtesy the good Rogero prest, To let her from his sell the warrior bear, Who with white flowers had purfled o'er his vest. But moved him not; and to Rogero's share Must leave, and do herself, what liked him best. He willed the whole emprize his own should be, And Bradamant should stand apart to see. LXIV The Child demanded of that elder, who Was he that from the gate first took his way, And he, " 'Tis Sansonet; of crimson hue, I know his surcoat, with white flowers gay." Without a word exchanged, the warlike two Divide the ground, and short is the delay. For they against each other, levelling low Their spears, and hurrying sore their coursers, go. LXV This while had issued from the fortress near, With many footmen girt, Sir Pinnabel, All ready to despoil the cavalier, Who in the warlike joust should void is sell. At one another spurred in bold career The knights, with their huge lances rested well. Up to the points nigh equal was each stick, Of stubborn native oak, and two palms thick. LXVI Sansonet, of such staves, above five pair Had made them sever from the living stock, In neighboring wood, and bade his followers bear Two of them hither, destined for that shock: Such truncheons to withstand, well needed-were A shield and cuirass of the diamond rock. One he had made them give his foe, and one He kept himself, the present course to run. LXVII With these which might the solid anvil bore, (So well their ends were pointed) there and here, Each aiming at the shield his foeman wore, The puissant warriors shocked in mid career. That of Rogero, wrought with magic lore, By fiends, had little from the stroke to fear: I of the buckler speak Atlantes made, Of whose rare virtues I whilere have said. LXVIII I have already said, the enchanted light Strikes with such force on the beholder's eyes, That, at the shield's discovery, every wight Is blinded, or on earth half lifeless lies. Wherefore, well mantled with a veil, the knight Keeps it, unless some passing need surprise: Impassive is the shield as well believed, Since it no damage in the shock received. LXIX The other by less skilful artist wrought, Did not so well that weightless blow abide, But, as if smit by thunder, in a thought, Gave way before the steel, and opened wide; Gave way before the griding steel, which sought The arm beneath, by this ill fortified: So that Sir Sansonet was smote, and reeled, In his departure, unhorsed upon the field. LXX And this was the first comrade of the train That of the tower maintained the usage fell, Who there had failed another's spoil to gain, And voided in the joust his knightly sell. Who laughs, as well will sometimes have to plain, And find that Fortune will by fits rebel. Anew the warder on his larum beats, And to the other knights the sign repeats. LXXI This while Sir Pinnabello had drawn near To Bradamant, and prayed that she would shew What warrior had his knight in the career Smith with such prowess. That the guerdon due To his ill deeds might wait the cavalier, God's justice that ill-doer thither drew On the same courser, which before the Cheat From Bradamant had taken by deceit. LXXII 'Twas now exactly the eighth month was ended, Since, if you recollect, upon his way, The faithless Maganzese, with whom she wended, Cast into Merlin's tomb the martial may; When her a bough, which fell with her, defended From death, or her good Fortune, rather say; And Pinnabel bore off her courser brave, Deeming the damsel buried in the cave. LXXIII The courser, and, through him, the cavalier, Bradamant knew to be the wicked Count, And, having heard him, and perused him near, With more attentive eye and front to front -- "This is the man," (the damsel said) " 'tis clear, Who erst designed me outrage and affront. Lo! him the traitor's sin doth hither speed, Of all his treasons to receive the meed." LXXIV To threaten him with vengeance, and to lay Hands on her sword and charge him now, was done All in a thought; but first she barred the way By which he might his fortilage have won. To earth himself like fox, in his dismay, Sir Pinnabel has every hope foregone. He screaming loud, nor ever making head Against the damsel, through the forest fled. LXXV Pale and dismayed his spurs the caitiff plied Whose last hope of escape in flight was found; While with her ready sword, Dordona's pride Was at his flank, and prest him in his round, Hunting him close and ever fast beside: Loud is the uproar, and the woods resound. Nothing of this is at the castle kenned, For only to Rogero all attend. LXXVI The other three, who from the fortress came, This while had issued forth upon their way, And brought with them the ill-accustomed dame, Who made wayfarers that ill use obey. In all (who rather than prolong with blame Their life, would choose to perish in the fray), The kindling visage burns, and heart is woe, That to assail one man so many go. LXXVII The cruel courtezan by whom was made, And by whose hest maintained, that evil rite, Reminds the warriors that they are arrayed By oath and pact, to avenge her in the fight. "If with this lance alone thy foes are laid On earth, why should I band with other knight?" (Guido the savage said) "and, if I lie, Off with my head, for I consent to die." LXXVIII So Aquilant, so Gryphon. For the twain Singly against a single foe would run; And rather would be taken, rather slain, Than he should be assailed by more than one. To them exclaimed the woman: "Why in vain Waste you so many words, where fruit is none? I brought you here that champion's arms to take, Not other laws and other pacts to make. LXXIX "You should have offered, when in prison-cell, This your excuse; which now too late is made. 'Tis yours the law's observance to compel, And not with lying tongue your oath evade." " -- Behold! the arms; behold, with a new sell And cloth, the goodly steed!" Rogero said, "Behold with these, as well, the damsel's vest! If these you covet, why your course arrest?" LXXX She of the castle presses on this side, On that Rogero rates, and calls them on; Till they parforce, t'wards him, together hied: But red with shame, are to the encounter gone. Foremost appeared 'mid those three knights of pride, Of Burgundy's good marquis either son. But Guido, who was borne on heavier steed, Came at some interval, with tardier speed. LXXXI With the same lance with which he overbore Sir Sansonet, Rogero came to fight; Well-covered with the shield which heretofore Atlantes used on Pyrenean height; I say the enchanted buckler, which, too sore For human sufferance, dazed the astonished sight: To which Rogero, as a last resource, In the most pressing peril had recourse. LXXXII Although three times alone the Child was fain (And, certes sore bested) this to display; Twice when he from the wanton Fairy's reign Was to that soberer region on his way! Last, when the unsated Orc upon the main, By this astounded, 'mid the sea-foam lay; Which would have fed upon the naked maid, So cruel to the Child who brought her aid. LXXXIII Save these three times, he has preserved the shield Beneath its veil, but covered in such wise That it may quickly be to sight revealed, If he in need of its good succour lies. With this, as said before, he came a-field As boldly, as if those three enemies, Who were arrayed before him, had appeared Yet less than little children to be feared. LXXXIV Rogero shocked the valiant Gryphon, where The border of the buckler joined the sight, Who seemed as he would fall, now here, now there, And, from his courser far, last fell outright. He at the shield had aimed, but smote not fair The mark; and (for Rogero's orb was bright And smooth) the hissing weapon slipt, and wrought Other effect than was in Gryphon's thought. LXXXV It rent and tore the veil which served to hide The lightning's fearful and enchanted rays; Which, without blinded eyes, can none abide Upright, nor refuge is for them who gaze. Aquilant, who was at his brother's side, Tore off the rest, and made the buckler blaze: The splendour struck the valiant brothers blind, And Guido in their rear, who spurred behind. LXXXVI These here, or there, to earth astonished reel; Nor eyes alone are dazzled by the light, But every sense astounds the flaming steel. Unconscious of the issue of the fight, Rogero turned his horse, and, in the wheel, Handled his sword, so good to thrust and smite; And none descried his fury to oppose; For in the charge dismounted were his foes. LXXXVII The knights, together with the footmen all, And women, who had from the castle hied, Nor less the coursers panting with their fall, As if about to die, the warrior spied. He wondered first, and next perceived the pall Of silk was handing down on the left side; I say the pall, in which he used to lap His shield, the evil cause of that mishap. LXXXVIII He quickly turns, and, turning, rolls his eyes, In hopes to view his well-loved martial maid; And thitherward, without delay, he hies Where, when the joust began, the damsel stayed. Not finding her, it is the Child's surmise That she is gone to bear the stripling aid; Fearing he may be burnt, while they their journey So long delay, retarded by that tourney. LXXXIX He saw the damsel, stretched among the rest Who him had thither guided: as she lay, He took and placed her, yet with sleep opprest, Before him, and, sore troubled, rode away. He with a mantle, which above her vest She wore, concealed the enchanted buckler's ray: And to the maid restored, when 'twas concealed, Her senses, which were ravished by the shield. XC Away Rogero posted with the dame, And did not date his crimsoned visage raise; Since every one, it seemed to him, might blame With right that victory, worthy little praise. "By what amends can I of such a shame (The blushing warrior said) the stain eraze? For 'twill be bruited, all my deeds by sleight Of magic have been done, and not by might." XCI As, thinking thus, he journeyed on his way, Rogero stumbled upon what he sought; For, in the middle of the track, there lay A well, within the ground profoundly wrought: Whither the thirsty herd, at noon of day, Repaired, their paunches with green forage fraught. Rogero said, " 'Tis now, must I provide, I shame from thee, O shield, no more abide. XCII "Thee will I keep no more, and this shall be Even the last shame which so on me is thrown:" The Child, so ending his self-colloquy, Dismounting, takes a large and heavy stone; Which to the shield he ties, and bodily Both to the bottom of the well are gone. "Lie buried there for ever, from all eyes, And with thee hidden be my shame!" he cries. XCIII Filled to the brim with water was the well; Heavy the stone, and heavy was the shield; Nor stopt they till they to the bottom fell, By the light, liquid element concealed. Fame was not slow the noble act to swell, But, wandering wide, the deed in brief revealed, And voicing it abroad, with trumpet-sound, Told France and Spain and all the countries round. XCIV When that so strange adventure to the rest Of the wide world, from mouth to mouth was blown, Knights out of number undertook the quest, From neighbouring parts and distant; but unknown To all remained the forest which possessed The spring wherein the virtuous shield was thrown: For she who told the action, would not say Where was the well, nor in what land it lay. XCV Upon Rogero's parting thence, where fell The four good champions of that evil law, Made by the castle's lord Sir Pinnabel, By him discomfited like men of straw, -- The shield withdrawn -- he had removed as well The light, which quelled their sight and minds who saw; And those, who, like dead men, on earth had lain, Had risen, full of wonderment, again. XCVI Nor any thing throughout that livelong day They 'mid themselves but that strange case relate; And how it was in that disastrous fray Each by the horrid light was quelled, debate. While these, discoursing, of the adventure say, Tidings are brought of Pinnabello's fate. That Pinnabel is dead the warriors hear, But learn not who had slain the cavalier. XCVII Bradamant in close pass, this while, had staid The faithless Pinnabel, and sorely prest; And many times had buried half her blade Within bleeding flanks and heaving breast. When of his crimes the forfeit had been paid By him, the infected country's curse and pest, She from the conscious forest turned away With that good steed the thief had made his prey. XCVIII She would return where she had left the knight, But never could make out the road anew; And now by valley, now by mountain-height, Wandered well-nigh the ample country through. Yet could she never (such her fortune's spite) Find out the way to join Rogero true. Him in another canto I attend Who loves the tale, to hear my story's end. CANTO 23 ARGUMENT Astolpho soars in air. Upon account Of Pinnabel is prisoned Scotland's heir: By Roland freed, Frontino Rodomont Takes from Hippalca, trusted to her care. With Mandricardo strives Anglantes' count: Who, next, offended by his lady fair, Into the fury falls, so strange and fell, Which in the world has not a parallel. I Let each assist the other in his need; Seldom good actions go without their due; And if their just reward should not succeed, At least, nor death, nor shame, nor loss ensue. Who wrongs another, the remembered meed As well shall have, and soon or later rue. That mountains never meet, but that men may, And oft encounter, is an ancient say. II Now mark what chanced to Pinnabel, the event Of having borne himself so wickedly: He at the last received due punishment, Due and deserved by his iniquity. And God, who for the most is ill content To see the righteous suffer wrongfully, Secured the maid from harm, and will secure All who from every wickedness are pure. III Pinnabel deemed he to an end had brought, And buried deep in earth, the martial maid; Nor weening to behold her more, less thought To her his treason's forfeit to have paid. Nor profits it the wily traitor ought To be among the forts his father swayed. For Altaripa here its summit rears, Amid rude hills, confining on Poictiers. IV Anselm in Altaripa held command, The count from whom was sprung this evil seed: Who, to escape from angry Clermont's hand, Of friends and of assistance stood in need. At a hill's foot, with her avenging brand, Bradamant made the worthless traitor bleed; Who found no better succour in the strife Than piteous cry and fruitless prayer for life. V When she has put to death the treacherous peer, Who to put her to death had erst intent, To seek Rogero she again would steer, But that her cruel fate would not consent; Which, where the wood was loneliest and most drear, To wander by close path the lady sent, Until the western sun withdrew his light, Abandoning the world above to night. VI Nor knowing where for shelter she should rove, Bradamant in that place resolves to stay, Couched on the verdant herbage of the grove; And, sleeping, now awaits the dawn of day, Now watching Saturn, Venus, Mars, and Jove, And the other wandering gods upon their way: But, whether waking or to sleep resigned, Has aye Rogero present to her mind. VII With sorrow and repentance oft assailed, She from her inmost heart profoundly sighed, That Anger over Love should have prevailed. "Anger has torn me from my love," (she cried,) "Oh! had I made some note, which had availed, Thither, whence I set out, my steps to guide, When I departed on my ill emprize! Sure I was lorn of memory and of eyes!" VIII These words and others she in mournful strain Utters, and broods within her heart on more. Meanwhile a wind of sighs, and plenteous rain Of tears, are tokens of her anguish sore. In the east, at last, expected long in vain, The wished for twilight streaked the horizon o'er; And she her courser took, which on the ley Was feeding, and rode forth to meet the day. IX Nor far had rode, ere from the greenwood-trees She issued, where the dome was erst displayed; And many days her with such witcheries The evil-minded wizard had delayed. Here she Astolpho found, who at full ease A bridle for the Hippogryph had made, And here was standing, thoughtful and in pain To whom he should deliver Rabicane. X By chance she found him, as the cavalier Had from the helm uncased his head to view; So that when of the dingy forest clear, Fair Bradamant her gentle cousin knew. Him from afar she hailed with joyful cheer, And now more nigh, to embrace the warrior flew; And named herself, and raised her vizor high, And let him plainly who she was espy. XI None could Astolpho have found any where With whom to leave his horse with more content, As knowing she would guard the steed with care, And to his lord on his return present; And he believed that Heaven had, in its care, Duke Aymon's daughter for this pleasure sent. Her was he wont with pleasure aye to see, But now with more in his necessity. XII Embracing twice or thrice the cousins stand, Fraternally, each other's neck, and they Had of each other's welfare made demand With much affection, ere the duke 'gan say; "Would I now see the winged people's land, Here upon earth I make too long delay." And opening to the dame the thought he brewed, To her the flying horse Astolpho shewed. XIII But she scarce marvelled when above the plain She saw the rising steed his wings unfold; Since upon former time, with mastering rein. On him had charged the dame that wizard old; And made her eye and eyelid sorely strain, So hard she gazed, his movements to behold; The day that he bore off, with wonderous range, Rogero on his journey, long and strange. XIV Astolpho says on her he will bestow His Rabican; so passing swift of kind, That, if the courser started when a bow Was drawn, he left the feathered shaft behind; And will as well his panoply forego, That it may to Mount Alban be consigned: And she for him preserve the martial weed; Since of his arms he has no present need. XV Bent, since a course in air was to be flown, That he, as best he can, will make him light. Yet keeps the sword and horn; although alone The horn from every risque might shield the knight: But he the lance abandons, which the son Of Galaphron was wont to bear in flight; The lance, by which whoever in the course Was touched, fell headlong hurtling from his horse. XVI Backed by Astolpho, and ascending slow, The hippogryph through yielding aether flew; And next the rider stirred the courser so, That in a thought he vanished out of view. Thus with his pilot does the patron go, Fearing the gale and rock, till he is through The reefs; then, having left the shore behind, Hoists every sail, and shoots before the wind. XVII Bradamant, when departed was the peer, Remained distressed in mind; since in what way She knew not her good kinsman's warlike gear And courser to Mount Alban to convey. For on her heart, which they inflame and tear, The warm desire and greedy will yet prey To see the Child; whom she to find once more At Vallombrosa thought, if not before. XVIII Here standing in suspense, by chance she spied A churl, that came towards her on the plain, Who, at her best, Astolpho's armour tied, As best he might, and laid on Rabicane; She next behind her bade the peasant guide (One courser loaded and one loose) the twain. Two were the steeds; for she had that before, On which his horse from Pinnabel she bore. XIX To Vallombrosa to direct her way She thought, in hopes to find Rogero there: But, fearing evermore to go astray, Knew not how thither she might best repair. The churl had of the country small assay, And, sure to be bewildered, wend the pair: Yet at a venture thitherward she hies, Where she believes the place of meeting lies. XX She here and there, as she her way pursued, Turned, but found none to question of the road; She saw at mid-day, issuing from the wood, A fort, nor far removed was the abode, Which on the summit of a mountain stood, And to the lady like Mount Alban showed; And was Mount Alban sure; in which repair One of her brothers and her mother were. XXI She, when she recognized the place, became Sadder at heart than I have power to say. If she delays, discovered is the dame, Nor thence will be allowed to wend her way: If thence she wends not, of the amorous flame Which so consumes her, she will be the prey, Nor see Rogero more, nor compass aught Which was at Vallombrosa to be wrought. XXII Some deal she doubted: then to turn her steed, Resolved upon Mount Alban's castle near; And, for she thence her way could deftly read, Her course anew towards the abbey steer. But Fortune, good or evil, had decreed The maid, before she of the vale was clear, Of one of her good brethren should be spied, Alardo named, ere she had time to hide. XXIII He came from billeting the bands which lay Dispersed about that province, foot and horse; For the surrounding district, to obey King Charlemagne, had raised another force. Embraces brotherly and friendly say, Salutes and kindly cheer, ensue of course; And next into Mount Alban, side by side, They, communing of many matters, ride. XXIV Bradamant enters Montalbano's seat, Whom Beatrice had mourned, and vainly sought Through spacious France: 'Tis here all welcome sweet, The kiss and clasp of hand, she holds at nought, While her a mother and a brother greet, As the enamoured maid compares in thought These with the loved Rogero's fond embrace; Which time will never from her mind efface. XXV Because she could not go, one in her stead To send to Vallombrosa she devised, Who thither in the damsel's name should speed; By whom should young Rogero be apprised What kept her thence; and prayed, if prayer should need, That there he for love would be baptised; And next, as was concerned, would intend What might their bridal bring to happy end. XXVI She purposed the same messenger should bear As well to her Rogero his good steed; Which he was ever wonted to hold dear, Worthily dear; for sure so stout at need And beauteous was no courser, far or near, In land of Christian or of Paynim creed, In occupation of the Gaul or Moor; Except Baiardo good and Brigliador. XXVII Valiant Rogero, when too bold of sprite He backed the hippogryph and soared in air, Frontino left (Frontino he was hight), Whom Bradamant then took into her care, And to Mount Alban sent; and had him dight, And nourished, at large cost, with plenteous fare; Nor let be rode except at easy pace, Hence was he ne'er so sleek or well in case. XXVIII Each damsel and each dame who her obeyed, She tasked, together with herself, to sew, With subtle toil; and with fine gold o'erlaid A piece of silk of white and sable hue: With this she trapt the horse; then chose a maid, Old Callitrephia's daughter, from the crew; Whose mother whilom Bradamant had nursed; A damsel she in all her secrets versed. XXIX How graven in her heart Rogero lies, A thousand times to her she had confessed; And had extolled above the deities The manners, worth, and beauty be possessed. "No better messenger could I devise," (She said, and called the damsel from the rest,) "Nor have I one, Hippalca mine, more sage And sure than three, to do my embassage." XXX Hippalca was the attendant damsel hight. "Go," (says her lady, and describes the way) And afterwards informs the maid aright Of all which to Rogero she should say; And why she at the abbey failed the knight, Who must not to bad faith ascribe her stay, But this to Fortune charge, that so decides, Who, more than we ourselves, our conduct guides. XXXI She made the damsel mount upon a pad, And put into her hand Frontino's rein; And, if she met with one so rude or mad, Who to deprive her of the steed were fain, Her to proclaim who was his owner, bade, As that which might suffice to make him sane. For she believed there was no cavalier, But that Rogero's name would make him fear. XXXII Of many and many things, whereof to treat With good Rogero, in her stead, she showed; Of which instructed well, her palfrey fleet Hippalca stirred, nor longer there abode. Through highway, field, and wood, a gloomy beat, More than ten weary miles the damsel rode, Ere any crossed her path on mischief bent, Or even questioned witherward she went. XXXIII At noon of day, descending from a mount, She in a streight and ill declivity, Led by a dwarf, encountered Rodomont, Who was afoot and harnessed cap-a-pee. The Moor towards her raised his haughty front, And straight blasphemed the eternal Hierarchy, That horse, so richly trapped and passing fair, He had not found in a knight-errant's care. XXXIV On the first courser he should find, the knight Had sworn a solemn oath his hands to lay: This was the first, nor he on steed could light Fairer or fitter; yet to take away The charger from a maid were foul despite. Doubtful he stands, but covets sore the prey; Eyes and surveys him, and says often, "Why Is not as well the courser's master by?" XXXV "Ah! would be were!" to him the maid replied, "For haply he would make thee change thy thought. A better knight than thee the horse doth ride, And vainly would his match on earth be sought." -- "Who tramples thus on other's fame?" -- he cried; And she -- "Rogero" -- said, as she was taught. Then Rodomont -- "The steed I may my own; Since him a champion rides of such renown. XXXVI "If he, as you relate, be of such force, That he surprises all beside in might, I needs must pay the hire as well as horse; And be this at the pleasure of the knight! That I am Rodomont, to him discourse; And, if indeed with me he lists to fight, Me shall to find; in that I shine confest, By my own light, in motion or at rest. XXXVII "I leave such vestige wheresoe'er I tread, The volleyed thunder leaves not worse below." He had thrown back, over Frontino's head, The courser's gilded reins, in saying so, Backed him, and left Hippalca sore bested; Who, bathed in tears, and goaded by her woe, Cries shame on him, and threats the king with ill: Rodomont hearkens not, and climbs the hill: XXXVIII Whither the dwarf conducts him on the trace Of Doralice and Mandricardo bold. Behind, Hippalca him in ceaseless chase, Pursues with taunt and curses manifold. What came of this is said in other place. Turpin, by whom this history is told, Here makes digression, and returns again Thither, where faithless Pinnabel was slain. XXXIX Duke Aymon's daughter scarce had turned away From thence, who on her track in haste had gone, Ere thither by another path, astray, Zerbino came, with that deceitful crone, And saw the bleeding body where it lay: And, though the warrior was to him unknown, As good and courteous, felt his bosom swell, With pity at that cruel sight and fell. XL Dead lay Sir Pinnabel, and bathed in gore; From whom such streams of blood profusely flow, As were a cause for wonderment, had more Swords than a hundred joined to lay him low. A print of recent footsteps to explore The cavalier of Scotland was not slow; Who took the adventure, in the hope to read Who was the doer of the murderous deed. XLI The hag to wait was ordered by the peer, Who would return to her in little space. She to the body of the count drew near, And with fixt eye examined every place; Who willed not aught, that in her sight was dear, The body of the dead should vainly grace; As one who, soiled with every other vice, Surpassed all womankind in avarice. XLII If she in any manner could have thought, Or hoped to have concealed the intended theft, The bleeding warrior's surcoat, richly wrought, She would, together with his arms, have reft; But at what might be safely hidden, caught, And, grieved at heart, forewent the glorious weft. Him of a beauteous girdle she undrest, And this secured between a double vest. XLIII Zerbino after some short space came back, Who vainly Bradamant had thence pursued Through the green holt; because the beaten track Was lost in many others in the wood; And he (for daylight now began to lack) Feared night should catch him 'mid those mountains rude, And with the impious woman thence, in quest Of inn, from the disastrous valley prest. XLIV A spacious town, which Altaripa hight, Journeying the twain, at two miles' distance spy: There stopt the pair, and halted for the night, Which, at full soar, even now went up the sky: Nor long had rested there ere, left and right, They from the people heard a mournful cry; And saw fast tears from every eyelid fall, As if some cause of sorrow touched them all. XLV Zerbino asked the occasion, and 'twas said Tidings had been to Count Anselmo brought, That Pinnabel, his son, was lying dead In a streight way between two mountains wrought. Zerbino feigned surprise, and hung his head, In fear lest he the assassin should be thought; But well divined this was the wight he found Upon his journey, lifeless on the ground. XLVI After some little time, the funeral bier Arrives, 'mid torch and flambeau, where the cries Are yet more thick, and to the starry sphere Lament and noise of smitten hands arise; And faster and from fuller vein the tear Waters all cheeks, descending from the eyes; But in a cloud more dismal than the rest, Is the unhappy father's visage drest. XLVII While solemn preparation so was made For the grand obsequies, with reverence due, According to old use and honours paid, In former age, corrupted by each new; A proclamation of their lord allayed Quickly the noise of the lamenting crew; Promising any one a mighty gain That should denounce by whom his son was slain. XLVIII From voice to voice, from one to other ear, The loud proclaim they through the town declare; Till this the wicked woman chanced to hear, Who past in rage the tyger or the bear; And hence the ruin of the Scottish peer, Either in hatred, would the crone prepare, Or were it she alone might boast to be, In human form, without humanity; XLIX Or were it but to gain the promised prize; -- She to seek out the grieving county flew, And, prefacing her tale in likely wise, Said that Zerbino did the deed; and drew The girdle forth, to witness to her lies; Which straight the miserable father knew; And on the woman's tale and token built A clear assurance of Zerbino's guilt. L And, weeping, with raised hands, was heard to say, He for his murdered son would have amends. To block the hostel where Zerbino lay, For all the town is risen, the father sends. The prince, who deems his enemies away, And no such injury as this attends, In his first sleep is seized by Anselm's throng, Who thinks he has endured so foul a wrong. LI That night in prison, fettered with a pair Of heavy letters, is Zerbino chained. For before yet the skies illuminated are, The wrongful execution is ordained; And in the place will he be quartered, where The deed was done for which he is arraigned. No other inquest is on this received; It is enough that so their lord believed. LII When, the next morn, Aurora stains with dye Red, white, and yellow, the clear horizon, The people rise, to punish ("Death!" their cry) Zerbino for the crime he has not done: They without order him accompany, A lawless multitude, some ride, some run. I' the midst the Scottish prince, with drooping head, Is, bound upon a little hackney, led. LIII But HE who with the innocent oft sides, Nor those abandons who make him their stay, For prince Zerbino such defence provides, There is no fear that he will die to-day; God thitherward renowned Orlando guides; Whose coming for his safety paves the way: Orlando sees beneath him on a plain The youth to death conducted by the train. LIV With him was wended she, that in the cell, Prisoned, Orlando found; that royal maid, Child of Gallicia's king, fair Isabel, Whom chance into the ruffians' power conveyed, What time her ship she quitted, by the swell Of the wild sea and tempest overlaid: The damsel, who, yet nearer her heart-core Than her own vital being, Zerbino wore. LV She had beneath Orlando's convoy strayed, Since rescued from the cave. When on the plain The damsel saw the motley troop arrayed, She asked Orlando what might be the train? "I know not," said the Count; and left the maid Upon the height, and hurried towards the plain. He marked Zerbino, and at the first sight A baron of high worth esteemed the knight, LVI And asked him why and wherefore him they led Thus captive, to Zerbino drawing near: At this the doleful prince upraised his head, And, having better heard the cavalier, Rehearsed the truth; and this so well he said, That he deserved the succour of the peer. Well Sir Orlando him, by his reply, Deemed innocent, and wrongly doomed to die. LVII And, after he had heard 'twas at the hest Of Anselm, Count of Altaripa, done, Was certain 'twas and outrage manifest, Since nought but ill could spring from him; and one, Moreover, was the other's foe profest, From ancient hate and enmity, which run In Clermont and Maganza's blood; a feud With injuries, and death and shame pursued. LVIII Orlando to the rabble cried, "Untie The cavalier, unless you would be slain." -- "Who deals such mighty blows?" -- one made reply, That would be thought the truest of the train; "Were he of fire who makes such bold defy, We wax or straw, too haughty were the strain": And charged with that the paladin of France. Orlando at the losel couched his lance. LIX The shining armour which the chief had rent From young Zerbino but the night before, And clothed himself withal, poor succour lent Against Orlando in that combat sore. Against the churl's right cheek the weapon went: It failed indeed his tempered helm to bore, But such a shock he suffered in the strife, As broke his neck, and stretched him void of life. LX All at one course, of other of the band, With lance unmoved, he pierced the bosom through; Left it; on Durindana laid his hand, And broke into the thicket of the crew: One head in twain he severed with the brand, (While, from the shoulders lopt, another flew) Of many pierced the throat; and in a breath Above a hundred broke and put to death. LXI Above a third he killed, and chased the rest, And smote, and pierced, and cleft, as he pursued. Himself of helm or shield one dispossest; One with spontoon or bill the champaign strewed This one along the road, across it prest A fourth; this squats in cavern or in wood. Orlando, without pity, on that day Lets none escape whom he has power to slay. LXII Of a hundred men and twenty, in that crew, (So Turpin sums them) eighty died at least. Thither Orlando finally withdrew, Where, with a heart sore trembling in his breast, Zerbino sat; how he at Roland's view Rejoiced, in verse can hardly be exprest: Who, but that he was on the hackney bound, Would at his feet have cast himself to ground. LXIII While Roland, after he had loosed the knight, Helped him to don his shining arms again; Stript from those serjeants' captain, who had dight Himself with the good harness, to his pain; The prince on Isabella turned his sight, Who had halted on the hill above the plain: And, after she perceived the strife was o'er, Nearer the field of fight her beauties bore. LXIV When young Zerbino at his side surveyed The lady, who by him was held so dear; The beauteous lady, whom false tongue had said Was drowned, so often wept with many a tear, As if ice at his heart-core had been laid, Waxed cold, and some deal shook the cavalier; But the chill quickly past, and he, instead, Was flushed with amorous fire, from foot to head. LXV From quickly clipping her in his embrace, Him reverence for Anglantes' sovereign stayed; Because he thought, and held for certain case, That Roland was a lover of the maid; So past from pain to pain; and little space Endured the joy which he at first assayed. And worse he bore she should another's be, Than hearing that the maid was drowned at sea. LXVI And worse he grieved, that she was with a knight To whom he owed so much: because to wrest The lady from his hand, was neither right, Nor yet perhaps would prove an easy quest. He, without quarrel, had no other wight Suffered to part, of such a prize possest; But would endure, Orlando (such his debt) A foot upon his prostrate neck should set. LXVII The three in silence journey to a font, Where they alight, and halt beside the well; His helmet here undid the weary Count, And made the prince too quit the iron shell. The youth unhelmed, she sees her lover's front, And pale with sudden joy grows Isabel: Then, changing, brightened like a humid flower, When the warm sun succeeds to drenching shower. LXVIII And without more delay or scruple, prest To cast her arms about her lover dear; And not a word could draw-forth from her breast, But bathed his neck and face with briny tear. Orlando, who remarked the love exprest, Needing no more to make the matter clear, Could not but, by these certain tokens, see The could no other but Zerbino be. LXIX When speech returned, ere yet the maiden well Had dried her cheeks from the descending tear, She only of the courtesy could tell Late shown her by Anglantes' cavalier. The prince, who in one scale weighed Isabel, Together with his life, esteemed as dear, -- Fell at Orlando's feet and him adored, As to two lives at once by him restored. LXX Proffers and thanks had followed, with a round Of courtesies between the warlike pair, Had they not heard the covered paths resound, Which overgrown with gloomy foliage were. Upon their heads the helmet, late unbound, They quickly place, and to their steeds repair; And, lo! a knight and maid arrive, ere well The cavaliers are seated in the sell. LXXI This was the Tartar Mandricardo, who In haste behind the paladin had sped, To venge Alzirdo and Manilard, the two Whom good Orlando's valour had laid dead: Though afterwards less eager to pursue, Since he with him fair Doralice had led; Whom from a hundred men, in plate and chain, He, with a single staff of oak, had ta'en. LXXII Yet knew not that it was Anglantes' peer This while, of whom he had pursued the beat; Though that he was a puissant cavalier By certain signals was he taught to weet. More than Zerbino him he eyed, and, near, Perused the paladin from head to feet; Then finding all the tokens coincide, "Thou art the man I seek," the paynim cried. LXXIII " 'Tis now ten days," to him the Tartar said, "That thee I still have followed; so the fame Had stung me, and in me such longing bred, Which of thee to our camp of Paris came: When, amid thousands by thy hand laid dead, Scarce one alive fled thither, to proclaim The mighty havoc made by thy good hand, 'Mid Tremisena's and Noritia's band. LXXIV "I was not, as I knew, in following slow Both to behold thee, and to prove thy might; And by the surcoat o'er thine arms I know, (Instructed of thy vest) thou art the knight: And if such cognizance thou didst not show, And, 'mid a hundred, wert concealed from sight, For what thou art thou plainly wouldst appear, Thy worth conspicuous in thy haughty cheer." LXXV "No one can say," to him Orlando cried, "But that a valiant cavalier thou art: For such a brave desire can ill reside, 'Tis my assurance, in a humble heart. Since thou wouldst see me, would that thou inside, Couldst as without, behold me! I apart Will lay me helm, that in all points thy will And purpose of thy quest I may fulfil. LXXVI "But when thou well hast scanned me with thine eye, To that thine other wish as well attend: It yet remains for thee to satisfy The want, which leads thee after me to wend; That thou mayest mark if, in my valour, I Agree with that bold cheer thou so commend." -- "And now," (exclaimed the Tartar), "for the rest! For my first want is thoroughly redrest." LXXVII Orlando, all this while, from head to feet, Searches the paynim with inquiring eyes: Both sides, and next the pommel of his seat Surveys, yet neither mace nor tuck espies; And asks how he the combat will repeat, If his good lance at the encounter flies. -- "Take thou no care for that," replied the peer; "Thus into many have I stricken fear. LXXVIII "I have an oath in Heaven to gird no blade, Till Durindana from the count be won. Pursuing whom, I through each road here strayed, With him to reckon for more posts than one. If thou wilt please to hear, my oath I made When on my head I placed this morion: Which casque, with all the other arms I bear, A thousand years ago great Hector's were. LXXIX "To these good arms nought lacks beside the sword; How it was stolen, to you I cannot say: This now, it seems, is borne by Brava's lord, And hence is he so daring in affray. Yet well I trust, if I the warrior board, To make him render his ill-gotten prey. Yet more; I seek the champion with desire To avenge the famous Agrican, my sire. LXXX "Him this Orlando slew by treachery, I wot, nor could have slain in other wise." The count could bear no more, and, " 'Tis a lie!" (Exclaims), "and whosoever says so, lies: Him fairly did I slay; Orlando, I. But what thou seekest Fortune here supplies; And this the faulchion is, which thou has sought, Which shall be thine if by thy valour bought. LXXXI "Although mine is the faulchion, rightfully, Let us for it in courtesy contend; Nor will I in this battle, that it be More mine than thine, but to a tree suspend: Bear off the weapon freely hence, if me Thou kill or conquer." As he made an end, He Durindana from his belt unslung, And in mid-field upon a sapling hung. LXXXII Already distant half the range of bow Is from his opposite each puissant knight, And pricks against the other, nothing slow To slack the reins or ply the rowels bright. Already dealt is either mighty blow, Where the helm yields a passage to the sight. As if of ice, the shattered lances fly, Broke in a thousand pieces, to the sky. LXXXIII One and the other lance parforce must split, In that the cavaliers refuse to bend; The cavaliers, who in the saddle sit, Returning with the staff's unbroken end. The warriors, who with steed had ever smit, Now, as a pair of hinds in rage contend For the mead's boundary or river's right, Armed with two clubs, maintain a cruel fight. LXXXIV The truncheons which the valiant champions bear, Fail in the combat, and few blows resist; Both rage with mightier fury, here and there, Left without other weapon than the fist; With this the desperate foes engage, and, where The hand can grapple, plate and mail untwist. Let none desire, to guard himself from wrongs, A heavier hammer or more holding tongs. LXXXV How can the Saracen conclude the fray With honour, which he haughtily had sought? 'Twere forty to waste time in an assay Where to himself more harm the smiter wrought Than to the smitten: in conclusion, they Closed, and the paynim king Orlando caught, And strained against his bosom; what Jove's son Did by Antaeus, thinking to have done. LXXXVI Him griped athwart, he, in impetuous mood, Would now push from him, now would closely strain; And waxed so wroth that, in his heat of blood, The Tartar little thought about his rein. Firm in his stirrups self-collected stood Roland, and watched his vantage to obtain; He to the other courser's forehead slipt His wary hand, and thence the bridle stript. LXXXVII The Saracen assays with all his might To choak, and from the sell his foeman tear: With either knee Orlando grasps it tight, Nor can the Tartar more him, here or there. But with the straining of the paynim knight, The girts which hold his saddle broken are. Scarce conscious of his fall, Orlando lies, With feet i' the stirrups, tightening yet his thighs. LXXXVIII As falls a sack of armour, with such sound Tumbled Orlando, when he prest the plain. King Mandricardo's courser, when he found His head delivered from the guiding rein, Made off with him, unheeding what the ground, Stumbling through woodland, or by pathway plain, Hither and tither, blinded by his fear; And bore with him the Tartar cavalier. LXXXIX The beauteous Doralice, who sees her guide So quit the field, -- dismayed at his retreat, And wonted in his succour to confide, Her hackney drives behind his courser fleet: The paynim rates the charger, in his pride, And smites him oftentimes with hands and feet; Threatening, as if he understood his lore; And where he'd stop the courser, chafes him more. XC Not looking to his feet, by high or low, The beast of craven kind, with headlong force Three miles in rings had gone, and more would go, But that into a fosse which stopt their course, Not lined with featherbed or quilt below, Tumble, reversed, the rider and his horse. On the hard ground was Mandricardo thrown, Yet neither spoiled himself, nor broke a bone: XCI Here stopt the horse; but him he could not guide, Left without bit his motions to restrain. Brimfull of rage and choler, at his side, The Tartar held him, grappled by the mane. "Put upon him" (to Mandricardo cried His lady, Doralice) "my hackney's rein, Since for the bridle I have little use; For gentle is my palfrey, reined or loose." XCII The paynim deems it were discourtesy To accept the proffer by the damsel made. But his through other means a rein will be; Since Fortune, who his wishes well appaid, Made thitherward the false Gabrina flee, After she young Zerbino had betrayed: Who like a she-wolf fled, which, as she hies, At distance hears the hounds and hunters' cries. XCIII She had upon her back the gallant gear, And the same youthful ornaments and vest, Stript from the ill-taught damsel for her jeer, That in her spoils the beldam might be drest, And rode the horse that damsel backed whilere; Who was among the choicest and the best. Ere yet aware of her, the ancient dame On Doralice and Mandricardo came. XCIV Stordilane's daughter and the Tartar king Laugh at the vest of youthful show and shape, Upon that ancient woman, figuring Like monkey, rather say, like grandam ape. From her the Saracen designs to wring The rein, and does the deed: upon the rape Of the crone's bridle, he, with angry cry, Threatens and scares her horse, and makes him fly. XCV He flies and hurries through the forest gray That ancient woman, almost dead with fear, By hill and dale, by straight and crooked way, By fosse and cliff, at hazard, there and here. But it imports me not so much to say Of her, that I should leave Anglantes' peer; Who, from annoyance of a foe released, The broken saddle at his ease re-pieced. XCVI He mounts his horse, and watches long, before Departing, if the foe will re-appear; Nor seeing puissant Mandricardo more, At last resolves in search of him to steer. But, as one nurtured well in courtly lore, From thence departed not the cavalier, Till he with kind salutes, in friendly strain, Fair leaves had taken of the loving twain. XCVII At his departure waxed Zerbino woe, And Isabella wept for sorrow: they Had wended with him, but the count, although Their company was fair and good, said nay; Urging for reason, nought so ill could show In cavalier, as, when upon his way To seek his foeman out, to take a friend, Who him with arms might succour or defend. XCVIII Next, if they met the Saracen, before They should encounter him, besought them say, That he, Orlando, would for three days more. Waiting him, in that territory stay: But, after that, would seek the flags which bore The golden lilies, and King Charles' array. That Mandricardo through their means might know, If such his pleasure, where to find his foe. XCIX The lovers promised willingly to do This, and whatever else he should command. By different ways the cavaliers withdrew, One on the right, and one on the left hand. The count, ere other path he would pursue, Took from the sapling, and replaced, his brand. And, where he weened he might the paynim best Encounter, thitherward his steed addrest. C The course in pathless woods, which, without rein, The Tartar's charger had pursued astray, Made Roland for two days, with fruitless pain, Follow him, without tidings of his way. Orlando reached a rill of crystal vein, On either bank of which a meadow lay; Which, stained with native hues and rich, he sees, And dotted o'er with fair and many trees. CI The mid-day fervour made the shelter sweet To hardy herd as well as naked swain; So that Orlando, well beneath the heat Some deal might wince, opprest with plate and chain. He entered, for repose, the cool retreat, And found it the abode of grief and pain; And place of sojourn more accursed and fell, On that unhappy day, than tongue can tell. CII Turning him round, he there, on many a tree, Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore, What as the writing of his deity He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore. This was a place of those described by me, Whither ofttimes, attended by Medore, From the near shepherd's cot had wont to stray The beauteous lady, sovereign of Catay. CIII In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes, In a hundred parts, their cyphered names are dight; Whose many letters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleeding hear-core pight. He would discredit in a thousand modes, That which he credits in his own despite; And would parforce persuade himself, that rhind Other Angelica than his had signed. CIV "And yet I know these characters," he cried, "Of which I have so many read and seen; By her may this Medoro be belied, And me, she, figured in the name, may mean." Feeding on such like phantasies, beside The real truth, did sad Orlando lean Upon the empty hope, though ill contented, Which he by self-illusions had fomented. CV But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought, Like the incautious bird, by fowler's lore, Hampered in net or line; which, in the thought To free its tangled pinions and to soar, By struggling, is but more securely caught. Orlando passes thither, where a mountain O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain. CVI Splay-footed ivy, with its mantling spray, And gadding vine, the cavern's entry case; Where often in the hottest noon of day The pair had rested, locked in fond embrace. Within the grotto, and without it, they Had oftener than in any other place With charcoal or with chalk their names pourtrayed, Or flourished with the knife's indenting blade. CVII Here from his horse the sorrowing County lit, And at the entrance of the grot surveyed A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ, And which the young Medoro's hand had made. On the great pleasure he had known in it, The sentence he in verses had arrayed; Which in his tongue, I deem, might make pretence To polished phrase; and such in ours the sense. CVIII "Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy cave, Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave King Galaphron, within my arms has lain; For the convenient harbourage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As recompence, for ever sing your praise. CIX "And any loving lord devoutly pray, Damsel and cavalier, and every one, Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey, Stranger or native, -- to this crystal run, Shade, caverned rock, and grass, and plants, to say, Benignant be to you the fostering sun And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide, That never swain his flock may hither guide!" CX In Arabic was writ the blessing said, Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, Who, versed in many languages, best read Was in this speech; which oftentimes from wrong, And injury, and shame, had saved his head, What time he roved the Saracens among. But let him boast not of its former boot, O'erbalanced by the present bitter fruit. CXI Three times, and four, and six, the lines imprest Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain Seeking another sense than was exprest, And ever saw the thing more clear and plain; And all the while, within his troubled breast, He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, At length he stood, not differing from the rock. CXII Then well-nigh lost all feeling; so a prey Wholly was he to that o'ermastering woe. This is a pang, believe the experienced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs outgo. His pride had from his forehead passed away, His chin had fallen upon his breast below; Nor found he, so grief barred each natural vent, Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament. CXIII Stiffed within, the impetuous sorrow stays, Which would too quickly issue; so to abide Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase, Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide; What time, when one turns up the inverted base, Towards the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide, And in the streight encounters such a stop, It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop. CXIV He somewhat to himself returned, and thought How possibly the thing might be untrue: The some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought To think) his lady would with shame pursue; Or with such weight of jealously had wrought To whelm his reason, as should him undo; And that he, whosoe'er the thing had planned, Had counterfeited passing well her hand. CXV With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, And manned some deal his spirits and awoke; Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro's seat, As on the sun's retreat his sister broke. Nor far the warrior had pursued his beat, Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, And thitherward in quest of lodging hied. CXVI Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant: one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. This was the homestead where the young Medore Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. Orlando here, with other food unfed, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed. CXVII The more the wretched sufferer seeks for ease, He finds but so much more distress and pain; Who every where the loathed hand-writing sees, On wall, and door, and window: he would fain Question his host of this, but holds his peace, Because, in sooth, he dreads too clear, too plain To make the thing, and this would rather shrowd, That it may less offend him, with a cloud. CXVIII Little availed the count his self-deceit; For there was one who spake of it unsought; The sheperd-swain, who to allay the heat, With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought: The tale which he was wonted to repeat -- Of the two lovers -- to each listener taught, A history which many loved to hear, He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer. CXIX How at Angelica's persuasive prayer, He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where, In little space she healed the angry sore. But while she exercised this pious care, Love in her heart the lady wounded more, And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, She burnt all over, restless with desire: CXX Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, Who ruled in the east, nor of her heritage, Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn To be the consort of a poor foot-page. -- His story done, to them in proof was borne The gem, which, in reward for harbourage, To her extended in that kind abode, Angelica, at parting, had bestowed. CXXI A deadly axe was this unhappy close, Which, at a single stroke, lopt off the head; When, satiate with innumerable blows, That cruel hangman Love his hate had fed. Orlando studied to conceal his woes; And yet the mischief gathered force and spread, And would break out parforce in tears and sighs, Would he, or would be not, from mouth and eyes. CXXII When he can give the rein to raging woe, Alone, by other's presence unreprest, From his full eyes the tears descending flow, In a wide stream, and flood his troubled breast. 'Mid sob and groan, he tosses to and fro About his weary bed, in search of rest; And vainly shifting, harder than a rock And sharper than a nettle found its flock. CXXIII Amid the pressure of such cruel pain, It past into the wretched sufferer's head, That oft the ungrateful lady must have lain, Together with her leman, on that bed: Nor less he loathed the couch in his disdain, Nor from the down upstarted with less dread, Than churl, who, when about to close his eyes, Springs from the turf, if he a serpent spies. CXXIV In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, Whose twilight goes before approaching day. In haste, Orlando takes his arms and steed, And to the deepest greenwood wends his way. And, when assured that he is there alone, Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan. CXXV Never from tears, never from sorrowing, He paused; nor found he peace by night and day: He fled from town, in forest harbouring, And in the open air on hard earth lay. He marvelled at himself, how such a spring Of water from his eyes could stream away, And breath was for so many sobs supplied; And thus ofttimes, amid his mourning, cried. CXXVI "These are no longer real tears which rise, And which I scatter from so full a vein. Of tears my ceaseless sorrow lacked supplies; They stopt when to mid-height scarce rose my pain. The vital moisture rushing to my eyes, Driven by the fire within me, now would gain A vent; and it is this which I expend, And which my sorrows and my life will end. CXXVII "No; these, which are the index of my woes, These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they fail At times, and have their season of repose: I feel, my breast can never less exhale Its sorrow: Love, who with his pinions blows The fire about my heart, creates this gale. Love, by what miracle does thou contrive, It wastes not in the fire thou keep'st alive? CXXVIII "I am not -- am not what I seem to sight: What Roland was is dead and under ground, Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite, Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above, A warning to all such as thrust in love." CXXIX All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount, Inflamed his fury so, in him was nought But turned to hatred, phrensy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his faulchion bright; CXXX Cleft through the writing; and the solid block, Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped. Wo worth each sapling and the caverned rock, Where Medore and Angelica were read! So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure. CXXXI For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, Cast without cease into the beauteous source; Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, Never again was clear the troubled course. At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force, Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs. CXXXII Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor spake he aught. Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. At length, impelled by phrensy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away. CXXXIII Here was his helmet, there his shield bestowed; His arms far off; and, farther than the rest, His cuirass; through the greenwood wide was strowed All his good gear, in fine; and next his vest He rent; and, in his fury, naked showed His shaggy paunch, and all his back and breast. And 'gan that phrensy act, so passing dread, Of stranger folly never shall be said. CXXXIV So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite; Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew, Or wonderous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight: But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was needed by Orlando's peerless might. He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull. CXXXV He many others, with as little let As fennel, wall-wort-stem, or dill, up-tore; And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, And beech, and mountain-ash, and elm-tree hoar. He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, Does, to prepare the champaigne for his lore, By stubble, rush, and nettle-stalk; and broke, Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak. CXXXVI The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood tree, Some here some there across the forest hie, And hurry thither, all, the cause to see. -- But I have reached such point, my history, If I o'erpass this bound, may irksome be; And I my story will delay to end, Rather than by my tediousness offend. CANTO 24 ARGUMENT Odorico's and Gabrina's guilt repaid, Youthful Zerbino sets at large the train; He in defence of good Orlando's blade, Is afterwards by Mandricardo slain. Isabel weeps; by Rodomont is made War on the Tartar king, and truce again, To succour Agramant and his array; Who to the lilies are well-nigh a prey. I Let him make haste his feet to disengage, Nor lime his wings, whom Love has made a prize; For love, in fine, is nought but phrensied rage, By universal suffrage of the wise: And albeit some may show themselves more sage Than Roland, they but sin in other guise. For, what proves folly more than on this shelf, Thus, for another, to destroy oneself? II Various are love's effects; but from one source All issue, though they lead a different way. He is, as 'twere, a forest, where parforce Who enter its recess go astray; And here and there pursue their devious course: In sum, to you I, for conclusion, say; He who grows old in love, besides all pain Which waits such passion, well deserves a chain. III One here may well reproach me: "Brother, thou Seest not thy faults, while thou dost others fit." -- I answer that I see mine plain enow, In this my lucid interval of wit; And strive and hope withal I shall forego This dance of folly; but yet cannot quit, As quickly as I would, the faults I own; For my disease has reached the very bone. IV I in the other canto said before, Orlando, furious and insensate wight, Having torn off the arms and vest he wore, And cast away from him his faulchion bright, And up-torn trees, and made the forest hoar And hollow cave resound, and rocky height, Towards the noise some shepherds, on that side, Their heavy sins or evil planets guide. V Viewing the madman's wonderous feats more near, The frighted band of rustics turned and fled; But they, in their disorder, knew not where, As happens oftentimes in sudden dread. The madman in a thought is in their rear, Seizes a shepherd, and plucks off his head; And this as easily as one might take Apple from tree, or blossom from the brake. VI He by one leg the heavy trunk in air Upheaved, and made a mace the rest to bray. Astounded, upon earth he stretched one pair, Who haply may awake at the last day. The rest, who well awake at the last day. The rest, who well advised and nimble are, At once desert the field and scour away: Nor had the madman their pursuit deferred, Had he not turned already on their herd. VII By such examples warned, the rustic crew Abandoned in the fields pick, scythe, and plough, And to the roof of house and temple flew, (For ill secure was elm or willow's bough,) From hence the maniac's horrid rage they view; Who, dealing kick, and bite, and scratch, and blow, Horses and oxen slew, his helpless prey; And well the courser ran who 'scaped that day. VIII Already might'st thou hear how loudly ring The hubbub and the din, from neighbouring farms, Outcry and horn, and rustic trumpeting; And faster sound of bells; with various arms By thousands, with spontoon, bow, spit, and sling. Lo! from the hills the rough militia swarms. As many peasants from the vale below, To make rude war upon the madman go, IX As beats the wave upon the salt-sea shore, Sportive at first, which southern wind has stirred, When the next, bigger than what went before, And bigger than the second, breaks the third; And the vext water waxes evermore, And louder on the beach the surf is heard: The crowd, increasing so, the count assail, And drop from mountain and ascend from dale. X Twice he ten peasants slaughtered in his mood, Who, charging him in disarray, were slain; And this experiment right clearly showed To stand aloof was safest for the train. Was none who from his body could draw blood; For iron smote the impassive skin in vain. So had heaven's King preserved the count from scathe, To make him guardian of his holy faith. XI He would have been in peril on that day, Had he been made of vulnerable mould; And might have learned was 'twas to cast away His sword, and, weaponless, so play the bold. The rustic troop retreated from the fray, Seeing no stroke upon the madman told. Since him no other enemy attends, Orlando to a neighbouring township wends. XII Since every one had left the place for dread, No wight he found within it, small or great: But here was homely food in plenty spread, Victual, well sorting with the pastoral state. Here, acorns undistinguishing from bread, By tedious fast and fury driven to sate His hunger, he employed his hand and jaw On what he first discovered, cooked or raw. XIII Thence, repossest with the desire to rove, He, through the land, did man and beast pursue; And scowering, in his phrensy, wood and grove, Took sometimes goat or doe of dappled hue: Often with bear and with wild boar he strove, And with his naked hand the brutes o'erthrew; And gorging oftentimes the savage fare, Swallowed the prey with all its skin and hair. XIV Now right, now left, he wandered, far and wide, Throughout all France, and reached a bridge one day; Beneath which ran an ample water's tide, Of steep and broken banks: a turret gray Was builded by the spacious river's side, Discerned, from far and near, and every way. What here he did I shall relate elsewhere, Who first must make the Scottish prince my care. XV When Roland had departed on his quest, Zerbino paused some deal; then, in his rear, Slowly his steed by the same path addrest, Which had been taken by Anglantes' peer; Nor two miles on his way, I think, had prest, When he beheld a captive cavalier, Upon a sorry, little, hackney tied, And by armed horseman watched on either side. XVI Zerbino speedily the prisoner knew, And Isabel, as soon, when nigh surveyed. This was Sir Odoric, the Biscayan, who, Like wolf, the guardian of a lamb was made: To whom, of all his friends esteemed most true, Zerbino Isabella had conveyed; Hoping, one hitherto by him found just, Would now, as ever, have approved his trust. XVII Even then how all had chanced, with punctual lore, Was Isabel relating to the knight; How in the pinnace she was saved, before The broken vessel sank at sea outright; Odoric's assault; and next, how bandits bore Her to the cavern, in a mountain dight. Nor Isabella yet her tale has told, When bound the malefactor they behold. XVIII The two that had Sir Odoric in their ward, The royal damsel Isabella knew; And deemed he was her lover and her lord, That pricked beside the lady, fair of hue. More; that the bearings on his shield record The honours of the stem from which he grew; And found, as better they observed his cheer, They had judged rightly of the cavalier. XIX Lighting, with open arms and hurried pace, They make towards Zerbino eagerly, And, kneeling, with bare head, the prince embrace, Where lord is clipt by one of less degree. Zerbino, looking either in the face, Knows one Corebo of Biscay to be, And Sir Almonio, his co-mate; the pair Charged, under Odoric, with the galley's care. XX Almonio cried, "Since God is pleased in the end, Grammercy! Isabel should be with you; My lord, I very clearly comprehend I should deliver tidings, nothing new, If I should now inform you why I wend With this offender, whom with me you view. Since she, who at his hands has suffered worst, The story of his crimes will have rehearsed. XXI "How me that traitour duped thou hast not to learn, What time he rid himself of me, nor how Corebo, who would have avenged the scorn, Intended to the damsel, was laid low; But that which followed, upon my return, By her unseen or heard, she cannot know, So as to thee the story to have told; The sequel of it then will I unfold. XXII "I seaward from the city, with a store Of nags, collected in a hurry, fare; Aye watchful, if the trace I can explore Of those left far behind me; I repair Thitherward; I arrive upon the shore, The place where they were left; look everywhere; Nor sign of them perceive upon that strand, Except some steps, new-printed on the sand. XXIII "The steps I traced into the forest drear; Nor far within the greenwood had I wound, When guided by a noise which smote my ear, I saw my comrade bleeding on the ground: Of Isabel I asked the cavalier, Of Odoric, and what hand had dealt his wound; And thence departed, when the thing I knew, Seeking the wretch these precipices through. XXIV "Wide circling still I go, and through that day I find no other sign of him that fled; At length return to where Corebo lay, Who had the ground about him dyed so red, That he, had I made little more delay, A grave would have required, and, more than bed And succour of the leech, to make him sound, Craved priest and friar to lay him in the ground. XXV "I had him to the neighbouring city brought, And boarded with a friendly host; and there Corebo's cure in little time was wrought, Beneath an old chirurgeon's skilful care. This finished, having arms and horses brought, We thence together to the court repair Of King Alphonso of Biscay; where I Find out the traitor, and to fight defy. XXVI "The monarch's justice, who fair field and free Allowed us for the duel, and my right, And Destiny to boot (for Destiny Oftener makes conquest where she listeth, light) So backed my arms, that felon was by me Worsted, and made a prisoner in the fight. Alphonso, having heard his guilt confessed, Bade me dispose of him as liked me best. XXVII "Him would I neither loose, nor yet have slain, But, as thou seest, in bonds to thee convey: That whether he should be condemned to pain, Or death, it should be thine his doom to say. I, hearing thou wert with King Charlemagne, Thither, in hope to find thee, took my way. I thank my God, that thee upon this ground, Where I least hoped to meet thee, I have found. XXVIII "As well I render thanks, that Isabel I see restored to thee, I know not how, Of whom, by reason of that traitor fell, I deemed thou never more should'st tidings know." In silence prince Zerbino hears him tell His story, gazing upon Odoric's brow, In pity, more than hate, as he perpends How foully such a goodly friendship ends. XXIX After Almonio had his tale suspended, Astounded for a while the prince stood by; Wondering, that he who least should have offended, Had him requited with such treachery: But, his long fit of admiration ended, Waking from his amazement with a sigh, Questioned the prisoner in the horsemen's hold, It that was true the cavalier had told. XXX The faithless man alighted, and down fell Upon his bended knees, and answered: "Sir, All people that on middle earth do dwell, Through weakness of their nature, sin and err. One thing alone distinguishes the well And evil doer; this, at every stir Of least desire, submits, without a blow; That arms, but yields as well to stronger foe. XXXI "Had I been charged some castle to maintain, And, without contest, on the first assault, Hoisted the banners of the hostile train, -- For cowardice, or treason, fouler fault -- Upon my eyes (a well deserved pain) Thou might'st have justly closed the darksome vault; But, yielding to superior force, I read I should not merit blame, but praise and meed. XXXII "The stronger is the enemy, the more Easily is the vanquished side excused: I could but faith maintain as, girded sore, The leaguered fort to keep her faith is used; Even so, with all the sense, with all the lore By sovereign wisdom into me infused, This I essayed to keep; but in the end, To o'ermastering assault was forced to bend." XXXIII So said Sir Odoric; and after showed (Though 'twere too tedious to recount his suit) Him no light cause had stirred, but puissant goad. -- If ever earnestness of prayer could boot To melt a heart that with resentment glowed, -- If e'er humility produced good fruit, It well might here avail; since all that best Moves a hard heart, Sir Odoric now exprest. XXXIV Whether or no to venge such infamy, Youthful Zerbino doubted: the review Of faithless Odorico's treachery Moved him to death the felon to pursue; The recollection of the amity So long maintained between them, with the dew Of pity cooled the fury in his mind, And him to mercy towards the wretch inclined. XXXV While Scotland's prince is doubting in such wise To keep him captive, or to loose his chain; Or to remove him from before his eyes, By dooming him to die, or live in pain; Loud neighing, thitherward the palfrey hies From which the Tartar king had stript the rein; And the old harridan, who had before Nigh caused Zerbino's death, among them bore. XXXVI The horse, that had the others of that band Heard at a distance, thither her conveyed. Sore weeping came the old woman, and demand For succour, in her trouble, vainly made. Zerbino, when he saw her, raised his hand To heaven, that had to him such grace displayed, Giving him to decide that couple's fate; The only two that had deserved his hate. XXXVII The wicked hag is kept, so bids the peer, Until he is determined what to do: He to cut off her nose and either ear Now thought, and her as an example shew. Next, 'twere far better, deemed the cavalier, If to the vultures he her carcase threw: He diverse punishments awhile revolved, And thus the warrior finally resolved. XXXVIII He to his comrades turned him round, and said: "To let the traitour live I am content, Who, if full grace he has not merited, Yet merits not to be so foully shent. I, as I find his fault of Love was bred, To give him life and liberty consent; And easily we all excuses own, When on commanding Love the blame is thrown. XXXIX "Often has Love turned upside down a brain Of sounder wit than that to him assigned, And led to mischief of far deeper stain, Than has so outraged us. Let Odoric find Pardon his offences; I the pain Of these should justly suffer, who was blind; Blind when I gave him such a trust, nor saw How easily the fire consumes the straw." XL "Then gazing upon Odoric, 'gan say: "This is the penance I enjoin to thee; That thou a year shalt with the beldam stay, Nor ever leave this while her company; But, roving or at rest, by night or day, Shalt never for an hour without her be; And her shall even unto death maintain Against whoever threatens her with pain. XLI "I will, if so this woman shall command, With whosoe'er he be, thou battle do. I will this while that thou all France's land, From city shalt to city, wander through." So says he: for as Odoric at his hand Well merits death, for his foul trespass due, This is a pitfall for his feet to shape, Which it will be rare fortune if he 'scape. XLII So many women, many men betrayed, And wronged by her, have been so many more, Not without strife by knight shall he be stayed, Who was beneath his care the beldam hoar. So, for their crimes, shall both alike be paid; She for her evil actions done before, And he who wrongfully shall her defraud; Nor far can go before he finds an end. XLIII To keep the pact Zerbino makes him swear A mighty oath, under this penalty, That should he break his faith, and anywhere Into his presence led by fortune be, Without more mercy, without time for prayer, A cruel death shall wait him, as his fee. Next by his comrades (so their lord commands) Sir Odoric is unpinioned from his bands. XLIV Corebo frees the traitor in the end, Almonio yielding, yet as ill content: For much Zerbino's mercies both offend, Which thus their so desired revenge prevent. Thence, he disloyal to his prince and friend, In company with that curst woman went. What these befel Sir Turpin has not said, But more I once in other author read. XLV This author vouches (I declare not who) That hence they had not one day's journey wended, When Odoric, to all pact, all faith, untrue, For riddance of the pest to him commended, About Gabrina's neck a halter threw, And left her to a neighbouring elm suspended; And in a year (the place he does not name) Almonio by the traitor did the same. XLVI Zerbino, who the Paladin pursues, And loath would be to lose the cavalier, To his Scottish squadron of himself sends news, Which for its captain well might stand in fear; Almonio sends, and many matters shews, Too long at full to be recited here; Almonio sends, Corebo next; nor stayed Other with him, besides the royal maid. XLVII So mighty is the love Zerbino bore, Nor less than his the love which Isabel Nursed for the valorous Paladin, so sore He longed to know if that bold infidel The Count had found, who in the duel tore Him from his horse, together with the sell, That he to Charles's camp, till the third day Be ended, will not measure back his way. XLVIII This was the term for which Orlando said He should wait him, who yet no faulchion wears; Nor is there place the Count has visited, But thither in his search Zerbino fares. Last to those trees, upon whose bark was read The ungrateful lady's writing, he repairs, Little beside the road; and there finds all In strange disorder, rock and water-fall. XLIX Far off, he saw that something shining lay, And spied Orlando's corslet on the ground; And next his helm; but not that head-piece gay Which whilom African Almontes crowned: He in the thicket heard a courser neigh, And, lifting up his visage at the sound, Saw Brigliadoro the green herbage browze, With rein yet hanging at his saddle-bows. L For Durindane, he sought the greenwood, round, Which separate from the scabbard met his view; And next the surcoat, but in tatters, found; That, in a hundred rags, the champaign strew. Zerbino and Isabel, in grief profound, Stood looking on, nor what to think they knew: They of all matters else might think, besides The fury which the wretched Count misguides. LI Had but the lovers seen a drop of blood, They might have well believed Orlando dead: This while the pair, beside the neighbouring flood, Beheld a shepherd coming, pale with dread. He just before, as on a rock he stood, Had seen the wretch's fury; how he shed His arms about the forest, tore his clothes, Slew hinds, and caused a thousand other woes. LII Questioned by good Zerbino, him the swain Of all which there had chanced, informed aright. Zerbino marvelled, and believed with pain, Although the proofs were clear: This as it might, He from his horse dismounted on the plain, Full of compassion, in afflicted plight; And went about, collecting from the ground The various relics which were scattered round. LIII Isabel lights as well; and, where they lie Dispersed, the various arms uniting goes. Lo! them a damsel joins, who frequent sigh Heaves from her heart, and doleful visage shows. If any ask me who the dame, and why She mourns, and with such sorrow overflows; I say 'twas Flordelice, who, bound in trace Of her lost lover's footsteps, sought that place. LIV Her Brandimart had left disconsolate Without farewell, i' the court of Charlemagne: Who there expected him six months or eight; -- And lastly, since he came not there again, From sea to sea, had sought her absent mate, Through Alpine and through Pyrenean chain: In every place had sought the warrior, save Within the palace of Atlantes' grave. LV If she had been in that enchanted hold, She might before have seen the cavalier Wandering with Bradamant, Rogero bold, Gradasso and Ferrau and Brava's peer. But, when Astolpho chased the wizard old, With the loud bugle, horrible to hear, To Paris he returned; but nought of this As yet was known to faithful Flordelice. LVI To Flordelice were known the arms and sword (Who, as I say, by chance so joined the twain), And Brigliadoro, left without his lord, Yet bearing at the saddle-bow his rein: She with her eyes the unhappy signs explored, And she had heard the tidings of the swain, Who had alike related, how he viewed Orlando running frantic, in his mood. LVII Here prince Zerbino all the arms unites, And hangs, like a fair trophy, on a pine. And, to preserve them safe from errant knights, Natives or foreigners, in one short line Upon the sapling's verdant surface writes, ORLANDO'S ARMS, KING CHARLES'S PALADINE. As he would say, `Let none this harness move, Who cannot with its lord his prowess prove!' LVIII Zerbino having done the pious deed, Is bowning him to climb his horse; when, lo! The Tartar king arrives upon the mead. He, at the trophied pine-tree's gorgeous show, Beseeches him the cause of this to read; Who lets him (as rehearsed) the story know. When, without further pause, the paynim lord Hastes gladly to the pine, and takes the sword. LIX "None can (he said) the action reprehend, Nor first I make the faulchion mine today; And to its just possession I pretend Where'er I find it, be it where it may. Orlando, this not daring to defend, Has feigned him mad, and cast the sword away; But if the champion so excuse his shame, This is no cause I should forego my claim. LX "Take it not thence," to him Zerbino cried, "Nor think to make it thine without a fight: If so thou tookest Hector's arms of pride, By theft thou hadst them, rather than by right." Without more parley spurred upon each side. Well matched in soul and valour, either knight. Already echoed are a thousand blows; Nor yet well entered are the encountering foes. LXI In scaping Durindane, a flame in show (He shifts so quickly) is the Scottish lord. He leaps about his courser like a doe, Where'er the road best footing does afford. And well it is that he should not forego An inch of vantage; who, if once that sword Smite him, will join the enamoured ghosts, which rove Amid the mazes of the myrtle grove. LXII As the swift-footed dog, who does espy Swine severed from his fellows, hunts him hard, And circles round about; but he lies by Till once the restless foe neglect his guard; So, while the sword descends, or hangs on high, Zerbino stands, attentive how to ward, How to save life and honour from surprise; And keeps a wary eye, and smites and flies. LXIII On the other side, where'er the foe is seen To threaten stroke in vain, or make good, He seems an Alpine wind, two hills between, That in the month of March shakes leafy wood; Which to the ground now bends the forest green. Now whirls the broken boughs, at random strewed. Although the prince wards many, in the end One mighty stroke he cannot scape or fend. LXIV In the end he cannot scape one downright blow, Which enters, between sword and shield, his breast, As perfect was the plate and corslet, so Thick was the steel wherein his paunch was drest: But the destructive weapon, falling low, Equally opened either iron vest; And cleft whate'er it swept in its descent, And to the saddle-bow, through cuirass, went. LXV And, but that somewhat short the blow descends, It would Zerbino like a cane divide; But him so little in the quick offends, This scarce beyond the skin is scarified. More than a span in length the wound extends; Of little depth: of blood a tepid tide To his feet descending, with a crimson line, Stains the bright arms which on the warrior shine. LXVI 'Tis so, I sometimes have been wont to view A hand, more white than alabaster, part The silver cloth, with ribbon red of hue; A hand I often feel divide my heart. Here little vantage young Zerbino drew From strength and greater daring, and from art; For in the temper of his arms and might, Too much the Tartar king excelled the knight. LXVII The fearful stroke was mightier in show, Than in effect, by which the Prince was prest; So that poor Isabel, distraught with woe, Felt her heart severed in her frozen breast. The Scottish prince, all over in a glow, With anger and resentment was possest, And putting all his strength in either hand, Smote full the Tartar's helmet with his brand. LXVIII Almost on his steed's neck the Tartar fell, Bent by the weighty blow Zerbino sped; And, had the helmet been unfenced by spell, The biting faulchion would have cleft his head. The king, without delay, avenged him well, "Nor I for you till other season," said, "Will keep this gift"; and levelled at his crest, Hoping to part Zerbino to the chest. LXIX Zerbino, on the watch, whose eager eye Waits on his wit, wheels quickly to the right; But not withal so quickly, as to fly The trenchant sword, which smote the shield outright, And cleft from top to bottom equally; Shearing the sleeve beneath it, and the knight Smote on his arm; and next the harness rended, And even to the champion's thigh descended. LXX Zerbino, here and there, seeks every way By which to wound, nor yet his end obtains; For, while he smites upon that armour gay, Not even a feeble dint the coat retains. On the other hand, the Tartar in the fray Such vantage o'er the Scottish prince obtains, Him he has wounded in seven parts or eight, And reft his shield and half his helmet's plate. LXXI He ever wastes his blood; his energies Fail, though he feels it not, as 't would appear; Unharmed, the vigorous heart new force supplies To the weak body of the cavalier. His lady, during this, whose crimson dyes Where chased by dread, to Doralice drew near, And for the love of Heaven, the damsel wooed To stop that evil and disastrous feud. LXXII Doralice, who as courteous was as fair, And ill-assured withal, how it would end, Willingly granted Isabella's prayer, And straight to truce and peace disposed her friend, As well Zerbino, by the other's care, Was brought his vengeful anger to suspend; And, wending where she willed, the Scottish lord Left unachieved the adventure of the sword. LXXIII Fair Flordelice, who ill maintained descries The goodly sword of the unhappy count, In secret garden, and so laments the prize Foregone, she weeps for rage, and smite her front: She would move Brandimart to this emprize; And, should she find him, and the fact recount, Weens, for short season will the Tartar foe Exulting in the ravished faulchion go. LXXIV Seeking him morn and evening, but in vain, Flordelice after Brandimart did fare; And widely wandered from him, who again Already had to Paris made repair. So far the damsel pricked by hill and plain, She reached the passage of a river, where She saw the wretched count; but what befel The Scottish prince, Zerbino, let me tell. LXXV For to leave Durindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes; Though he could hardly sit upon his steed, Though mighty loss of life-blood, which yet flows. Now, when his anger and his heat secede, After short interval, his anguish grows; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains, He feels that life is ebbing from his veins. LXXVI For weakness can the prince no further hie, And so beside a fount is forced to stay: Him to assist the pitying maid would try, But knows not what to do, not what to say. For lack of comfort she beholds him die; Since every city is too far away, Where in this need she could resort to leech, Whose succour she might purchase or beseech. LXXVII She, blaming Fortune, and the cruel sky, Can only utter fond complaints and vain. "Why sank I not in ocean, (was her cry,) When first I reared my sail upon the main?" Zerbino, who on her his languid eye Had fixt, as she bemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred, Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead. LXXVIII "So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried,) "To love me yet, when I am dead and gone, As to abandon thee without a guide, And not to die, distresses me alone. For did it me in place secure betide To end my days, this earthly journey done, I cheerful, and content, and fully blest Would die, since I should die upon thy breast. LXXIX "But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize I know not, my sad fate compels, I swear, My Isabella, by that mouth, those eyes, By what enchained me first, that lovely hair; My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies Into hell's deep and gloomy bottom; where To think, thou wert abandoned so by me, Of all its woes the heaviest pain will be." LXXX At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows, Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose; Rose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, "Without me think not so, my heart, On this your last, long, journey to depart. LXXXI "Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear, For I will follow thee to heaven or hell; It fits our souls together quit this sphere, Together go, for aye together dwell. No sooner closed thine eyelids shall appear Than either me internal grief will quell, Or, has it not such power, I here protest, I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast. LXXXII "I of our bodies cherish hope not light, That they shall have a happier fate when dead: Together to entomb them, may some wight, Haply by pity moved, be hither led." She the poor remnants of his vital sprite Went on collecting, as these words she said; And while yet aught remains, with mournful lips, The last faint breath of life devoutly sips. LXXXIII 'Twas here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, Crying. "My deity, I beg and pray, By that love witnessed, when thy father's land Thou quittedst for my sake; and, if I may In any thing command thee, I command, That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day; Nor ever banish from thy memory, That, well as man can love, have I loved thee. LXXXIV "God haply will provide thee with good aid, To free thee from each churlish deed I fear; As, when in the dark cavern thou wast stayed, He sent, to rescue thee, Anglante's peer; So he (grammercy!) succoured thee dismaid At sea, and from the wicked Biscayneer. And, if thou must choose death, in place of worse, Then only choose it, as a lesser curse." LXXXV I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Were so exprest, that he was understood: With these, he finished, like a feeble light, Which needs supply of was, or other food. -- Who is there, that has power to tell aright The gentle Isabella's doleful mood? When stiff, her loved Zerbino, with pale face, And cold as ice, remained in her embrace. LXXXVI On the ensanguined corse, in sorrow drowned, The damsel throws herself, in her despair, And shrieks so lout that wood and plain resound For many miles about; nor does she spare Bosom or cheek; but still, with cruel wound, One and the other smites the afflicted fair; And wrongs her curling lock of golden grain, Aye calling on the well-loved youth in vain. LXXXVII She with such rage, such fury, was possest, That, in her transport, she Zerbino's glaive Would easily have turned against her breast, Ill keeping the command her lover gave; But that a hermit, from his neighbouring rest, Accustomed oft to seek the fountain-wave, His flagon at the cooling stream to fill, Opposed him to the damsel's evil will. LXXXVIII The reverend father, who with natural sense Abundant goodness happily combined, And, with ensamples fraught and eloquence, Was full of charity towards mankind, With efficacious reasons her did fence, And to endurance Isabel inclined; Placing, from ancient Testament and new, Women, as in a mirror, for her view. LXXXIX The holy man next made the damsel see, That save in God there was no true content, And proved all other hope was transitory, Fleeting, of little worth, and quickly spent; And urged withal so earnestly his plea, He changed her ill and obstinate intent; And made her, for the rest of life, desire To live devoted to her heavenly sire. XC Not that she would her mighty love forbear, For her dead lord, nor yet his relics slight; These, did she halt or journey, every where Would Isabel have with her, day and night. The hermit therefore seconding her care, Who, for his age, was sound and full of might, They on his mournful horse Zerbino placed, And traversed many a day that woodland waste. XCI The cautious elder would not bear away Thus all alone with him that damsel bland Thither, where in a cave, concealed from day, His solitary cell hard by did stand: Within himself exclaiming: "I convey With peril fire and fuel in one hand." Nor in such bold experiments the sage Wisely would trust to prudence or to age. XCII He thought to bear her to Provence, where, near The city of Marseilles a borough stood, Which had a sumptuous monastery; here Of ladies was a holy sisterhood; And, hither to transport the cavalier, They stowed his body in a chest of wood, Made in a town by the way-side; and which Was long and roomy, and well closed with pitch. XCIII So, compassing a mighty round, they fare Through wildest parts, for many and many a day; Because, the war extending every where, They seek to hide themselves as best they may: At length a cavalier arrests the pair, That with foul scorn and outrage bars their way; Of whom you more in fitting time shall learn, But to the Tartar king I now return. XCIV After the fight between the two was done, Already told by me, the king withdrew To a cooling shade and river from the sun, His horse's reins and saddle to undo; Letting the courser at his pleasure run, Browsing the tender grass the pasture through: But he reposed short time ere he descried An errant knight descend the mountain's side. XCV Him Doralice, as soon as he his front Uplifted, knew; and showed him to her knight: Saying: "Behold! the haughty Rodomont, Unless the distance has deceived my sight. To combat with thee, he descends the mount: Now it behoves thee put forth all thy might. To lose me, his betrothed, a mighty cross The monarch deems, and comes to venge his loss." XCVI As a good hawk, who duck or woodcock shy, Partridge or pigeon, or such other prey, Seeing towards her from a distance fly, Raises her head, and shows her blithe and gay; So Mandricardo, in security Of crushing Rodomont in that affray, Gladly his courser seized, bestrode the seat, Reined him, and in the stirrups fixt his feet. XCVII When the two hostile warriors were so near, That words could be exchanged between the twain, Loudly began the monarch of Argier To threat with head and hand, in haughty strain, That to repentance he will bring the peer Who lightly for a pleasure, rash and vain, Had scrupled not his anger to excite Who dearly will the offered scorn requite. XCVIII When Mandricardo: "He but vainly tries To fright, who threatens me -- by words unscared. Woman, or child, or him he terrifies, Witless of warfare; not me, who regard With more delight than rest, which others prize, The stirring battle; and who am prepared My foeman in the lists or field to meet; Armed or unarmed, on horse or on my feet." XCIX They pass to outrage, shout, and ire, unsheath The brand; and loudly smites each cruel foe; Like winds, which scarce at first appear to breathe, Next shake the oak and ash-tree as they blow; Then to the skies upwhirl the dusty wreath, Then level forests, and lay houses low, And bear the storm abroad, o'er land and main, By which the flocks in greenwood-holt are slain. C Of those two infidels, unmatched in worth, The valiant heart and strength, which thus exceed, To such a warfare and such blows give birth, As suits with warrior of so bold a seed. At the loud sound and horrid, trembles earth, When the swords cross; and to the stroke succeed Quick sparks; or rather, flashing to the sky, Bright flames by thousands and by thousands fly. CI Without once gathering breath, without repose, The champions one another still assail; Striving, now here, now there, with deadly blows, To rive the plate, or penetrate the mail. Nor this one gains, nor the other ground foregoes; But, as if girded in by fosse or pale, Or, as too dearly sold they deem an inch, Ne'er from their close and narrow circle flinch. CII Mid thousand blows, so, with two-handed swing, On his foe's forehead smote the Tartar knight, He made him see, revolving in a ring, Myriads of fiery balls and sparks of light. The croupe, with head reversed, the Sarzan king Now smote, as if deprived of all his might, The stirrups lost; and in her sight, so well Beloved, appeared about to quit the sell. CIII But as steel arbalest that's loaded sore, By how much is the engine charged and strained, By lever or by crane, with so much more Fury returns, its ancient bent regained, And, in discharging its destructive store, Inflicts worse evil than itself sustained; So rose that African with ready blade, And straight with double force the stroke repaid. CIV Rodomont smites, and in the very place Where he was smit, the Tartar in return; But cannot wound the Sarzan in the face, Because his Trojan arms the weapon turn; Yes so astounds, he leaves him not in case, If it be morn or evening to discern. Rodomont stopt not, but in fury sped A second blow, still aiming at his head. CV King Mandricardo's courser, who abhorred The whistling of the steel which round him flew, Saved, with sore mischief to himself, his lord; In that he backed the faulchion to eschew: Aimed at his master, not at him, the sword Smote him across the head, and cleft it through. No Trojan helm defends the wretched horse, Like Mandricardo, and he dies parforce. CVI He falls, and Mandricardo on the plain No more astound, slides down upon his feet, And whirls his sword; to see his courser slain He storms all over fired with angry heat. At him the Sarzan monarch drives amain; Who stands as firm as rock which billows beat. And so it happened, that the courser good Fell in the charge, while fast the footman stood. CVII The African, who feels his horse give way, The stirrups quits, and lightly from the sell Is freed, and springs on earth: for the assay Hence matched anew, stands either infidel. Worse than before the battle boils, while they With pride and anger, and with hatred swell, About to close; but that, with flowing rein, A messenger arrives to part the twain. CVIII A messenger arrives, that from the Moor, With many others, news through France conveyed; Who word to simple knight and captain bore, To join the troops, beneath their flags arrayed. For he, the emperor, who the lilies wore, Siege to their quarters had already laid; And, save quick succour thither was addrest, He read, their army's scathe was manifest. CIX The Moorish messenger not only knows, By ensigns and by vest, the warlike pair, But by the circling blades, and furious blows, With which no other hands could wound the air; Hence dared not 'twixt champions interpose, Nor deemed his orders an assurance were From such impetuous fury, nor the saw, Which says embassadors are safe by law: CX But to fair Doralice approached, and said Marsilius, Agramant, and Stordilane, Within weak works, with scanty troops to aid, Were close beleaguered by the Christian train. And, having told his tale, the damsel prayed, That this she to the warriors would explain; And would accord the pair, and to their post Dispatch, for rescue of the Moorish host. CXI The lady, with bold heart, 'twixt either foe Threw herself, and exclaimed: "I you command, By the large love you hear me, as I know, That you to better use reserve the brand; And that you instantly in succour go Of our host, menaced by the Christian band; Which now, besieged within its camp, attends Ruin or speedy succour from its friends. CXII The messenger rehearsed, when she had done, Fully the peril of the paynim train; And said that he bore letters to the son Of Ulien, from the son of King Troyane. The message ended, every grudge foregone, 'Twas finally resolved between the twain, They should conclude a truce, and till the day The Moorish siege was raised, their strife delay. CXIII Intending, when from siege their Chivalry Shall be relieved -- the one and the other knight -- No longer to remain in company, But bandy cruel war was with fell despite, Until determined by their arms shall be To whom the royal dame belongs of right. And she, between whose hands their solemn troth They plighted, was security for both. CXIV DISCORD, at hearing this, impatient grew; With any truce or treaty ill content: And that such fair agreement should ensue, PRIDE, who was present, could as ill consent: But LOVE was there, more puissant than the two, Equalled of none in lofty hardiment; And launching from his bow his shafts of proof, With these, made PRIDE and DISCORD stand aloof. CXV To keep the truce the rival warriors swore; Since so it pleased her well, who either swayed. One of their coursers lacked: for on the moor Lifeless King Mandricardo's had been laid: Hence, thither, in good time, came Brigliador, Who, feeding, by the river's margin strayed. But here I find me at my canto's end; So, with your licence, shall the tale suspend. CANTO 25 ARGUMENT Rogero Richardetto from the pains Of fire preserves, doomed by Marsilius dead: He to Rogero afterwards explains Fully the cause while he to death was led. Them mournful Aldigier next entertains, And with them the ensuing morning sped, Vivian and Malagigi to set free; To Bertolagi sold for hire and fee. I Oh! mighty springs of war in youthful breast, Impetuous force of love, and thirst of praise! Nor yet which most avails is known aright: For each by turns its opposite outweighs. Within the bosom here of either knight, Honour, be sure, and duty strongly sways: For the amorous strife between them is delayed, Till to the Moorish camp they furnish aid. II Yet love sways more; for, save that the command Was laid upon them by their lady gay, Neither would in that battle sheathe the brand, Till he was crowned with the victorious bay; And Agramant might vainly with his band, For either knight's expected succour, stay. Then Love is not of evil nature still; -- He can at times do good, if often ill. III 'Twas now, suspending all their hostile rage, One and the other paynim cavalier, The Moorish host from siege to disengage, For Paris, with the gentle lady, steer; And with them goes as well that dwarfish page, Who tracked the footsteps of the Tartar peer, Till he had brought the warrior front to front, In presence with the jealous Rodomont. IV They at a mead arrived, where, in disport, Knights were reposing by a stream, one pair Disarmed, another casqued in martial sort; And with them was a dame of visage fair. Of these in other place I shall report, Not now; for first Rogero is my care, That good Rogero, who, as I have shown, Into a well the magic shield had thrown. V He from that well a mile is hardly gone Ere he a courier sees arrive at speed, Of those dispatched by King Troyano's son To knights whom he awaited in his need; From him Rogero hears that so foredone By Charles are those who hold the paynim creed, They will, save quickly succoured in the strife, As quickly forfeit liberty and life. VI Rogero stood awhile in pensive case, Whom many warring thoughts at once opprest; But neither fitted was the time nor place To make his choice, or judge what promised best. The courier he dismist, and turned his face Whither he with the damsel was addrest; Whom aye the Child so hurried on her way, He left her not a moment for delay. VII Pursuing thence their ancient road again, They reached a city, with the westering sun; Which, in the midst of France, from Charlemagne Marsilius had in that long warfare won: Nor them to interrupt or to detain, At drawbridge or at gate, was any one: Though in the fosse, and round the palisade, Stood many men, and piles of arms were laid. VIII Because the troop about that fortress see Accompanying him, the well-known dame, They to Rogero leave the passage free, Nor even question him from whence he came. Reaching the square, of evil company He finds it full, and bright with ruddy flame; And, in the midst, is manifest to view The youth condemned, with face of pallid hue. IX As on the stripling's face he turns his eyes, Which hangs declined and wet with frequent tear, Rogero thinks he Bradamant descries; So much the youth resembles her in cheer: More sure the more intently he espies Her face and shape: when thus the cavalier: "Or this is Bradamant, or I no more Am the Rogero which I was before. X "She hath adventured with too daring will, In rescue of the youth condemned to die; And, for the enterprise had ended ill, Hath there been taken, as I see. Ah! why Was she so hot her purpose to fulfil, That she must hither unattended hie! -- But I thank Heaven, that hither have I made: Since I am yet in time to lend her aid." XI He drew his falchion without more delay, (His lance was broken at the other town), And, though the unarmed people making way, Wounding flank, paunch, and bosom, bore them down. He whirled his weapon, and, amid the array, Smote some across the gullet, cheek, or crown. Screaming, the dissipated rabble fled; The most with cloven limbs or broken head. XII As while at feed, in full security, A troop of fowl along the marish wend, If suddenly a falcon from the sky Swoop mid the crowd, and one surprise and rend, The rest dispersing, leave their mate to die, And only to their own escape attend; So scattering hadst thou seen the frighted throng, When young Rogero pricked that crowd among. XIII Rogero smites the head from six or four, Who in escaping from the field are slow. He to the breast divides as many more, And countless to the eyes and teeth below. I grant no helmets on their heads they wore, But there were shining iron caps enow; And, if fine helmets did their temples press, His sword would cut as deep, or little less. XIV Such good Rogero's force and valour are, As never now-a-days in warrior dwell; Nor yet in rampant lion, nor in bear, Nor (whether home or foreign) beast more fell. Haply with him the earthquake might compare, Or haply the great devil -- not he of hell -- But he who is my lord's, who moves in fire, And parts heaven, earth, and ocean in his ire. XV At every stroke he never less o'erthrew Than one, and oftener two, upon the plain; And four, at once, and even five he slew; So that a hundred in a thought were slain. The sword Rogero from his girdle drew As knife cuts curd, divides their plate and chain. Falerina in Orgagna's garden made, To deal Orlando death, that cruel blade. XVI But to have forged that falchion sorely rued, Who saw her garden wasted by the brand. What wreck, what ruin then must have ensued, From this when wielded by such warrior's hand? If e'er Rogero force, e'er fury shewed, If e'er his mighty valour well was scanned, 'Twas here; 'twas here employed; 'twas here displayed; In the desire to give his lady aid. XVII As hare from hound unslipt, that helpless train Defends itself against the cavalier. Many lay dead upon the cumbered plain, And numberless were they who fled in fear. Meanwhile the damsel had unloosed the chain From the youth's hands, and him in martial gear Was hastening, with what speed she might, to deck, With sword in hand and shield about his neck. XVIII He, who was angered sore, as best he cou'd, Sought to avenge him of that evil crew; And gave such signal proofs of hardihood, As stamped him for a warrior good and true. The sun already in the western flood Had dipt his gilded wheels, what time the two, Valiant Rogero and his young compeer, Victorious issued, of the city clear. XIX When now Rogero and the stranger knight, Clear of the city-gates, the champaigne reach, The youth repays, with praises infinite, Rogero in kind mode and cunning speech, Who him, although unknown, had sought to right, At risk of life, and prays his name to teach That he may know to whom his thanks he owed For such a mighty benefit bestowed. XX "The visage of Bradamant I see, The beauteous features and the beauteous cheer." Rogero said; "and yet the suavity I of her well-known accents do not hear: Nor such return of thanks appears to be In place towards her faithful cavalier. And if in very sooth it is the same, How has the maid so soon forgot my name?" XXI In wary wise, intent the truth to find, Rogero said, "You have I seen elsewhere; And have again, and yet again, divined, Yet know I not, nor can remember where. Say it, yourself, if it returns to mind, And, I beseech, your name as well declare: Which I would gladly hear, in the desire To know whom I have rescued from the fire." XXII " -- Me, it is possible you may have seen, I know not when nor where (the youth replied); For I too range the world, in armour sheen, Seeking adventure strange on every side; Or haply it a sister may have been, Who to her waist the knightly sword has tied; Born with me at a birth; so like to view, The family discerns not who is who. XXIII "You not first, second, or even fourth will be, Who have in this their error had to learn; Nor father, brother, nor even mother me From her (such our resemblance) can discern. 'Tis true, this hair, which short and loose you see, In many guise, and hers, with many a turn, And in long tresses wound about her brow, Wide difference made between us two till now. XXIV "But since the day, that, wounded by a Moor In the head (a story tedious to recite) A holy man, to heal the damsel's sore, Cut short to the mid-ear her tresses bright, Excepting sex and name, there is no more One from the other to distinguish; hight I Richardetto am, Bradamant she; Rinaldo's brother and his sister we. XXV "And to displease you were I not afraid, You with a wonder would I entertain, Which chanced from my resemblance to the maid; Begun in pleasure, finishing in pain." He to whom nought more pleasing could be said, And to whose ears there was no sweeter strain That what in some sort on his lady ran, Besought the stripling so, that he began. XXVI "It so fell out, that as my sister through The neighbouring wood pursued her path, a wound Was dealt the damsel by a paynim crew, Which her by chance without a helmet found. And she was fain to trim the locks which grew Clustering about the gash, to maker her sound Of that ill cut which in her head she bore: Hence, shorn, she wandered through the forest hoar. XXVII "Ranging, she wandered to a shady font; Where, worn and troubled, she, in weary wise, Lit from her courser and disarmed her front, And, couched upon the greenwood, closed her eyes. A tale more pleasing than what I recount In story there is none, I well surmise: Thither repaired young Flordespine of Spain, Who in that wood was hunting with her train. XXVIII "And, when she found my sister in the shade, Covered, except her face, with martial gear, -- In place of spindle, furnished with the blade -- Believed that she beheld a cavalier: The face and manly semblance she surveyed, Till conquered was her heart: with courteous cheer She wooed the maid to hunt with her, and past With her alone into that hold at last. XXIX "When now she had her, fearless of surprise, Safe in a solitary place, that dame, By slow degrees, in words and amorous wise, Showed her deep-wounded heart; with sighs of flame, Breathed from her inmost breast, with burning eyes, She spake her soul sick with desire; became Now pale, now red; nor longer self-controlled, Ravished a kiss, she waxed so passing bold. XXX "My sister was assured the huntress maid Falsely conceited her a man to be; Nor in that need could she afford her aid; And found herself in sore perplexity. ` 'Tis better that I now dispel (she said) The foolish thought she feeds, and that in me The damsel should a gentle woman scan, Rather than take me for a craven man.' XXXI "And she said well: for cravenhood it were Befitting man of straw, not warrior true, With whom so bright a lady deigned to pair, So wonderous sweet and full of nectarous dew, To clack like a poor cuckow to the fair, Hanging his coward wing, when he should woo, Shaping her speech to this in wary mode, My sister that she was a damsel, showed; XXXII "That, like Camilla and like Hyppolite, Sought fame in battle-field, and near the sea, In Afric, in Arzilla, saw the light; To shield and spear enured from infancy. A spark this quenched not; nor yet burned less bright The enamoured damsel's kindled phantasy. Too tardy came the salve to ease the smart: So deep had Love already driven his dart. XXXIII "Nor yet less fair to her my sister's face Appeared, less fair her ways, less fair her guise; Nor yet the heart returned into its place, Which joyed itself within those dear-loved eyes. Flordespine deems the damsel's iron case To her desire some hope of ease supplies; And when she thinks she is indeed a maid, Laments and sobs, with mighty woe downweighed. XXXIV "He who had marked her sorrow and lament, That day, himself had sorrowed with the fair. `What pains (she said) did ever wight torment, So cruel, but that mine more cruel were? I need not to accomplish my intent, In other love, impure or pure, despair; The rose I well might gather from the thorn: My longing only is of hope forlorn. XXXV " `It 'twas thy pleasure, Love, to have me shent, Because by glad estate thine anger stirred, Thou with some torture might'st have been content On other lovers used; but never word Have I found written of a female bent On love of female, mid mankind or herd. Woman to woman's beauty still is blind; Nor ewe delights in ewe, nor hind in hind. XXXVI " `Tis only I, on earth, in air, or sea, Who suffer at thy hands such cruel pain; And this thou hast ordained, that I may be The first and last example in thy reign. Foully did Ninus' wife and impiously For her own son a passion entertain; Loved was Pasiphae's bull and Myrrha's sire; But mine is madder than their worst desire. XXXVII " `Here female upon male had set her will; Had hope; and, as I hear, was satisfied. Pasiphae the wooden cow did fill: Others, in other mode, their want supplied. But, had he flown to me, -- with all his skill, Dan Daedalus had not the noose untied: For one too diligent hath wreathed these strings; Even Nature's self, the puissantest of things.' XXXVIII "So grieves the maid, so goads herself and wears, And shows no haste her sorrowing to forego; Sometimes her face, sometimes her tresses tears, And levels at herself the vengeful blow. In pity, Bradamant the sorrow shares, And is constrained to hear the tale of woe, She studies to divert, with fruitless pain, The strange and mad desire; but speaks in vain. XXXIX "She, who requires assistance, not support, Still more laments herself, with grief opprest. By this the waning day was growing short, For the low sun was crimsoning the west; A fitting hour for those to seek a port, Who would not in the wood set up their rest. When to this city, near her sylvan haunt, Young Flordespine invited Bradament. XL "My sister the request could ill deny; And so they came together to the place, Where, but for you, by that ill squadron I Had been compelled the cruel flame to face: There Flordespina made her family Caress and do my sister no small grace; And, having in a female robe arraid, Past her on all beholders for a maid. XLI "Because perceiving vantage there was none In the male cheer by which she was misled, The damsel held it wise, reproach to shun, Which might by any carping tongue be said. And this the rather: that the ill, which one Of the two garments in her mind had bred, Now with the other which revealed the cheat, She would assay to drive from her conceit. XLII "The ladies share one common bed that night, Their bed the same, but different their repose. One sleeps, one groans and weeps in piteous plight, Because her wild desire more fiercely glows; And on her wearied eyes should slumber light, All is deceitful that brief slumber shows. To her it seems, as if relenting Heaven A better sex to Bradamant is given. XLIII "As the sick man with burning thirst distrest, If he should sleep, -- ere he that wish fulfil, -- Aye in his troubled, interrupted rest, Remembers him of every once-seen rill: So is the damsel's fancy still possest, In sleep, with images which glad her will. Then from the empty dreams which crowd her brain, She wakes, and, waking, finds the vision vain. XLIV "What vows she vowed, how oft that night she prayed, To all her gods and Mahound, in despair! -- That they, by open miracle, the maid Would change, and give her other sex to wear. But all the lady's vows were ill appaid, And haply Heaven as well might mock the prayer; Night fades, and Phoebus raises from the main His yellow head, and lights the world again. XLV "On issueing from their bed when day is broken, The wretched Flordespina's woes augment: For of departing Bradamant had spoken, Anxious to scape from that embarrassment. The princess a prime jennet, as a token, Forced on my parting sister, when she went; And gilded housings, and a surcoat brave, Which her own hand had richly broidered, gave. XLVI "Her Flordespine accompanied some way, Then, weeping, to her castle made return. So fast my sister pricked, she reached that day Mount Alban; we who for her absence mourn, Mother and brother, greet the martial may, And her arrival with much joy discern: For hearing nought, we feared that she was dead, And had remained in cruel doubt and dread. XLVII "Unhelmed, we wondered at her hair, which passed In braids about her brow, she whilom wore; Nor less we wondered at the foreign cast Of the embroidered surcoat which she wore: And she to us rehearsed, from first to last, The story I was telling you before; How she was wounded in the wood, and how, For cure, were shorn the tresses from her brow; XLVIII "And next how came on her, with labour spent, -- As by the stream she slept -- that huntress bright; And how, with all her false semblance well content, She from the train withdrew her out of sight. Nor left she any thing of her lament Untold; which touched with pity every wight; Told how the maid had harboured her, and all Which past, till she revisited her Hall. XLIX "Of Flordespine I knew: and I had seen In Saragossa and in France the maid; To whose bewitching eyes and lovely mien My youthful appetite had often strayed: Yet her I would not make my fancy's queen; For hopeless love is but a dream and shade: Now I this proffered in such substance view, Straitway the ancient flame breaks forth anew. L "Love, with this hope, constructs his subtle ties; Who other threads for me would vainly weave. 'Tis thus he took me, and explained the guise In which I might the long-sought boon achieve. Easy it were the damsel to surprise; For as the likeness others could deceive, Which I to Bradamant, my sister, bear, This haply might as well the maid ensnare. LI "Whether I speed or no, I hold it wise, Aye to pursue whatever give delight. I with no other of my plan devise, Nor any seek to counsel me aright. Well knowing where the suit of armour lies My sister doffed, I thither go at night; Her armour and her steed to boot I take, Nor stand expecting until daylight break. LII "I rode all night -- Love served me as a guide -- To seek the home of beauteous Flordespine; And there arrived, before in ocean's tide The western sun had hid his orbit sheen. A happy man was he who fastest hied To tell my coming to the youthful queen; Expecting from that lady, for his pain, Favour and goodly guerdon to obtain. LIII "For Bradamant the guests mistake me all, -- As you yourself but now -- so much the more, That I have both the courser and the pall With which she left them but the day before. Flordespine comes at little interval, With such festivity and courteous lore, And with a face, so jocund and so gay, She could not, for her life, more joy display. LIV "Her beauteous arms about my neck she throws, And fondly clasping me, my mouth she kist. If to my inmost heart the arrow goes, Which Love directs, may well by you be wist. She leads me to her chamber of repose In haste, not suffers others to assist In taking off my panoply of steel; Disarming me herself from head to heel. LV "Then, ordering from her store a costly vest, She spread it, and -- as I a woman were -- The lady me in that rich garment drest, And in a golden net confined my hair. I gravely moved my eye-balls, nor confest, By gesture or by look, the sex I bear. My voice, which might discover the deceit, I tuned so well that none perceived the cheat. LVI "Next to the hall, where dame and cavalier In crowds are gathered, we united go; Who make to us such court and goodly cheer, As men to queen or high-born lady show. Here oft I laughed at some, with secret jeer, Who, knowing not the sex concealed below My flowing robe of feminine array, Wooed me with wishful eyes in wanton way. LVII "When more advanced in now the festive night, And the rich board -- board plenteously purveyed With what in season was most exquisite -- Has been some time removed, the royal maid Expects not till I of myself recite The cause, which thither me anew conveyed: By her own courtesy and kindness led, That lady prays me to partake her bed. LVIII "Damsels and dames withdrawn -- with all the rest -- Pages and chamberlains, when now we lay, One and the other, in our bed undrest, With kindled torches, counterfeiting day; `Marvel not, lady,' (her I thus addrest,) `That I return after such short delay; For, haply, thou imagined, that again Thou shouldst not see me until Heaven knows when. LIX " `The reason I departed from thy side, And next of my return, explained shall be. Could I unto thy fever have applied, By longer sojourn here, a remedy, I in thy service would have lived and died, Nor would have been an hour away from thee: But seeing how my stay increased thy woe, I, who could do no better, fixed to go. LX " `Into the middle of a wood profound By chance I from the beaten pathway strayed: Where near me plaintive cries I hear resound, As of a woman who intreated aid. To a lake of crystal I pursue the sound, And, there, amid the waves, a naked maid Caught on the fish-hook of a Faun, survey, Who would devour alive his helpless prey. LXI " `Upon the losel, sword in hand, I ran, And, for I could not aid in other wise, Bereft of life that evil fisherman. She in an instant to the water flies. -- `Me hast thou helped not vainly,' (she began) And well shalt be rewarded -- with what prize Thou canst demand -- for know I am a nymph, And have my dwelling in this crystal lymph; LXII " `And power is mine to work portentous ends; Nature and Elements I force: thy prayer Shape to the scope to which my strength extends, And leave its satisfaction to my care. Charmed by my song the moon from Heaven descends; Fire can I freeze, and harden liquid air; And I at times have stopt the sun, and stirred This earth beneath me by a simple word.' LXIII "Treasure I covet not, nor yet aspire O'er land or people to hold sovereign sway; Nor greater strength nor valour would acquire, Nor fame in every warfare bear away; But only to accomplish thy desire, Entreat the damsel she will show some way. Nor one nor other method I forestall; But to her choice refer me, all in all. LXIV "Scarce my demand was made, before mine eye Beneath the lymph engulphed that lady viewed: Nor answered she my prayer, but, for reply, Me with the enchanted element bedewed; Which has no sooner touched my face than I, I know not how, am utterly transmewed: I see, I feel -- yet doubting what I scan -- Feel, I am changed from woman into man. LXV - LXIX (Stazas LXV - LXIX untranslated by Rose) LXX "The thing remained concealed between us two; So that our bliss endured some months; at last We were espied; and, as I sorely rue, The tidings to the Spanish monarch past. Thou that whilere preserved'st me from the crew, Which me into the flames designed to cast, By this mayst fully comprehend the rest; But God alone can read my sorrowing breast." LXXI So Richardetto spake, and by his say Made the dark path they trod less irksome be. Up a small height this while their journey lay, Girded with cliff and cavern, drear to see. Bristling with rocks, a steep and narrow way Was to that rugged hill the stubborn key; A town, called Agrismonte, crowned the steep, Which Aldigier of Clermont had in keep. LXXII Bastard of Buovo, brother to the pair, Sir Vivian and Sir Malagigi hight: Who him Gerardo's lawful son declare, Are witnesses of little worth and light. -- This, as it may! -- strong, valiant, wise, and ware, Liberal, humane, and courteous was the knight; And on the fortress of its absent lord, By night and day, kept faithful watch and ward. LXXIII His cousin Richardetto, as behoved, Was courteously received by Aldigier; Who him as dearly as a brother loved, And made Rogero for his sake good cheer; But not with wonted welcome; -- inly moved -- He even wore a visage sad and drear: For he, that day, ill-tidings had received, And hence in heart and face the warrior grieved. LXXIV To Richardetto he exclaims, instead Of greeting: "Evil news are hither blown. By a sure messenger, to-day I read That faithless Bertolagi of Bayonne, With barbarous Lanfusa has agreed, And costly spoils makes over to that crone; Who will consign to him the brethren twain, Thy Malagigi and thy Viviane; LXXV "These she, since Ferrau took them, aye has stayed Imprisoned in a dark and evil cell; Till the discourteous and foul pact was made With that false Maganzese of whom I tell; And them to-morrow, to a place conveyed 'Twixt Bayonne and a town of his, will sell To him, who will be present, to advance The price of the most precious blood in France. LXXVI "One, at a gallop, even now, to report Tidings to our Rinaldo of the wrong, I sent; bur fear that he can ill resort To him in time, the journey is so long. Men have I not to sally from my fort; And my power halts where my desire is strong. The traitor will the knights, if rendered, slay; Nor know I what to do nor what to say." LXXVII Sir Richardetto the ill news displease, And (as they him) displease in equal wise Rogero; who, when silent both he sees, Nor able any counsel to devise, Exclaims with mickle daring: "Be at ease; I challenge for myself the whole emprize; And, to set free your brethren, in my hand More than a thousand shall avail this brand. LXXVIII "I ask not men, I ask not aid; my spear Is, I believe, sufficient to the feat. I only ask of you a guide to steer Me to the place where for the exchange they meet: I even in this place will make you hear Their cries, who for that evil bargain threat." He said; nor to one listener of the twain, That had helped his actions, spake in vain. LXXIX The other heard him not, or heard at most As we great talkers hear, who little do: But Richardetto took aside their host And told how him he from the fire withdrew; And how he was assured, beyond his boast, He would in time and place his prowess shew. 'Twas now that better audience than before Aldigier lent, and set by him great store; LXXX And at the feast, where Plenty for the three Emptied her horn, him honoured as his lord. Here they conclude they can the brethren free Without more succour from their gaoler's ward. This while Sleep seized on lord and family, Save young Rogero: no repose afford To him the thoughts, which evermore molest, And, rankling in his bosom, banish rest. LXXXI The siege of Agramant, to him that day Told by the messenger, he has at heart. He well discerns that every least delay Will he dishonour. What a ceaseless smart Will scorn inflict, what shame will him appay, If he against his sovereign lord take part? Oh! what foul cowardice, how foul a crime His baptism will appear at such a time! LXXXII That true religion had the stripling swayed Men might at any other time conceive: But now, when needed was the warrior's aid From siege the Moorish monarch to relieve, That Fear and Baseness had more largely weighed, In his designs, would every one believe, That any preference of a better creed: This thought makes good Rogero's bosom bleed. LXXXIII Nor less to quit his Queen, her leave unsought, Did with Rogero's other griefs combine: Now this and now that care upon him wrought; Which diversely his doubtful heart incline: The unhappy lover fruitlessly had thought To find her at the abode of Flordespine; Whither together went (as told whilere) To succour Richardetto, maid and peer. LXXXIV He next bethinks him of the promise plight To meet at Vallombrosa's sanctuary, Deems her gone thither, and that 'twill excite Her wonderment himself not there to see. Could he at least a message send or write, That he with reason might not censured be, Because not only he had disobeyed, But was departing hence, and nothing said! LXXXV He, having thought on many things, in the end Resolves on writing what behoves; and, though He knows not how his letter he shall send, In the assurance it will safely go, This hinders not; he thinks that, as they wend, Chance in his way some faithful Post may throw; Nor more delays: up leaps the restless knight, And calls for pen and paper, ink and light. LXXXVI That which is needed, in obedience meet, Aldigier's valets bring, a careful band, The youth begins to write; and, first, to greet The maid, as wonted courtesies demand; Next tells how Agramant has sent to entreat, In his dispatches, succour at his hand; And, save he quickly to his comfort goes, Must needs be slain or taken by his foes. LXXXVII Then adds, his sovereign being so bested, And praying him for succour in his pain, She must perceive what blame upon his head Would light, if Agramant applied in vain; And, since with her he is about to wed, 'Tis fitting he should keep him with stain; For ill he deems a union could endure Between aught foul and her to passing pure. LXXXVIII And if he erst a name, renowned and clear, Had laboured to procure by actions fair, And having gained it thus, he held it dear, -- If this had sought to keep -- with greater care He kept it now, -- and with a miser's fear Guarded the treasure she with him would share; Who, though distinct in body and in limb, When wedded, ought to be one soul with him; LXXXIX And, as he erst by word, he now explained Anew by writing, that the period o'er, For which he was to serve his king constrained, Unless it were his lot to die before, He would in deed a Christian be ordained, As in resolve he had been evermore; And of her kin, Rinaldo and her sire, Her afterwards in wedlock would require. XC "I would," he said, "relieve, with your good will, My king, besieged by Charlemagne's array, That the misjudging rabble, prone to ill, Might never, to my shame and scandal, say: Rogero, in fair wind and weather, still Waited upon his sovereign, night and day, And now that Fortune to King Charles is fled, Has with that conquering lord his ensign spread.' XCI "I fifteen days or twenty ask, that I Yet once again may to our army speed; So that, by me from leaguering enemy The African cantonments may be freed: I will some fit and just occasion spy, Meanwhile, to justify my change of creed, I for my honour make this sole request; Then wholly yours for life, in all things, rest." XCII Rogero is such words his thoughts exposed, Which never could by me be fully showed; And added more, nor from his task reposed, Until the crowded paper overflowed: He next the letter folded and enclosed, And sealed it, and within his bosom stowed; In hopes to meet next morning by the way One who might covertly that writ convey. XCIII When he had closed the sheet, that amorous knight His eyelids closed as well, and rest ensued: For Slumber came and steeped his wearied might In balmy moisture, from a branch imbued With Lethe's water; and he slept till -- white And red -- a rain of flowers the horizon strewed, Painting the joyous east with colours gay; When from her golden dwelling broke the day: XCIV And when the greenwood birds 'gan, far and wide, Greet the returning light with gladsome strain, Sir Aldigier (who wished to be the guide, Upon that journey, of the warlike twain, Who would in succour of those brethren ride, To rescue them from Bertolagi's chain) Was first upon his feet; and either peer Issues as well from bed, when him they hear. XCV When clad and thoroughly in arms arrayed -- Rogero with the cousins took his way, Having that pair already warmly prayed The adventure on himself alone to lay: But these, by love for those two brethren swayed, And deeming it discourtesy to obey, Stood out against his prayer, more stiff than stone, Nor would consent that he should wend alone. XCVI True to the time and place of change, they hie Whither Sir Aldigier's advices teach; And there survey an ample band who lie Exposed to fierce Apollo's heat; in reach, Nor myrtle-tree nor laurel they descry, Nor tapering cypress, ash, nor spreading beech: But naked gravel with low shrubs discerned, Undelved by mattock and by share unturned. XCVII Those three adventurous warriors halted where A path went through the uncultivated plain, And saw a knight arrive upon the lair, Who, flourished o'er with gold, wore plate and chain, And on green field that beauteous bird and rare, Which longer than an age extends its reign. No more, my lord: for at my canto's close I find myself arrived, and crave repose. CANTO 26 ARGUMENT Of mighty matters, sculptured in a font, Does Malagigi to his comrades tell: On them come Mandricardo and Rodomont, And forthwith battle follows fierce and fell. Discord goes scattering quarrel and affront Amid the crew: but whither, forced by spell, Fair Doralice upon her palfrey speeds, The Tartar king, and Sarzan, turn their steeds. I In former ages courteous ladies were, Who worshipt virtue, and not worldly gear. Women in this degenerate age are rare, To whom aught else but sordid gain is dear; But they who real goodness make their care, Nor with the avaricious many steer, In this frail life are worthy to be blest, -- Held glorious and immortal when at rest. II Bradamant well would deathless praise inherit, Who nor in wealth nor empire took delight; But in Rogero's worth, excelling spirit, In his unbounded gentlesse; and aright For this did good Duke Aymon's daughter merit To be beloved of such a valorous knight; Who, what might be for miracles received, In future ages, for her sake achieved. III He, with those two of Clermont, as whilere To you I in the former canto said, I say with Richardet and Aldigier, Was gone, to give the prisoned brethren aid: I told, as well how they a cavalier Of haughty look approaching had surveyed, Who bore that noble bird, by fiery birth Renewed, and ever single upon earth. IV When those three of that warrior were espied, Poised on the wing, as if about to smite, He fain by proof their prowess would have tried, And if their semblance tallied with their might. "Is there, among you, one," the stranger cried, "Will prove upon me, which is best in fight, With lance or sword, till one to ground be cast, While in the sell his foe is seated fast?" V " -- I, at your choice," said Aldigier, "were fain To flourish faulchion, or to tilt with spear; But this with feat, which, if you here remain, Yourself may witness, so would interfere, That for the present parley time with pain Suffices, and yet less for the career. Six hundred men, or more, we here attend, With whom we must to-day in arms contend. VI "Two of our own to rescue from their foes, And free from chains, us Love and Pity sway." He to that stranger next the reason shows Why thus in steel their bodies they array. "So just is the excuse which you oppose," -- He answered -- "that I ill should this gainsay, And hold you surely for three cavaliers That seldom upon earth will find their peers. VII "With you a lance or two I would have crost To prove how great your prowess in the field; But, since 'tis shown me at another's cost, Forego the joust, and to your reasons yield. Warmly I pray your leave against that host, To join with your good arms this helm and shield; And hope, if suffered of your band to be, No worthless comrade shall you find in me." VIII Some one, meseems, may crave the stranger's name, Who thus the champions on their road delayed, And so to partnership in arms laid claim With those three warriors, for the strife arrayed: SHE -- style no more a man that martial dame -- Marphisa was; that on Zerbino laid The task to bear about, against his will, Ribald Gabrina, prone to every ill. IX The two of Clermont and their bold compeer Gladly received her succour in their cause, Whom certes they believed a cavalier, And not a damsel, and not what she was. A banner was espied by Aldigier And shown the others, after little pause, Which by the wavering wind was blown about, And round about it ranged a numerous rout. X And when, now nearer, the advancing crew Were better marked in Moorish habit stoled, For Saracens the stranger band they knew; And they upon two sorry jades behold, I' the middle of that troop, the prisoners, who Were to the false Maganza to be sold. Marphisa cries, "Why is the feast delayed, When lo! the guests are here, for whom we stayed?" XI -- "Not all," Rogero said, "Of the array Invited, lacks as yet a numerous part: A solemn festival is held to-day, And we. to grace it more, use every art: Yet they can now but little more delay." While thus they parley, they from other part Descry the treacherous Maganzese advance; So all was ready to begin the dance. XII They of Maganza from one quarter steer, And laden mules beneath their convoy go, Bearing vest, gold, and other costly gear. On the other side, mid faulchion, spear, and bow, Approached the captive two with doleful cheer, Who found themselves awaited by the foe; And false and impious Bertolagi heard, As with the Moorish captain he conferred. XIII Nor Buovo's nor Duke Aymon's valiant son Can hold, when that false Maganzese they view; Against him both with rested lances run: He falls the victim of those furious two, Through belly and through pummel pierced by one, And by the other, in mid visage, through His bleeding cheeks: may like disastrous fate O'erwhelm all evil doers, soon or late! XIV Marphisa with Rogero moved her horse At this, nor waited other trumpet-strain; Nor broke her lance in her impetuous course, Till in succession three had prest the plain. A mark well worthy fierce Rogero's force, The paynim leader in a thought is slain; And with him, pierced by the same weapon, go Two others to the gloomy realms below. XV 'Twas hence a foul mistake the assaulted made; It caused their utter loss, and ruined all: They of Maganza deemed themselves betrayed By the infidels, upon their leader's fall: On the other side, so charged with hostile blade, The Moors those Maganzese assassins call; And, with fierce slaughter, either angry horde 'Gan bend bow, and brandish lance and sword. XVI Rogero, charging this, or the other band, Slays ten or twenty, shifting his career; No fewer by the warlike damsel's hand Are slaughtered and extinguished, there and here: As many men as feel the murderous brand Are from the saddle seen to disappear: Before it vanish cuirass, helms and shields, As the dry wood to fire in forest yields. XVII If ever you remember to have viewed, Or heard, -- what time the wasps divided are, And all the winged college is at feud, Mustering their swarms for mischief in mid air, -- The greedy swallow swoop amid that brood, To mangle and devour, and kill, and tear, You must imagine so, on either part The bold Rogero and Marphisa dart. XVIII Not so Sir Richardet and Aldigier, Varied the dance between those squadrons twain; For, heedless of the Moors, each cavalier Had but an eye to false Maganza's train. The brother of Rinaldo, Charles's peer, Much courage added to much might and main; And these were now redoubled by the spite, Which against false Maganza warmed the knight. XIX This cause made him who in his fury shared, Good Buovo's bastard, seems a lion fell; He, without pause, each trusty helmet pared With his good blade, or crushed it like the shell Of brittle egg: and who would not have dared -- Would not have shown a Hector's worth as well, Having two such companions in the stower, Of warlike wights the very choice and flower? XX Marphisa, waging all the while the fight, On her companions often turned to gaze, And as she marked their rivalry in might, Admiring, upon all bestowed her praise; But when she on Rogero fixed her sight, Deemed him unparalleled; and in amaze, At times believed that Paladin was Mars, Who left his heaven to mix in mortal wars. XXI She marvels at the champion's horrid blows; She marvels how in vain they never fell. The iron, smit by Balisarda shows Like paper, not like stubborn plate and shell. To pieces helm and solid corslet goes, And men are severed, even to the sell; Whom into equal parts those strokes divide, Half dropt on this, and half on the other side. XXII With the same downright stroke, he overbore The horse and rider, bleeding in the dust; The heads of others from their shoulders bore, And parted from the hips the bleeding bust. He often at a blow cleft five and more; And -- but I doubt who hears me might distrust What of a seeming falsehood bears the impress -- I would say more; but I parforce say less. XXIII Good Turpin, he who knows that he tells true, And leaves men to believe what they think right, Says of Rogero wondrous things, which you Hearing related, would as falsehoods slight. Thus, with Marphisa matched, that hostile crew Appears like ice, and she like burning light. Nor her Rogero with less marvel eyes, That she had marked his valour with surprise. XXIV As she had Mars in bold Rogero seen, Perhaps Bellona he had deemed the maid, If for a woman he had known that queen, Who seemed the contrary, in arms arrayed; And haply emulation had between The pair ensued, by whom with cruel blade Most deadly signs of prowess should be shown, Mid that vile herd, on sinew, flesh and bone. XXV To rout each hostile squadron, filled with dread, Sufficed the soul and valour of the four; Nor better arms remained for them who fled Than the sharp goads which on their heels they wore. Happy was he with courser well bested! By trot or amble they set little store; And he who had no steed, here learned, dismayed, How wretched is the poor foot-soldier's trade. XXVI The conqueror's prize remained both field and prey; Nor was there footman left nor muleteer; The Moor took this, Maganza took that way; One leaves the prisoners, and one leaves the gear. With visage glad, and yet with heart more gay, The four united each captive cavalier; Nor were less diligent to free from chains The prisoned pages, and unload the wains. XXVII Besides good quantity of silver fine, Wrought into different vessels, with a store Of feminine array, of fair design, Embroidered round about with choicest lore, And suit of Flemish tapestry, framed to line Royal apartments, wrought with silk and ore -- -- They, 'mid more costly things in plenty spread -- Discovered flasks of wine, and meat and bread. XXVIII When now the conquering troop their temples bare, All see they have received a damsel's aid, Known by her curling locks of golden hair, And delicate and beauteous face displayed: Her the knights honoured much, and to declare Her name, so well deserving glory, prayed; Nor she, that ever was of courteous mood Among her friends, their instances withstood. XXIX With viewing her they cannot sate their eyes, Who in the battle such had her espied, She speaks but with the Child, but him descries; None prizes, values none, 'twould seem, beside. Meanwhile that ready spread a banquet lies, To them is by the servants notified. This they had served about a neighbouring fountain, Screened from the sun by an o'ershadowing mountain. XXX This spring was one of those four fountains rare, Of those in France produced by Merlin's sleight; Encompassed round about with marble fair, Shining and polished, and then milk more white. There in the stone choice figures chisseled were, By that magician's godlike labour dight; Save voice was wanting, these you might have thought Were living and with nerve and spirit fraught. XXXI Here, to appearance, from the forest prest A cruel Beast and hideous to the eye, With teeth of wolf, an ass's head and crest, A carcass with long famine lean and dry, And lion's claws; a fox in all the rest: Which seemed to ravage France and Italy, And Spain and England's desolated strands, Europe and Asia, and in fine all lands. XXXII The beast the low and those of proudest port Had slain or maimed throughout this earthly ball; Yea, fiercest seemed on those of noble sort, Sovereign and satrap, prince and peer, to fall; And made most havoc in the Roman court; For it had slaughtered Pope and Cardinal: Had filled St. Peter's beauteous seat with scathe, And brought foul scandal on the HOLY FAITH. XXXIII Whate'er she touches, wall or rampire steep, Goes to the ground' where'er the monster wends, Each fortress opens; neither castle-keep, Nor city from her rage its wealth defends. Honours divine as well that Beast would reap, It seems (while the besotted rabble bends) And claim withal, as to its keeping given, The sacred keys which open Hell and Heaven. XXXIV Approaching next, is seen a cavalier, His temples circled with imperial bay; Three youths with him in company appear, With golden lilies wrought in their array: A lion seems against that monster drear To issue, with the same device as they: The name of these are on the marble read, Some on their skirt, some written overhead. XXXV Of those who so against Beast advance, One to the hilt has in his life-blood dyed His faulchion, Francis styled the first of France; With Austrian Maximilian at his side: In one, who gores his gullet with the lance, The emperor Charles the fifth is signified: Henry the eighth of England is he hight, Who in the monster's breast a dart has pight. XXXVI The TENTH, in writing, on his back displayed The Lion, who that Beast is seen to hold By both his ears, and him so well has bayed, That thither troop assistants manifold. 'Twould seem the world all fear aside has laid; And, in amendment of their errors old, Thitherward nobles troop, but these are few; And so that hideous Beast those hunters slew. XXXVII In wonder stood long time that warlike train, Desirous, as the storied work they traced, To know by hands of whom that Beast was slain, Which had so many smiling lands defaced, The names unknown to them, though figured plain Upon the marble which that fountain cased: They one another prayed, if any guessed That story, he would tell it to the rest. XXXVIII Vivian on Malagigi turned his eyes, Who listening stood this while, yet spake he nought. "With thee," he cried, "to tell the meaning lies, Who are they, by whose darts and lances dies That shouldst by what I see in this be taught: The hideous monster, that to bay is brought?" -- And Malagigi -- "Hitherto their glory No author has consigned to living story. XXXIX "The chiefs whose names are graved upon the stone, Not yet have moved upon this worldly stage; But will within seven hundred years be known, To the great honour of a future age. What time king Arthur filled the British throne, This fountain Merlin made, enchanter sage; Who things to come upon the marble fair Made sculpture by a cunning artist's care. XL "This Beast, when weights and measures first were found, Came out of nether hell; when on the plain, Common before, men fixed the landmark's bound, And fashioned written pacts with jealous pain; Yet walked not every where, at first, her round: Unvisited she left yet many a reign: Through diverse places in our time she wends; But the vile rabble and the crowd offends. XLI "From the beginning even to our day, Aye has that monster grown, and aye will grow; And till much time be past will grow alway: Was never mightier, nor worse cause of woe. That Python, oft the theme of ancient lay, So passing wonderful and fierce in show, Came not by half this loathsome monster nigh, In all its foulness and deformity. XLII "Dread desolation shall it make; nor place Will unpolluted or untainted be; And you in the mysterious sculptured trace But little of its foul iniquity. The world, when weary of imploring grace, Those worthy peers (whose names you sculptured see, And which shall blazing carbuncle outshine), To succour in its utmost need combine. XLIII "No one shall more that cruel beast molest Than Francis, who the realm of France will steer, Who justly shall be forward in this quest, Whom none shall go beyond, whom few shall peer Since he in splendour, as in all the rest, Wanting in worth, will many make appear Who whilom perfect seemed; so fade and yield All lesser glories to the sun revealed. XLIV "In the first year of his successful reign, The crown yet ill secure upon his front, He threads the Alps, and makes their labour vain, Who would against his arms maintain the Mount. Impelled by generous and by just disdain, The unavenged as yet is that affront, Which a French army suffered from their rage, Who poured from beast-cote, field, and pasturage: XLV "And thence shall into the rich Lombard plain Descend, with all the flower of France, and so Shall break the Switzer, that henceforth in vain Would he uplift his horn against the foe. To the sore scandal of the Church and Spain, And to the Florentine's much scathe and woe, By him that famous castle shall be quelled, Which inexpugnable whilere was held. XLVI "In quelling it his honoured faulchion, more Than other arms, availing shall be found; Which first that cruel Beast to death will gore, The foul destroyer of each country round: Parforce will every standard fly before That conquering faulchion, or be cast to ground: Nor, stormed by it, will rampart, fosse, or wall, Secure the city, they surround, from fall. XLVII "Imbued with every generous quality, Which can in great commander be combined, -- Prudence like his who won Thrasymenae And Trebbia's field, with Caesar's daring mind, And Alexander's fortune, him I see; Without which all designs are mist and wind; Withal, so passing liberal, I in none Mark his example or his parragon." XLVIII So Malagigi to his comrades said, And moved in them desire some name to hear Of others, who had laid that monster dead, Which to slay others had been used whilere. Among the first Bernardo's name was read, Much vaunted in the writing of the Seer: Who said, "Through him as known as Bibbiena As her own neighbour Florence and Siena. XLIX "More forward in this chase shall no one show Than Sigismond, than Lewis, and than John; Each to that hideous beast a cruel foe; One a Gonzaga, one of Arragon, And one a Salviati: with them go Francis Gonzaga and Frederick his son: Brother and son-in-law, their aid afford; One chief Ferrara's, one Urbino's lord. L "Of one of these the son, Sir Guidobald, Will not by sire, or other, distanced be: With Ottobon de Flisco, Sinibald Chases the Beast, both striving equally: Lewis de Gazolo its neck has galled With one of those keen darts, Apollo's fee, Given with his bow, what time as well his glaive, The god of war, to gird that warrior, gave. LI "Two Hercules and two Hippolyti Of Este, a Hercules and Hippolyte Of the Gonzagas' and the Medici, Hunt and fatigue the monster in his flight: Nor Julian lets his good son pass him by; Nor bold Ferrant his brother; nor less wight Is Andrew Doria; nor by any one Is Francis Sforza in the chase outdone. LII "Of good Avalo's glorious lineage bred, Two chiefs that mountain for their bearing show, Which, hiding him, from dragon-feet to head, The wicked Typheus seems to keep below. 'Mid those combined, to lay the monster dead, Shall none more forward than this couple go: Him Francis of Pescara names the text; Alphonso, hight of Guasto, is the next. LIII "But where leave I Gonsalvo Ferrant, who Is held in such esteem, the pride of Spain? So praised by Malagigi, that him few Equal among the worthies of that train. William, surnamed of Monferrato, view 'Mid those that have the hideous monster slain: But these are few compared with numbers round, Whom that despiteous Beast shall kill or wound." LIV To converse gay the friends themselves addrest, And seemly pastimes, when their meal was done, Through the hot noontide, and fine carpets prest, 'Mid shrubs, by which the limpid river run. Vivian and Malagigi, that the rest Might be more tranquil, watched with armour on; When unaccompanied they saw a dame, Who quickly towards their place of shelter came; LV Hippalca she; from whom was torn away Frontino, that good horse, by Rodomont: Him had she long pursued the former day, And now with prayer, now followed with affront. Which booting nought, she had retraced her way, To seek Rogero out in Agrismont; And, how I know not, heard upon her round, He here with Richardetto would be found. LVI And, for to her well known was that repair, Used by her often, she herself addrest Towards the fount, and in that quarter fair Found him, and in what manner, was exprest; But like embassadress, who -- wise and ware -- Better than was enjoined performs a hest, When Richardetto she beheld, made show As if she good Rogero did not know. LVII She turned her wholly to Sir Richardet, As bound direct to him; and, on his side, He who well knew her, straight uprose and met, And asked that damsel whitherward she hied. Hippalca, with her eyes yet red and wet From her long weeping, sighing deeply, cried, But cried aloud, that young Rogero, near The warrior she addrest, her tale might hear: LVIII "I from Mount Alban with a courser sped; (So your good sister had commanded me) A horse much loved by her, and highly bred; Frontino is yclept that charger free; And him I more than thirty miles had led Towards Marseilles, where she designed to be Within few days; by her enjoined to wend Thither, and her arrival there attend. LIX "I in the sure belief pursued my course, Was none so stout of heart, if I should say How Sir Rinaldo's sister owned the horse, He would presume to take that steed away. But vain was my design; for him parforce A Saracen took from me yesterday: Nor, when to him his master's name I read, Will that bold robber render back the steed. LX "Him I to-day and all the day before Have prayed, and prayer and menace proving vain, Aye cursing him and execrating sore, Have left at little distance; where, with pain, Both to his courser and himself, the Moor, As best he can, a combat does maintain Against a knight, who him so hard has prest, I trust my injury shall be redrest." LXI At this Rogero, leaping on his feet, Who scarcely had endured the whole to hear, To Richardetto turned; and, as a meet Guerdon for his good deed, the cavalier Did, with beseechings infinite, entreat To let him singly with that damsel steer, Until she showed the paynim, who by force Had wrested from her hands that goodly horse. LXII Richardet (though it seems discourtesy To yield to other champion that emprize, Which by himself should terminated be) Yet with Rogero's earnest suit complies; Who takes farewell of that good company, And with the damsel on her journey hies. And leaves those others, whom his feats confound, Not merely lost in wonder, but astoud. LXIII To him Hippalca said, when she apart Had drawn him to some distance from the rest, She was dispatched by her that in her heart Bore of his worth the image so imprest; -- And added, without using farther art, All that her lady had to him addrest; And if she told another tale whilere, Of Richardetto she was then in fear. LXIV She added how the author of that deed Had also said to her with mickle pride; "Because I know Rogero owns the steed, More willingly I take him from his guide. If he would repossess the courser, read To him what I have no desire to hide, I am that Rodomont, whose martial worth Scatters its splendour through this ample earth." LXV Listening, the visage of the youthful knight Showed with what rage his heart was in a flame, As well as that the horse was his delight; As well upon account of whence it came; And also that 'twas reft in his despite; He sees dishonour will ensue and blame, Save he from Rodomont redeems the prey, And with a due revenge that wrong repay. LXVI With him, without repose, the damsel rides, Who with his foe would bring him front to front; And thither journies where the road divides, And one branch cuts the plain, one climbs the mount, And either pathway to that valley guides, Where she had newly left King Rodomont, The mountain track was short, but trod with pain; That other longer far, but smooth and plain. LXVII Hippalca's ardour to retrieve the prey, And upon Rodomont's avenge the wrong, Incites that maid the mountain to assay; By which (as said) the journey was less long: While Mandricardo, Rodomont, and they Of whom I erst made mention in my song, That easier track across the level hold; And thus encounter not Rogero bold. LXVIII Until King Agramant shall succoured be, Suspended is their quarrel (in what wise You know), and in the champions' company Doralice, cause of all their discord, hies. Now hear the upshot of this history! Their way directly by that fountain lies, Beside whose margin are in pastime met Marphisa and Aldigier and Richardet. LXIX Marphisa had, at her companions' prayer, Cloathed her in female ornaments and vest, Of those, which by Maganza's traitour were Late to Lanfusa, in full trust, addrest; And, though the appearance of that maid was rare Without her corslet, casque and all the rest, -- At their entreaty, these for once laid down -- She deigned to seem a maid and donned the gown. LXX As soon as Mandricardo saw her face, In trust that, could he win her in affray, He would that maid, in recompense and place Of Doralice, to Rodomont convey; As if Love trafficked in such contracts base, And lover could his lady change away, Nor yet with reason at the event be pained, If he in losing one another gained. LXXI Hence with a damsel to provide the peer, That he himself the other may retain; Deeming her worthy any cavalier, He would by force of arms the maid obtain; And, as if he could suddenly hold dear This maid as that, on him bestow the gain; And all of those, whom he about her spied, Forthwith to joust and single fight defied. LXXII Vivian and Malagigi (who were dight In arms, as guard and surety for the rest,) One and the other champion -- prompt for fight, Rose lightly from the herbage which they prest, Deeming they had to joust with either knight; But Rodomont, who came not on this quest, No motion made as he a course would run; So that they had to tourney but with one. LXXIII Sir Vivian is the first who moves his horse, With mighty heart, and lays his weapon low; And he, that Tartar king, renowned for force, With greater puissance meets the coming foe. His lance each warrior levels in the course Where he bests trusts to plant the furious blow. Vainly Sir Vivian's spear the casque offends; Nor throws that paynim knight, nor even bends. LXXIV That Tartar's harder weapon makes the shield Of Vivian, at their onset, fly like grass; And, tumbling from his saddle on the field, Extends the champion amid flowers and grass. To run his chance Sir Malagigi, steeled, Did to his brother's succour quickly pass; But (such that warrior's hurry to be near) Rather accompanied, than venged the peer. LXXV The other of those brethren armed before His cousin, and had backed his courser wight; And, having first defied, encountered sore, Spurring with flowing rein, the stranger knight. Against the tempered helm that pagan wore Sounded the blow, an inch below the sight: Heaven-high the truncheon flew, in fragments broke, But the stout pagan winced not for the stroke. LXXVI Him on the left side smote that paynim peer, And (for the blow was with huge force designed) Little his shield, and less his iron gear, Availed, which opened like the yielding rhind: The weapon pierced his shoulder; Aldigier Now right now left upon his horse inclined; Then him, 'mid grass and flowers, his comrades view, With arms of crimson, face of pallid, hue. LXXVII Next Richardetto comes, and for the blow Intended, levels such a mighty lance, He showed himself, as he was wont to show, Worthy to be a paladin of France; And has stamped signs of this upon the foe. If he had warred on him with equal chance; But prostrate rolled, encumbered by his steed; Nor fell the courser through his lord's misdeed. LXXVIII When knight appeared not on the other side, Who should in joust the paynim king affront, He thought the damsel was his prize, and hied Thither, where she was seated by the fount. And -- "Lady, you are mine," the Tartar cried, "Save other champion in your succour mount; Nor can you make denial or excuse, Since such the right of war and common use." LXXIX Marphisa raised her face with haughty cheer, And answered him: "Thy judgment wanders far; I will concede thy sentence would be clear, Concluding I am thine by right of war, If either were my lord or cavalier Of those, by thee unhorsed in bloody jar: Nor theirs am I, nor other's, but my own, Who wins me, wins me from myself alone. LXXX "I too with lance and sword do doughty deed, And more than one good knight on earth have laid. -- Give me," she cried, "my armour and my steed." And readily her squires that hest obeyed: Then in her waistcoat stood, of flowing weed Despoiled, with well-knit from and charms displayed; And in all points (such strength she shewed and grace) Resembled heavenly Mars, except her face. LXXXI The damsel donned her sword, when armed all o'er, And on her courser leapt with nimble spring; And, right and left, she made him, thrice or more Poised on his haunches, turn in narrow ring. And, levelling the sturdy lance she bore, Defied, and next assailed, the Tartar king. So combating with Peleus' son, of yore, Penthesilaea warred on Trojan shore. LXXXII Like brittle crystal, in that proud career, The weapons at the rest to pieces went; Yet neither of those warriors, 'twould appear, Backwards one inch at their encounter bent. Marphisa, who would willingly be clear What of a closer fight would be the event, For a new combat with the paynim lord, Wheeled, to attack that warrior with the sword. LXXXIII That Tartar cursed the elements and sky, When her he saw remaining in her sell; And she, who thought to make his buckler fly, Cursed heaven as loudly as that infidel. Already were their faulchions raised on high, Which on the enchanted arms like hammers fell: Enchanted arms both combatants enclose, Never more needed by those deadly foes. LXXXIV So perfect are the champions' plate and chain, They thrust or cut of spear or faulchion stay; So that the two the battle might maintain, Throughout this and throughout another day: But Rodomont leaps in between the twain, And taxes Mandricardo with delay; Crying, "If battle here is to be done, Finish we that which we to-day begun. LXXXV "We made a truce, thou knowest, upon pact Of furnishing our baffled forces aid; Nor foe in joust or fight can be attacked By us with justice till this debt be paid." Then to Marphisa he in reverent act Addressed himself, and of that courier said; And next recounted to the martial dame, How seeking aid for Agramant he came. LXXXVI Next prays not only with that Tartar knight She will abandon or defer the fray; But that, Troyano's valiant son to right, She will, together with them, wend her way; By which her warlike fame a higher flight, More easily may, even to heaven, assay, Than in a quarrel of such paltry guise, Which offers hindrance to such fair emprize. LXXXVII Marphisa, who had evermore in thought To prove the paladins of Charles, and who To France was over land and ocean brought, From clime so distant, with no other view, Than by her own experience to be taught If their far-spread renown were false or true, Resolved together with the troop to speed, As soon as she had heard their monarch's need. LXXXVIII Meanwhile Rogero, with that guiding may, Had vainly by the rugged pathway sped; Who that king Rodomont another way Had taken, when he reached the mountain, read; And thinking, that he was not far away, And the road straight towards that fountain led, Trotting in haste behind the Sarzan hied, Where he new prints upon the path espied. LXXXIX Hippalca he to Mont Albano prayed, To wend, which distant one day's journey lies; Because to seek anew that fountain-glade, Would be to wander in too wide a guise. And that she need not doubt withal, he said, But that he would retrieve the ravished prize. And, were she in Mount Alban -- or where'er -- Vowed she the tidings speedily should hear, XC And gave the letter to that maid to bear, Which, writ by him, he in his bosom wore, And added many matters, with the prayer, She would excuse him by her friendly lore. Hippalca in her memory fixt, with care, The whole; took leave, and turned her horse once more: Nor ceased that faithful messenger to ride Till she Mount Alban reached at evening-tide. XCI Rogero followed fast the paynim knight, Tracked o'er the level by those footsteps new, But overtook him not, till he got sight, Beside the fount, of Mandricardo too. Already either had his promise plight, He nought unknown to his compeer would do, Till they had succour to that host conveyed, On which King Charles his yoke had nearly laid. XCII Arrived, Rogero knew Frontino gay, And, through that courser, knew the knight astride; And on his lance with bending shoulder lay, And in fierce tone the African defied. Job was outdone by Rodomont that day, In that the king subdued his haughty pride, And the fell fight which he had ever used To seek with every instance, he refused. XCII The first day this and last, that e'er in fight King Rodomont refused his part to bear! But his desire appeared to him so right, In succour of his sovereign to repair; That if he had believed he clutched the knight Faster than nimble leopard gripes the hare, He not so far his purpose would forego, As on his prey to waste a passing blow. XCIV Add, that he knows Rogero is the peer Who him for good Frontino now assails; -- So famous, that no other cavalier Like him such eminence of glory scales; -- The man, of whom he gladly would be clear, By proof, how much in battle he avails: Yet shuns the combat, proffered on his part; So much his monarch's siege has he at heart. XCV Three hundred miles, a thousand, would he ride, -- Were it not so -- to purchase such affray; But he, if him Achilles had defied, Had done no otherwise than as I say; So deeply did the covering ashes hide That fire beneath, whose fury stifled lay: He told why he refused the strife; and prayed, As well Rogero the design to aid. XCVI Adding that he, in doing so, would do What to his lord a faithful vassal owes; Still, when the siege was raised, might they renew And terminate their deadly strife by blows. To him Rogero cried, "The fight with you I freely will defer, till from his foes King Agramant be rescued by the sword; Provided first Frontino be restored. XCVII "Would you that I delay to prove by deed, That you have acted in unworthy sort, -- Nor did, like valiant man, to take my steed Thus from a woman -- till we meet at court, Render me my Frontino back, or read, Upon no other ground, will I support That battle shall not be between us two; Nor will accord an hour of truce to you." XCVIII While of that African he so demands Frontino, or him threats with instant fray; And either still the other's claim withstands, Nor this the steed will grant, nor that delay; King Mandricardo stirs, on the other hand, Another strife; who sees that ensign gay Rogero on his shield was wont to wear, The bird which reigns o'er other fowls of air. XCIX He bore on azure field that eagle white, The beauteous ensign of the Trojan throng: Such glorious bearing showed that youthful knight, Because he drew his line from Hector strong. But Mandricardo knew not of this right, Nor would endure -- and deemed a crying wrong, That any other but himself should wield Famed Hector's argent eagle on his shield. C King Mandricardo is like blazon wore The bird of Ide, which bore off Ganymede: How in the castle perilous of yore, He gained that noble ensign for his meed, -- That enterprize I ween, with matter more, You bear in mind, and how, for his good deed, The fairy gave it him with all the gear, Erst given by Vulcan to the Trojan peer. CI The Tartar and Rogero had before Engaged in battle, only on this quest, Divided by what accident, my lore Recites not, as already manifest: Nor had till now those knights encountered more: When Mandricardo sees that bird imprest On the Child's shield, he shouts with threatening cry To young Rogero: "Take my proud defy!" CII "Audacious man, mine ensign do'st thou wear, Nor this to-day for the first time, is said; And think'st thou, madman, I will thee forbear, Because for once to spare thee I was led? But since nor menace nor yet counsel are Of force to drive this folly from thy head, It shall appear how much it had been best For thee forthwith to have obeyed my hest." CIII "As fire, whereon dry, heated wood is strown, Roused by a little puff, at once ascends, So burns Rogero's wrath, to fury blown, By the first word with which that king offends. "Thou thinkest," he exclaims, "to bear me down, Because his knight as well with me contends: But learn that I can win in fighting field From him the horse, from thee good Hector's shield. CIV "Yet once before -- nor is it long ago -- Twixt us in battle was this question tried: But I that day restrained the murderous blow, Because thou hadst no faulchion at thy side. These shall be deeds, that strife was but a show; And ill this argent bird shall thee betide; This is the ancient bearing of my line; Tis thou usurpest what by right is mine." CV -- "Say rather, thou usurpest mine from me"; Cried Mandricardo; and that faulchion drew, Which lately, underneath the greenwood tree, Orlando from his hand in fury threw. The Child, who could not aught but courteous be, (Such was his gentle nature) at the view Of Mandricardo, with his faulchion drawn, Let fall his ready lance upon the lawn; CVI And at the same time, strained his goodly sword; And better braced the covering shield he wore: But 'twixt those combatants leapt Argier's lord, And quick Marphisa spurred the pair before; And one this foe, the other that implored, And both besought, that they would strive no more. King Rodomont complains the Tartar knight Has violated twice the compact plight. CVII First, in belief he should Marphisa gain, He more than once had jousted for that fair; Now to bear off Rogero's ensign fain, He for king Agramant shows little care. -- "If thus" (said Rodomont) "you faith maintain, To finish our own combat better were, A cause of strife more fitting and more due Than either of the pleas maintained by you. CVIII "On this condition was the treaty plight, And the accord between us now in force; When I with thee shall have performed the fight, I next shall answer him about the horse: You then with him, if you survive, your right Shall to the shield maintain in warlike course. But I such work shall give you, I conceive, As will small labour for Rogero leave." CIX -- "The bargain which thou hopest thou shalt not have," (King Mandricardo answered Rodomont) "I will accord thee more than thou do'st crave, And trust to make thee sweat from feet to front. And to bestow on others, much shall save, As water never fails in plenteous font; And for Rogero and a thousand more, And all the world beside reserve a store." CX Their fury waxed, and angrier words ensued, Now upon this and now upon that side. With Rodomont and with the Child at feud, Fierce Mandricardo both at once defied. Rogero, not endowed with suffering mood, Would hear no more of peace, but vengeance cried. Now here Marphisa hurried, and now there, But could not singly such an ill repair. CXI As peasant, when a river saps its mounds, And seeking vent the oozing waters drop, Hastening to shut the stream within its bounds, And save his pastures and expected crop, Dams right and left; yet him the stream confounds: For, if he here the sinking ruin prop, There he beholds the rotten dyke give out, And from thick seams the restless water spout, CXII So, while the Tartar and Rogero rage, And Rodomont, in hurly-burly fray, For each of these would fiercest battle wage, And would outgo his fears in that assay, Marphisa seeks their fury to assuage, And strives, and time and trouble throws away; For as she makes one knight from strife retire, She sees the others re-engage with ire. CXIII Marphisa, to appease the warriors bent, Exclaimed, "Sirs, listen to my better lore; A good remembrance 'tis, all argument To leave until we Agramant restore. If each is on his own design intent, With Mandricardo will I strive once more; And fain would see, according to his word, If he can conquer me with spear and sword. CXIV "But if, to aid our sovereign, duty call, Him let us aid, nor civil discord breed." -- "To ground, through me, such project shall not fall," Rogero said, "so he restore my steed. Let him resign that horse, or -- once for all. I say again -- to his defence take heed. I either here my parting breath will yield, Or on my courser will return afield." CXV -- "Twere not so easy to obtain this quest As 'twere that other," Rodomont replied; And thus pursued: "I unto thee protest, If any evil shall our king betide, Thine is the fault not mine; for I am prest To do whate'er is fitting, on my side." Small heed to that protest Rogero paid, And stung by fury, griped his trenchant blade. CXVI On Argier's king he sprang, like savage boar, Encountering him with shoulder and with shield; And him disordered and distrest so sore, That with one stirrup's loss, the monarch reeled. -- "Rogero," Mandricardo cried, "give o'er, Or else with me divide the battle-field"; And struck, this said, with worse than felon spite, Upon the morion of that youthful knight. CXVII Even to his courser's neck Rogero bends; Nor, when he would, himself can rear; Because the sword of Ulien's son descends As well upon the youthful cavalier; And, but that adamant his face defends, Across the cheeks his tempered helm would sheer. The Child, in anguish, opens either hand; And this the bridle drops and that the brand. CXVIII Him o'er the field his courser bears away; On earth the faulchion lies, which he let go: Marphisa (with Rogero's through that day, Comrade in arms) appeared like fire to glow, Enraged, that two one knight should overlay; And, as magnanimous and stout, for foe Singled King Mandricardo out, and sped, With all her might, stroke upon his head. CXIX Rodomont o'er the plain pursues his man. -- Another stroke, and he has lost the horse! But Richardetto drives, and Vivian, Between the Child and paynim in that course. This warrior at the king of Argier ran, And from Rogero severed him by force; That (it was Vivian) in Rogero's hand, Now from the blow recovered, placed his brand. CXX As soon as to himself the Child returns, And is by Vivian armed with sword again, To venge the injury that stripling burns, And runs at Rodomont with flowing rein, Like lion, whom a bull upon his horns Has lifted, though he feels this while no pain, So him his heat of blood, disdain, and ire, To venge that cruel outrage goad and fire. CXXI Rogero storms upon the paynim's crest; And, could that knight recover his own brand, Which by foul felony (as erst exprest) Was ravished from the youthful warrior's hand, I well believe that the descending pest Rodomont's iron casque will ill withstand; That casque which Babel's king bade forge, who sought To war on Heaven in his presumptuous thought. CXXII Discord, believing nothing could ensue But stir, and strife, and combat on that head; And that there was no place, amid the crew, For truce or treaty, to her sister said, That she, her well-beloved monks to view, Might now again with her securely tread. Let them depart; and mark we where in front Rogero has sore wounded Rodomont. CXXIII Rogero's blow was levelled with such spite, That this upon Frontino's crupper made The helmet and the shell of iron smite, In which that Saracen his limbs arrayed; And he, three times or four, to left and right, -- As if about to fall -- head-foremost, swayed; And would have lost withal his trusty brand, But that the hilt was fastened to his hand. CXXIV Marphisa has king Mandricardo prest Meanwhile, and makes him sweat breast, front, and face; And he Marphisa has as sore distrest: But such good plates each valiant bosom case, Impassable is either iron vest; And both have hitherto maintained their place. But, at a turn her martial courser made, Marphisa needed young Rogero's aid. CXXV Marphisa's martial steed, in turning short, Where a firm footing that soft mead denied, On the moist surface slipt, and in such sort, That he fell, helpless, on his better side; And, as he rose in haste and lacked support, Athwart by furious Brigliador was plied; On which the paynim, little courteous, came; So that he fell anew beneath the dame. CXXVI Rogero, when Marphisa on the ground He saw unhorsed, deferred no more his aid; Who for that deed had leisure; since, astound, Rodomont far away had been conveyed: He smote the morion which that Tartar crowned; And, cleft like stalk, his head on earth had laid, Had he his trusty Balisarda born, Or Mandricardo other helmet worn. CXXVII Rodomont, of his senses repossest, Turned round this while, and Richardetto spied; And recollecting how, when late distrest, He to Rogero succour had supplied, Quickly against that youthful warrior prest; Who an ill guerdon would from him abide, Did Malagigi not his malice thwart With other magic and with mickle art. CXXVIII Sage Malagigi versed in every sleight Which by the wisest wizard can be done; Although his book he has not, by whose might, He in his course can stop the passing sun; The conjuration recollects and rite, By which he tames the rebel fiends; and one Bids enter into Doralice's steed, Whom he to fury stings and headlong speed. CXXIX Into that gentle palfrey's form, who bore The beauteous daughter of King Stordilane, Sir Vivian's brother, simply by his lore, Made pass an angel of the dark domain; And the good horse, who never moved before, Except in due obedience to the rein, Now took a leap, possest by that ill sprite, Thirty feet long and sixteen feet in height. CXXX It was a mighty leap, yet not so wide As to make any rider void the sell. Seeing herself so high in air, loud cried, (Yielding herself for dead) that bonnibel. Her palfrey, with the Daemon for his guide, After his leap, runs, goaded by the spell (The maid still screaming) such a furious course, An arrow had not reached the flying horse. CXXXI At the first hearing of that voice, the son Of Ulien, on his part, the strife suspended; And thither, where the furious palfrey run, Swiftly in succour of the lady wended. No less was by the Tartar monarch done; Who neither Child nor damsel more offended; But without craving time, or truce, or peace, Pursued King Rodomont and Doralice. CXXXII Marphisa rose meanwhile, to fury stirred; And, with disdain all over in a glow, Thought to accomplish her revenge, and erred: For at too great a distance was the foe. Rogero, who beheld the war deferred, Rather like lion roared than sighed: well know Those two their coursers they should vainly gore, Following Frontino and good Brigliador. CXXXIII Rogero will not halt till he renew And end the unfinished combat for the horse; Marphisa will not quit that Tartar, who Will to her satisfaction prove his force. To leave their quarrel in such guise the two Esteem foul scandal; as their better course, In chase of those offending knights to fare, Is the conclusion of that valiant pair. CXXXIV They in the paynim camp will find each foe, If them before they find not on their way; Whom thither bound, to raise the siege they know, Ere Charlemagne bring all beneath his sway. So thitherward the twain directly go Where these, they deem, will be their certain prey. Yet not so rudely thence Rogero broke, But that he first with his companion spoke. CXXXV Thither returns Rogero, where apart Is he, the brother of his lady fair; And vows himself his friend, with generous heart, In good or evil fortune, everywhere. Him he implores -- and frames his speech with art -- He his salutes will to his sister bear; And this so well, he moves by that request No doubt in him, nor any of the rest. CXXXVI Of Malagigi he and Viviane Next takes farewell and wounded Aldigier; Their services no less that kindly twain Proffer, as ever debtors to the peer. Marphisa to seek Paris is so fain, That parting she forgets her friends to cheer; But Malagigi and Vivian, in pursuit, Follow, and from afar that maid salute; CXXXVII And so Sir Richardet as well: but low On earth lies Aldigier, and there must rest. The two first champions towards Paris go, And the two others next pursue that quest. In other canto, Sir, I hope to show Of wondrous and of superhuman gest, Wrought to the damage of the Christian king, By those two couples of whose worth I sing. CANTO 27 ARGUMENT By good Rogero and those paynims three Defeated, Charlemagne to Paris flies. Already all, throughout their chivalry, Are mad with spite and hatred; jars arise, And strife; and means to still their enmity Their sovereign is unable to devise. From him departs the monarch of Argier, Who is rejected of his lady dear. I A woman for the most part reasons best Upon a sudden motion, and untaught; For with that special grace the sex is blest, 'Mid those so many gifts, wherewith 'tis fraught; But man, of a less nimble wit possest, Is ill at counsel, save, with sober thought, He ruminates thereon, content to spend Care, time and trouble to mature his end. II That seemed good counsel, but was ill indeed Of Malagigi's, as before was said; Albeit he so rescued in his need His cousin Richardet, with odds o'erlaid, When from the paynim monarchs him he freed By ready demon, who his hest obeyed; For sure he never deemed they should be borne, Where they would work the Christian army scorn. III Had he some little prize for counsel stayed, (We with the same success may well suppose) He to his cousin might have furnished aid, Yet brought not on the Christian host their foes: That evil sprite he might as well have made, Him, who embodied in the palfrey goes, Eastward or west, so far that lady bear, That France should hear no further of the pair. IV So the two lovers, following her who flies, To other place than Paris might be brought: But this calamity was a surprise On Malagigi, through his little thought; And fiendish malice, banished from the skies, Which ever blood and fire and ravage sought, Guided them by that way to Charles' disaster; Left to his choice by him, the wizard master. V The wayward fiend who makes that palfrey ramp Bears off the frighted Doralice amain; Nor river nor yet yawning ditch, or swamp, Wood, rock, or rugged cliff, the steed restrain; Till, traversing the French and English camp, And other squadrons of the mingled train, Beneath the holy flag of Christ arraid, He to Granada's king the fair conveyed. VI The Sarzan and the Tartar the first day That royal damsel a long while pursue; Because her distant form they yet survey; But finally they lose that lady's view; When, like a lyme-dog, whom the hunters lay On hare or roebuck's trail, the valiant two Follow upon her track, nor halt, till told That she is harboured in her father's hold. VII Guard thyself, Charles: for, lo! against thee blown Is such a storm, that I no refuge see: Nor these redoubted monarchs come alone, But those of Sericane and Circassy; While Fortune, who would probe thee to the bone, Has taken those two shining stars from thee, Who kept thee by their wisdom and their light; And thou remainest blind and wrapt in night. VIII 'Tis of the valiant cousins I would speak: Of these, Orlando of his wit bereft, Naked, in sun or shower, by plain or peak, Wanders about the world, a helpless weft; And he, in wisdom little less to seek, Rinaldo, in thy peril thee has left; And, for in Paris-town she is not found, In search of his Angelica is bound. IX A cunning, old enchanter him deceived, As in the outlet of my tale was said: Deluded by a phantom, he believed Angelica was with Orlando fled; And hence with jealousy, at heart, aggrieved (Lover ne'er suffered worse) to Paris sped; Whence he, as soon as he appeared at court, By chance, was named to Britain to resort. X Now, the field won, wherein with mickle fame He drove King Agramant his works behind, To Paris yet again the warrior came, Searched convent, tower, and house, and, save confined 'Twixt solid walls or columns be the dame, Her will the restless lover surely find: Nor her nor yet Orlando he descries, So forth in the desire to seek them hies. XI Her to Anglantes or to Brava brought, He deemed the Count enjoyed in mirth and play; And vainly, here and there, that damsel sought, Nor here nor there, descried the long-sought prey. To Paris he repaired again, in thought The paladin returning to waylay; Because he deemed he could not rove at large Without that Town, but on some special charge. XII Within he takes a day or two's repose; And, when he finds Orlando comes not there, Again to Brava and Anglantes goes Inquiring tidings of the royal fair; Nor, whether morning dawns or noontide glows, -- Nor night nor day -- his weary steed does spare; Nor once -- but twice a hundred times -- has run The selfsame course, by light of moon or sun. XIII But the ancient foe, deluded by whose say, To the forbidden fruit Eve raised her hand, Turned his wan eyes on Charlemagne one day, When he the good Rinaldo absent scanned; And seeing what foul rout and disarray Might at that time be given to Charles's band, Of all the Saracens the choice and flower Marshalled in arms against the Christian power. XIV King Sacripant and King Gradasso (who Whilere companionship in war had made, When from Atlantes' palace fled the two) Together to unite their arms, in aid Of royal Agramant's beleaguered crew, And where through unknown lands the warriors hied, Made smooth the way, and served them as a guide. XV Thither another fiend that ruthless foe Bade Rodomont and Mandricardo bear Through ways, by which his comrade was not slow With the affrighted Doralice to fare: A third, lest they their enterprize forego, Rogero and Marphisa has in care: But their conductor journeys not so fast; And hence that martial pair arrives the last. XVI Later by half an hour, against their foes, So matched, Rogero and Marphisa speed; Because the sable angel, who his blows Aimed at the bands that held the Christian creed, Provided, that the contest which arose About that horse, his work should not impede; Which had again been kindled, had the twain, Rodomont and Rogero, met again. XVII The first four ride until themselves they find Where the besiegers and besieged they view; And see the banners shaking in the wind, And the cantonments of those armies two. Here they short counsel took, and next opined, In spite of Charlemagne's beleaguering crew, To carry speedy succour to their liege, And rescue royal Agramant from siege. XVIII Where thickest camped lay Charles's host, they spurred, Closing their files against the Christian foe. "Afric and Spain!" is the assailants' word, Whom at all points the Franks for paynims know. -- "To arms, to arms!" throughout their camp is heard: But first is felt the Moorish sabre's blow: Even on the rear-guard falls the vengeful stroke, Not charged alone, but routed, beat and broke. XIX The Christian host throughout is overthrown, And how they know not, in tumultuous wise; And that it is a wonted insult done By Switzer or by Gascon, some surmise; But -- since the reason is to most unknown -- Each several nation to its standard flies, This to the drum, that to the trumpet's sound, And shriek and shout from earth to heaven redound. XX All armed is Charlemagne, except his head, And, girt with paladins, his faithful stay, Arrived demanding what alarm has bred Disorder in his host and disarray; And stopt with menace this or that who fled, And many fugitives, upon their way, Some with maimed face, breast, arm, or hand, espied, And some with head or throat with life-blood dyed. XXI Advancing, he on earth saw many more, Or rather in a lake of crimson laid, Horribly weltering in their own dark gore, Beyond the leech's and magician's aid; And busts dissevered from the heads they bore, And legs and arms -- a cruel show -- surveyed; And, from the first cantonments to the last, Saw slaughtered men on all sides as he past. XXII Where the small band advances in such wise, Deserving well eternal praise to gain, Vouching their deeds, a long-drawn furrow lies, A signal record of their might and main. His army's cruel slaughter, with surprise, Anger and rage, is viewed by Charlemagne. So he whose shattered walls have felt its force, Throughout his mansion tracks the lightning's course. XXIII Not to the ramparts of the paynim crew Of Agramant as yet had pierced this aid, When, on the further side, these other two, Rogero and Marphisa, thither made. When, once or twice, that worthy pair a view Have taken of the ground, and have surveyed The readiest way assistance to afford, They swiftly move in succour of their lord. XXIV As when we spark to loaded mine apply, Through the long furrow, filled with sable grain, So fast the furious wildfire darts, that eye Pursues the progress of the flash with pain; And as dire ruin follows, and from high, The loosened rock and solid bastion rain, So bold Rogero and Marphisa rush To battle, so the Christian squadrons crush. XXV Front and askance, the assailants smote, and low On earth heads, arms, and severed shoulders lay, Where'er the Christian squadrons were too slow To free the path and break their close array. Whoe'er has seen the passing tempest blow, And of the hill or valley, in its way, One portion ravage and another leave, May so their course amid that host conceive. XXVI Many who had escaped by quick retreat, Rodomont and those other furious three, Thank God that he had given them legs and feet, Wherewith to fly from that calamity; And from the Child and damsel new defeat Encounter, while with endlong course they flee: As man, no matter if he stands or run, Seeks vainly his predestined doom to shun. XXVII Who 'scape one peril, into other fly, And pay the penalty of flesh and blood; So, by the teeth of dog, is wont to die The fox, together with her infant brood, By one who dwells her ancient cavern nigh Unearthed, and with a thousand blows pursued; When from some unsuspected place, that foe Has filled with fire and smoke the den below. XXVIII Marphisa and the Child, of danger clear, Enter the paynim ramparts; and, with eyes Upturned, the Saracens, with humble cheer, Thank Heaven for the success of that emprize: The paladins no longer are their fear; The meanest Moor a hundred Franks defies; And 'tis resolved, without repose, again To drench with Christian blood the thirsty plain. XXIX At once a formidable larum rose; Horns, drums, and shrilling clarions filled the skies; And the wind ruffles, as it comes and goes, Banner and gonfalon of various dyes. The Germans and the warlike Bretons close; Ranged on the other part, in martial wise, Italians, English, French, were seen, and through Those armies furious war blazed forth anew. XXX The force of the redoubted Rodomont, And that of Agrican's infuriate son, That of Rogero, valiant's copious font, Gradasso's, so renowned for trophies won, The martial maid, Marphisa's fearless front, And might of Sacripant, excelled by none, Made Charles upon Saint John and Denys call, And fly for shelter to his Paris wall. XXXI Of fierce Marphisa and her bold allies The unconquered daring and the wondrous might, Sir, was not of a nature -- of a guise -- To be conceived, much less described aright: The number slaughtered hence may you surmise! What cruel blow King Charles sustained in fight! Add to these warriors of illustrious name, More than one Moor, with Ferrau, known to Fame. XXXII Many through reckless haste were drowned in Seine, For all too narrow was the bridge's floor, An wished, like Icarus, for wings in vain, Having grim death behind them and before, Save Oliver, and Ogier hight the Dane, The paladins are prisoners to the Moor: Wounded beneath his better shoulder fled The first, that other with a broken head. XXXIII And. like Orlando and Duke Aymon's son, Had faithful Brandimart thrown up the game, Charles had from Paris into exile gone, If he had scaped alive so fierce a flame. Brandimart does his best, and when 'tis done, Yields to the storm: Thus Fortune, fickle dame, Now smiles upon the paynim monarch, who Besieges royal Charlemagne anew. XXXIV From earth beneath the widow's outcry swells, Mingled with elder's and with orphan's prayer, Into the pure serene, where Michael dwells, Rising above this dim and troubled air; And to the blest archangel loudly tells, How the devouring wolf and raven tear His faithful English, French, and German train, Whose slaughtered bodies overspread the plain. XXXV Red blushed the blessed angel, who believed He ill obedience to his lord had paid; And, in his anger, deemed himself deceived By the perfidious Discord and betrayed: He his Creator's order had received To stir the Moors to strife, nor had obeyed; Had rather in their eyes who marked the event, Appeared throughout to thwart his high intent. XXXVI As servant faithful to his lord, and more In love than memory strong, who finds that he Has that forgotten which at his heart-core, As precious as his life and soul should be, Hastes to repair his error, nor before He mend that fault, again his lord will see, So not to God St. Michael will ascend Until he has achieved his holy end. XXXVII Again he to that monastery flew, Where whilom he had Discord seen; and there Seated in chapter sees her, while anew Their yearly officers elected are, She taking huge delight those friers to view, That at each other hurled their books of prayer. His hand within her locks the archangel twists, And deals her endless scathe with feet and fists. XXXVIII On her he next a cross's handle broke; Wherewith her back, and arms, and head he plies: His mercy with loud voice the wretch bespoke, And hugged that angel's knees with suppliant cries. Michael suspends not the avenging stroke Till hunted to the Moorish camp she flies, Then thus: "Believe worse vengeance yet in store, If I beyond these lines behold thee more." XXXIX Albeit in back and arms all over shent Was Discord by that angel, in her fear Of suffering yet again such chastisement, Such horrid fury and such blows severe, She speedily to take her bellows went, And, adding food to what she lit whilere, And setting other ready piles afire, Kindled in many hearts a blaze of ire; XL And good Rogero (she inflames them so) With Rodomont and Mandricardo fares To Agramant; and all (since now the foe The paynims pressed no more, the vantage theirs) To him the seed of their dissensions show, And what the bitter produce which it bears: Then to the judgment of the king refer Who first in listed field his claim should stir. XLI As well Marphisa to Troyano's son, Relates her case, and will conclude the fray Which with the Tartar king she had begun, Because by him provoked to that assay; Nor will she yield her place to any one, No, not a single hour, yet less a day; But with loud instances maintains her right With Mandricardo first to wage the fight. XLII To have the first possession of the field No less renowned king Rodomont contended, Which he, the African array to shield, Had interrupted and till now suspended. Rogero to King Agramant appealed, As having borne too long, though sore offended, That Rodomont form him detained his horse, Nor yet would meet him first in martial course. XLIII The Tartar king, for more perplexity, Denied on any ground Rogero's right The bearer of the white-winged bird to be; And was so passing wood with wrath and spite, That, if to this those others would agree, He would at once those several quarrels fight; And so those others would as well have done, If Agramant's consent they could have won. XLIV King Agramant, with prayer and kingly word, Had willingly appeased that jarring crew; But since the foes were deaf to all accord, Nor would assent to peace or truce anew, Considered how at least he might afford The field of each of them in order due; And, as the best resolve, at last decreed, Each should by lot possess the listed mead. XLV Four lots the monarch bade prepare, which done, This "Rodomont and Mandricardo" said; "Rogero and Mandricardo" were in one; In one, "Rogero and Rodomont" were read; That "Mandricardo and Marphisa" run: Next, as the fickle goddess, Fortune, led, The lots are drawn, and in the first appear The Tartar king and sovereign of Argier. XLVI Rogero and Mandricardo for that play Were next; Rogero and Rodomont were third; Marphisa's lot and Mardricardo's lay At bottom; whence the dame was deeply stirred; Nor young Rogero seems a whit more gay: Who knows the prowess of those two preferred Will nothing in the listed combat leave For him or for Marphisa to achieve. XLVII There lies a place, of Paris little wide, Covering a mile or somewhat less, and round; Like ancient theatre, on every side, Encompast by a tall and solid mound; With castle whilom was it fortified, Which sword and fire had levelled with the ground. The Parmesan like circle does survey, Whenever he to Borgo wends his way. XLVIII In this place is prepared the listed mead, Which palisades of little height inclose; A square, of just proportions for that need, With two capacious gates, as usage goes. The day on which to combat have agreed Those valiant knights, who will not balk their foes, Beside the palisades, to left and right, Facing each entrance, are pavilions pight. XLIX In that, which looks towards the western sun, Is lodged the giant monarch of Argier; And him assist his serpent-hide to don Bold Ferrau and Circassia's cavalier. Gradasso and the puissant Falsiron, In that which fronts the morning hemisphere, Clothe with their hands, in Trojan plate and chain, The good successor of King Agricane. L High on a throne of ample state appeared Agramant and Marsilius; next in place Were Stordilane and all the chiefs, revered Throughout the squadrons of the paynim race. Happy was he who found himself upreared On mound or tree, above that level space. Great was the throng, and round the palisade On every side the eddying people swayed. LI Were seated with the Queen of fair Castille Queens, princesses, and dames of noble strain, From Arragon, Granada, and Seville, And Atlas' columns; and amid the train Assembled to behold that fierce appeal, Was placed the daughter of King Stordilane: Two costly vests -- one red, one green -- she wore; But ill the first was dyed, and faded sore. LII In dress succinct Marphisa sate; in plight Such as beseemed a warrior and a maid: Thermodoon haply witnessed Hippolyte And her fair squadron in like garb arrayed. Afield already, in his livery dight, Agramant's herald made proclaim, and said It was forbid to all men, far and wide, In act or word, with either part to side. LIII The frequent crowd expects the double foe; And often, in impatience, they complain, And call those famous cavaliers too slow: When from the Tartar's tent an angry strain Is heard, and cries which multiply; sir, know It was the martial king of Sericane, And puissant Tartar, who that question stirred, And made the mighty tumult which has heard. LIV Sericane's monarch, having with his hand Equipt the king of Tartary all o'er, Approached to gird him with that sovereign brand, With which Orlando went adorned of yore. When Durindana on the hilt he scanned, Graved with the quartering that Almontes wore; Which from that wretched man, beside a font, Youthful Orlando reft in Aspramont. LV He, seeing this, agnised it for the blade So famous, which Anglantes' warrior bore, For which he had the fairest fleet arrayed Which ever put to sea from eastern shore; And had Castille's rich kingdom overlaid, And conquered fruitful France some years before; But cannot now imagine how that sword Is in possession of the Tartar lord; LVI And asks had he by force or treaty won, And when and where and how, that faulchion bright; And Mandricardo said that he had done Fierce battle for that sword with Brava's knight; Who feigned himself of sober sense foregone, Hoping that so he should conceal his fright: -- "For I on him would ceaseless war have made," (He added) "while he kept the goodly blade." LVII Saying the Count, in yielding to his foe That sword, the Beavers' known device had tried; Who. followed closely by the hunter, know Their fell pursuer covers nought beside. Ere he had heard him out, -- "Nor I forego That sword to thee nor any one," (replied Gradasso, fierce,) "well earned by me, at cost Of treasure, and of pain, and people lost. LVIII "Some other faulchion for thyself purvey; This will I have; nor deem my reasons new; Whether Orlando wise or foolish stray, I make it mine where'er it meets my view. With none to witness, thou, beside the way Usurped that sword; I claim it as my due: For this my scimeter shall reasons yield, And we will try the cause in listed field. LIX "Prepare to win the sword before thou rear That goodly blade against King Rodomont. To win his arms is use of cavalier, Before his foe in duel he affront." -- "No sweeter music ever soothes my ear" (Replied the Tartar, as he raised his front) "Than voice which champions me to martial field; But see that his consent the Sarzan yield. LX "Be thou the first; and, next on listed ground Let Sarza's valiant lord the question try; Nor doubt but I in readiness be found To thee and every other to reply." " -- Thou shalt not so the ordered lots confound, Or break our compact (was Rogero's cry): Either, first Rodomont shall take the field, Or shall to me his right of battle yield. LXI "It that be true Gradasso has averred, That knight should win the arms he would assay, Thou hast no title to my white-winged bird, Save this from me thou first shalt bear away. But since, forsooth, whilere I said the word, I will not what I once pronounced unsay, That mine shall be the second battle, so That Argier's monarch first affront his foe. LXII "I will confuse the order of the field, Throughout, if partially confused by thee; Abandon will I not my blazoned shield, Unless thou combat for it now with me." -- "Were one and the other Mars, for battle steeled, (Replies enraged, the king of Tartary) "Nor one nor the other's might should make me waive My title to that shield and goodly glaive"; LXIII And over mastered by his choler, flies With a clenched fist at him of Sericane, And smites him with his right-hand in such wise, As makes him quit his hold of Durindane. Gradasso bold was taken by surprise, Not deeming him so furious and insane; And, while he looked not to the Tartar lord, Found himself robbed of good Orlando's sword. LXIV Fury and scorn Gradasso's visage heats, Which seems to flash with fire, at that disgrace; And with more rage and pain his bosom beats, In that 'twas offered in such public place. To draw his scimeter, the king retreats, Intent upon revenge, some little space. So Mandricardo on himself relies Rogero he to fight, as well defies. LXV "Come on in arms against me, both combined, And be King Rodomont the third!" (he said) "Come Spain and Afric and all human kind; Ne'er will I turn." And he, at nought dismaid, So saying, in his fury, sawed the wind About him, with Almontes' noble blade, Embraced his shield, and, full of choler, stood Against Gradasso and Rogero good. LXVI "Leave me the care," the fierce Gradasso cried, "The phrensy of this madman to subdue." -- "Not so, by Heaven!" Rogero wroth replied, "For I this field claim justly as my due." -- "Stand back!" and "stand thou back!" on either side They shout; yet neither of the twain withdrew. And thus among those three began a feud; And thence some strange result would have ensued, LXVII If many had not interposed, and sought With little wit their fury to restrain; Who had well-nigh too dear the experience bought Of saving others at their proper pain; Nor to accord the world had ever brought Those knights, but that the worthy king of Spain Came thither with renowned Troyano's heir; Awed by whose sovereign presence all forbear. LXVIII Agramant those contending warriors made The cause of their so burning strife display; Next earnestly bestirred himself, and prayed Gradasso that he would, in courteous way, Concede the Trojan Hector's goodly blade To Mandricardo, solely for that day, Until the cruel fight was at an end, Wherein he should with Rodomont contend. LXIX While royal Agramant would peace restore, And now with this and now with that conferred, From the other tent, between the Sarzan Moor And Sacripant, another strife was heard. Valiant King Sacripant (as said before) To equip Sir Rodomont himself bestirred, And he and Ferrau had that champion drest In his forefather Nimrod's iron vest; LXX And there had they arrived, where with his spume The horse was making his rich bridle white: I of the good Frontino speak, for whom Rogero urged with yet unfelt despite. King Sacripant, who plays the part of groom, And has to bring afield the Sarzan knight, Marks narrowly the courser's gear and shoes, And sell and furniture throughout reviews; LXXI And as his points and nimble parts, more near, He, in this view, observes with better heed, The youthful king, beyond all doubt, is clear He sees his Frontilatte in that steed, Him he of old had held so passing dear, Whilom of such debates the fruitful seed; And for whose loss, whilere he was so woe, He evermore on foot resolved to go. LXXII This from beneath him had Brunello borne Before Albracca, on the very day Angelica's rare ring, and Roland's horn, And Balisarda he conveyed away, With fierce Marphisa's blade, -- and on return To Afric -- to Rogero, from his prey, Gave Balisarda and the courser, who Was by the Child Frontino named anew. LXXIII Assured 'twas no mistake, Circassia's chief Turned him about to Rodomont, and cried: "Reft from me in Albracca, by a thief, This horse is mine; which might be certified By them whose words would warrant well belief: But as my witnesses are distant wide, If it be questioned, I will make it plain, And will, with sword in hand, the truth maintain. LXXIV "Yet am I well contented, for that we Have for these some few days together gone, To lend him for to-day; since well I see, That not without him could the fight be done; But on condition, that the courser be Acknowledged mine, and furnished as a loan: Otherwise hope not for that horse, save first Me, on this quarrel, thou in combat worst." LXXV The furious king of Argier, that in pride Surpassed all knights that ever girt the sword, Whose paragon, for heart and prowess tried, Meseems no ancient histories record, Cried: "Sacripant, if any one beside Thyself, to me should utter such a word, He should deem quickly, from its bitter fruit, He from his birth would better have been mute. LXXVI "But, for that fellowship in which we went, (As thou hast said) together, I to show Such patience and forbearance am content, As warning thee, thy purpose to forego, Until thou shalt have witnessed the event Of strife between me and my Tartar foe: When him I such example hope to make, That thou shalt humbly say, `The courser take.' " LXXVII Fierce and enraged, replied Circassia's peer, "To play the churl with thee is courteous deed, But I to thee repeat more plain and clear, Thou ill wouldst aught design against that steed, For, while I an avenging sabre rear, This I prohibit thee, and, should it need, And every better means of battle fail, With thee for this would battle, tooth and nail." LXXVIII They from dispute proceed to ribaldry, From words to blows; and through their mickle ire, Fierce battle was inflamed, and blazed more high Than ever lightly-kindled straw took fire. King Rodomont is steeled in panoply; Sacripant neither plate nor mail attire: Yet so in fence is skilled that nimble lord, He seems all over sheltered by his sword. LXXIX No greater were the daring and the might (Though infinite) which Rodomont displaid Than the precaution and the nimble sleight Which the Circassian summoned to his aid: No mill-wheel ever turns with swifter flight The circling stone by which the grain is brayed, Than Sacripant at need moves foot or hand, And shifts now here, now there his restless stand. LXXX But Serpentine and Ferrau interfere: They with drawn swords the twain asunder bore; With them Grandonio was and Isolier, And many other leaders of the Moor, This was the tumult which was heard whilere In the other tent, what time they laboured sore, Rogero vainly to a peace to bring With Tartary's and Sericana's king. LXXXI This while some voice to Agramant the news Reports aright, that Ulien's might seed, With Sacripant, Circassia's king, pursues A fierce and furious quarrel for the steed. Agramant, whom so many jars confuse, Exclaims to King Marsilius: "Take thou heed That no worse evil mid these knights betide, While for this new disorder I provide." LXXXII Rodomont reined his anger, and retired Some deal, at his approaching sovereign's view; Nor less respect in Sacripant inspired The Moorish monarch; of the furious two, He with grave voice and royal mien inquired What cause of strife such deadly discord blew; And having searched their quarrel to the root, Would fain accord them; but with little fruit. LXXXIII Circassia's monarch would not, on his side, Longer his horse to Argier's lord allow, Save humbly Rodomont to him applied, That steed for this occasion to bestow. To him Sir Rodomont, with wonted pride, Returned for answer: "Neither Heaven nor thou Shall make me recognize as gift or loan What I with this good hand can make mine own." LXXXIV The king bade Sacripant explain his right, And how that horse was taken from him sought; And this from first to last Circassia's knight Rehearsed, and reddened as the tale he taught, Relating to the king the robber's sleight; Who had surprised him overwhelmed with thought, Upon four spears his courser's saddle stayed, And from beneath the naked horse conveyed. LXXXV Marphisa, whom these cries, mid others, bring, When of the robbery of the horse advised, In visage is disturbed, remembering How on that day her faulchion was surprised; And when that courser (which equipt with wing Appeared when flying her) she recognized; And recognized as well -- at first unknown -- The valiant king who filled Circassia's throne. LXXXVI The others who stood round her, wont to hear Brunello often boast of the deceit, 'Gan turn towards that wretch, and made appear By open signs they knew him for the Cheat. Marphisa who the subtle knave whilere Suspected as the author of that feat, Now questions this, now that, who all accord In saying 'twas Brunello stole her sword; LXXXVII Who, well deserving as a fitting pain To dangle from the gallows-tree in air, By Agramant the crown of Tingitane (An ill example) was preferred to wear. This fires anew Marphisa's old disdain, Nor she from instant vengeance will forbear, For this, as well as other shame and scorn She on her road had from that caitiff born. LXXXVIII A squire laced on her helmet, at her hest; She wore the remnant of her armour sheen; Nor without martial cuirass on her breast, Find I, that she ten times was ever seen, Even from the day when first that iron vest Braced on her limbs the passing-valiant queen: With helm on head, where, mid the highest rows, Brunello sits among the first, she goes. LXXXIX Him by mid breast Marphisa griped amain, And lifted up the losel from the ground; As is rapacious eagle wont to strain The pullet, in her talons circled round; And bore him where the sons of King Troyane Heard the two knights their jarring claims propound. He who perceives himself in evil hands, Aye weeps, and mercy of that maid demands. XC Above the universal noise and shout, Which rose nigh equally on either side, Brunello, who from all the crowd about For pity now, and now for succour, cried, So loud was heard, that of that ample rout He gathered round himself the pressing tide. Arrived before the Moorish army's head, To him with haughty mien Marphisa said: XCI "This thief (said she), thy vassal, will I slay, And with this hand of mine will knot the cord About his neck; because the very day He stole this courser, he purloined my sword. But is there any one who deems I say Amiss, let him stand forth and speak the word; For I on him will prove, before thine eyes, I have done right, and who gainsays me, lies. XCII "But because haply some one may pretend I have till such a time of strife delayed My vengeance, when such famous knights contend, For three days shall the wretch's doom be stayed; In the mean time let him who would defend That caitiff, come himself, or send him aid. For afterwards, if none the deed prevent, His carcass shall a thousand birds content. XCIII "I hence to yonder tower, which distant nigh Three leagues, o'erlooks a little copse, repair, But with one varlet in my company, And with one waiting-maid; if any dare Rescue the thief, let him come thither; I Wait the approach of his defenders there." Thus she; and thither quickly wends her ways Whither was said, nor any answer stays. XCIV Held on the pommel grappled by his hair, Brunello on Marphisa's courser lies: The caitiff weeps, and shrieking in despair, On all in whom he hopes, for succour cries. In such confusion is Troyano's heir, He sees no way through these perplexities; And, that Marphisa thence Brunello bore In such a guise, yet grieved the monarch more. XCV Not that he loved the losel or esteemed, Rather to him some time had borne despite; And often had to hand the caitiff schemed, Since he had forfeited the ring of might. But here his honour touched the monarch deemed, So that his visage reddened at the slight: He would, in person, follow her at speed, And to his utmost power avenge the deed. XCVI But the wise king, Sobrino, who was by, Him from the quest endeavoured to dissuade, And that with his exalted majesty Such enterprize were ill assorted said: Although firm hope, nay full security, He had to overcome that martial maid, If he with pain subdued a woman, shame, Rather than honour, would pursue his name. XCVII Small profit and much peril would succeed From any fight he should with her maintain, (And he advised him) as the better deed, To leave that wretched caitiff to his pain; And albeit but a simple nod should need To free him, from that nod he should refrain. In that the monarch would do ill to force Even-handed Justice from her destined course. XCVIII "Thou to the fierce Marphisa may'st apply To leave his trial (he pursued) to thee, With promise, her in this to satisfy And to suspend him from the gallows-tree: And even should the maid thy prayer deny, Let her in every wish contented be: And rather than that she desert thy side, Let her hang him and every thief beside." XCIX Right willingly King Agramant gave way To King Sobrino's counsel sage and staid; And let renowned Marphisa wend her way, Nor scathed he, nor let scathe, that martial maid, Neither endured that any her should pray; And heaven knows with what courage he obeyed That wise advice, to calm such ruder strife And quarrel, as throughout his camp were rife. C At this mad Discord laughed, no more in fear That any truce or treaty should ensue; And scowered the place of combat there and here, Nor could stand still, for pleasure at the view. Pride gamboled and rejoiced with her compeer, And on the fire fresh food and fuel threw, And shouted so that Michael in the sky Knew the glad sign of conquest in that cry. CI Paris-town rocked, and turbid ran the flood Of Seine at that loud voice, that horrid roar; And, so it echo rang in Arden's wood, Beasts left their caverns in that forest hoar. Alp and Cevenne's mountain-solitude, And Blois, and Arles, and Rouen's distant shore, Rhine, Rhone, and Saone, and Garonne, heard the pest; Scared mothers hugged their children to their breast. CII Five have set up their rest, resolved to be The first their different quarrels to conclude: And tangled so is one with other plea, That ill Apollo's self could judge the feud. To unravel that first cause of enmity The king began -- the strife which had ensued, Because of beauteous Doralice, between The king of Scythia and her Algerine. CIII King Agramant oft moved, between the pair, Now here now there, to bring them to accord; Now there now here, admonishing that pair, Like faithful brother and like righteous lord: But when he found that neither would forbear, Deaf and rebellious to his royal word, Nor would consent that lady to forego, The cause of strife, in favour of his foe, CIV As his best lore, at length the monarch said, And to obey his sentence both were fain; That he who was by her preferred, should wed The beauteous daughter of King Stordilane: And that what was established on his head Should not be changed, to either's loss or gain. The compromise was liked on either side, Since either hoped she would for him decide. CV The mighty king of Sarza, who long space Before the Tartar, had loved Doralice, (Who had preferred that sovereign to such grace As modest lady may, nor do amiss) Believed, when she past sentence on the case, She must pronounce what would ensure his bliss. Nor thus alone King Rodomont conceived, But all the Moorish host with him believed. CVI All know what exploits wrought by him had been For her in joust and war; they all unsound And weak King Mandricardo's judgment ween; But he, who oft was with her on their round, And oftener private with the youthful queen, What time the tell-tale sun was under ground, He, knowing well how sure he was to speed, Laughed at the silly rabble's idle creed. CVII They, after, ratify the king's award, Between his hands, and next the suitors twain Before that damsel go, that on the sward Fixing her downcast eyes, in modest vein, Avows her preference of the Tartar lord; At which sore wondering stand the paynim train; And Rodomont remains so sore astound, He cannot raise his visage from the ground. CVIII But wonted anger chasing shame which dyed The Sarzan's face all over, he arraigned The damsel's sentence, of the faulchion, tied About his manly waist, the handle strained, And in the king's and others' hearing cried: "By this the question shall be lost or gained; And not by faithless woman's fickle thought, Which thither still inclines, where least it ought." CIX Kind Mandricardo on his feet once more, Exclaims, "And be it as it pleases thee." So that ere yet the vessel made the shore Unploughed remained a mighty space of sea; But that this king reproved the Sarzan sore, Ruling that to appeal upon that plea No more with Mandricardo could avail, And made the moody Sarzan strike his sail. CX Branded with double scorn, before those peers, By noble Agramant, whose sovereign sway He, as in loyal duty bound, reveres, And by his lady on the selfsame day, There will no more the monarch of Algiers Abide, but of his band -- a large array -- Two serjeants only for his service takes, And with that pair the paynim camp forsakes. CXI As the afflicted bull who has foregone His heifer, nor can longer warfare wage, Seeks out the greenwood-holt and stream most lone, Or sands at distance from his pasturage; There ceases not, in sun or shade to moan; Yet not for that exhales his amorous rage: So parts, constrained his lady to forego, The king of Argier, overwhelmed with woe. CXII Rogero moved, his courser to regain, And had already donned his warlike gear, Then recollecting, that on listed plain At Mandricardo he must couch the spear, Followed not Rodomont, but turned his rein, To end his quarrel with the Tartar, ere He met in combat Sericana's lord Within close barriers, for Orlando's sword. CXIII To have Frontino ravished in his sight, And be unable to forbid the deed, He sorely grieves; but, when he shall that fight Have done, resolves he will regain the steed; But Sacripant, whom, like the youthful knight, No quarrels in the Moor's pursuit impede, And who was unengaged in other quest, Upon the Sarzan's footsteps quickly prest; CXIV And would have quickly joined him that was gone, But for the chance of an adventure rare; Which him detained until the day was done, And made him lose the track of Ulien's heir: A woman who had fallen into the Saone, And who without his help had perished there, The warrior drowning in that water found, And stemmed the stream and dragged the dame aground. CXV When afterwards he would remount the sell, From him his restless charger broke astray, Who fled before his lord till evening fell, Nor lightly did the king that courser stay. At last he caught him; but no more could spell Where he had wandered from the beaten way: Two hundred miles he roved, 'twist hill and plain, Ere he came up with Rodomont again. CXVI How he by Sacripant was overtaken, And fought by him, to his discomfit sore, And how he lost his courser, how was taken, I say not now, who have to say before, With what disdain and with what anger shaken, Against his liege and love, the Sarzan Moor Forth from the Saracen cantonments sped, And what he of the one and other said. CXVII Wherever that afflicted paynim goes, He fills the kindling air with sighs that burn; And Echo oft, for pity of his woes, With him from hollow rock is heard to mourn: "O female mind! how lightly ebbs and flows Your fickle mood," (he cries,) "aye prone to turn! Object most opposite to kindly faith! Lost, wretched man, who trusts you to his scathe! CXVIII "Neither my love nor length of servitude, Though by a thousand proofs to you made clear, Had power even so to fix your faithless mood, That you at least so lightly should not veer: Nor am I quitted, because less endued With worth than Mandricardo I appear; Nor for your conduct cause can I declare, Save this alone, that you a woman are. CXIX "I think that nature and an angry God Produced thee to the world, thou wicked sex, To be to man a plague, a chastening rod; Happy, wert thou not present to perplex. So serpent creeps along the grassy sod; So bear and ravening wolf the forest vex; Wasp, fly, and gad-fly buzz in liquid air, And the rich grain lies tangled with the tare. CXX "Why has not bounteous Nature willed that man Should be produced without the aid of thee, As we the pippin, pear, and service can Engraft by art on one another's tree? But she directs not all by certain plan; Rather, upon a nearer view, I see, In naming her, she ill can act aright, Since Nature is herself a female hight. CXXI "Yet be not therefore proud and full of scorn Women, because man issues from your seed; For roses also blossom on the thorn, And the fair lily springs from loathsome weed. Despiteous, proud, importunate, and lorn Of love, of faith, of counsel, rash in deed, With that, ungrateful, cruel and perverse, And born to be the world's eternal curse!" CXXII These plaints and countless others to the wind Poured forth the paynim knight, to fury stirred; Now easing in low tone his troubled mind, And now in sounds which were at distance heard, In shame and in reproach of womankind; Yet certes he from sober reason erred: For we may deem a hundred good abound, Where one or two perchance are evil found. CXXIII Though none for whom I hitherto have sighed -- Of those so many -- have kept faith with me, All with ingratitude, or falsehood dyed I deem not, I accuse my destiny. Many there are, and have been more beside Unmeriting reproach: but if there be, 'Mid hundreds, one or two of evil way, My fortune wills that I should be their prey. CXXIV Yet will I make such search before I die, Rather before my hair shall wax more white, That haply on some future day, even I Shall say, "That one has kept her promise plight." And should not the event my trust belie, (Nor am I hopeless) I with all my might Will with unwearied pain her praise rehearse With pen and ink and voice, in prose and verse. CXXV The Saracen, whom rage no less profound Against his sovereign lord than lady swayed, And who of reason thus o'erpast the bound, And ill of one and of the other said, Would fain behold that monarch's kingdom drowned With such a tempest, with such scathe o'erlaid, As should in Africk every house aggrieve, Nor one stone standing on another leave. CXXVI And would that from his realm, in want and woe, King Agramant a mendicant should wend; That through his means the monarch, brought thus low, His fathers' ancient seat might reascend: And thus he might the fruit of fealty show, And make his sovereign see, a real friend Was aye to be preferred in wrong or right, Although the world against him should unite; CXXVII And thus the Saracen pours forth his moan, With rage against his liege and love possest; And on his way is by long journeys gone, Giving himself and courser little rest. The following day or next, upon the Saone He finds himself, who has his course addrest Towards the coast of Provence, with design To his African domain to cross the brine. CXXVIII From bank to bank the stream was covered o'er With boat of little burden, which conveyed, For the supply of the invading Moor, Victual, from many places round purveyed: Since even from Paris to the pleasant shore Of Acquamorta, all his rule obeyed; And -- fronting Spain -- whate'er of level land Was seen, extending on the better hand. CXXIX The victual, disembarked from loaded barge, Was laid on sumpter-horse or ready wain; And sent, with escort to protect the charge, Where barges could not come; about the plain, Fat herds were feeding on the double marge, Brought thither from the march of either reign; And, by the river-side, at close of day, In different homesteads lodged, the drovers lay. CXXX The king of Argier (for the dusky air Of night began upon the world to close) Here listened to a village-landlord's prayer, That in his inn besought him to repose. -- His courser stalled -- the board with plenteous fare Is heaped, and Corsic wine and Grecian flows; For, in all else a Moor, the Sarzan drank Of the forbidden vintage like a Frank. CXXXI To warlike Rodomont, with goodly cheer And kindlier mien, the landlord honour paid; For he the port of an illustrious peer In his guest's lofty presence saw pourtrayed. But, sore beside himself, the cavalier Had scarce his heart within him, which had strayed To her -- whilere his own -- in his despite; Nor word escaped the melancholy knight. CXXXII Mine host, most diligent in his vocation Of all the trade who throughout France were known, (In that he had, 'mid strange and hostile nation, And every chance of warfare, kept his own) -- Prompt to assist him in his occupation, Some of his kin had called; whereof was none Who dared before the warrior speak of aught, Seeing that paynim mute and lost in thought. CXXXIII From thought to thought the Sarzan's fancy flies, Himself removed from thence a mighty space, Who sits so bent, and with such downcast eyes, He never once looks any in the face. Next, after silence long, and many sighs, As if deep slumber had but then given place, His spirits he recalls, his eyelids raises, And on the family and landlord gazes. CXXXIV Then silence broke, and with a milder air, And visage somewhat less disturbed, applied To him, the host, and those by-standers there, To know if any to a wife were tied; And landlord and attendants, -- that all were, To Sarza's moody cavalier replied: He asked what each conceited of his spouse, And if he deemed her faithful to her vows. CXXXV Except mine host, those others were agreed That chaste and good their consorts they believed. -- "Think each man as he will, but well I read," (The landlord said,) "You fondly are deceived: Your rash replies to one conclusion lead, That you are all of common sense bereaved; And so too must believe this noble knight, Unless he would persuade us black is white. CXXXVI "Because, as single is that precious bird The phoenix, and on earth there is but one, So, in this ample world, it is averred, One only can a woman's treason shun. Each hopes alike to be that wight preferred, The victor who that single palm has won. -- How is it possible that what can fall To one alone, should be the lot of all? CXXXVII "Erewhile I made the same mistake as you, And that more dames than one were virtuous thought, Until a gentleman of Venice, who, For my good fortune, to this inn was brought, My ignorance by his examples true So ably schooled, he better wisdom taught. Valerio was the name that stranger bore; A name I shall remember evermore. CXXXVIII "Of wives and mistresses the treachery Was known to him, with all their cunning lore. He, both from old and modern history, And from his own, was ready with such store, As plainly showed that none to modesty Could make pretension, whether rich or poor; And that, if one appeared of purer strain, 'Twas that she better hid her wanton vein. CXXXIX "He of his many tales, among the rest, (Whereof a third is from my memory gone) So well one story in my head imprest, It could not be more firmly graved in stone: And what I thought and think, would be professed For that ill sex, I ween by every one Who heard; and, Sir -- if pleased to lend an ear -- To their confusion yon that tale shall hear." CXL "What could'st thou offer which could better please At present" (made reply the paynim knight) "Than sample, chosen from thine histories, Which hits the opinion that I hold, aright? That I may hear thee speak with better ease Sit so, that I may have thee in my sight." But in the following canto I unfold What to King Rodomont the landlord told. CANTO 28 ARGUMENT To whatsoever evil tongue can tell Of womankind King Rodomont gives ear; Then journeys homeward; but that infidel Finds by the way a place he holds more dear. Here him new love inflames for Isabel; But so the wishes of the cavalier A friar impedes, who with that damsel wends, Him by a cruel death the felon ends. I Ladies, and all of you that ladies prize, Afford not, for the love of heaven, an ear To this, the landlord's tale, replete with lies, In shame and scorn of womankind; though ne'er Was praise or fame conveyed in that which flies From such a caitiff's tongue; and still we hear The sottish rabble all things rashly brand, And question most what least they understand. II Omit this canto, and -- the tale untold -- My story will as clear and perfect be; I tell it, since by Turpin it is told, And not in malice or in rivalry: Besides, that never did my tongue withhold Your praises, how you are beloved by me To you I by a thousand proofs have shown, Vouching I am, and can but be, your own. III Let him who will, three leaves or four pass-by, Nor read a line; or let him, who will read, As little of that landlord's history, As of a tale or fiction, make his creed. But to my story: -- When his auditory He saw were waiting for him to proceed, And that a place was yielded him, o'eright The cavalier, he 'gan his tale recite: IV "Astolpho that the Lombard sceptre swayed, Who was King Monacho, his brother's heir, By nature with such graces was purveyed, Few e'er with him in beauty could compare: Such scarce Apelles' pencil had pourtrayed, Zeuxis', or worthier yet, if worthier were: Beauteous he was, and so by all was deemed, But far more beauteous he himself esteemed. V "He not so much rejoiced that he in height Of grandeur was exalted o'er the rest, And that, for riches, subjects, and for might, Of all the neighbouring kings he was the best, As that, superior to each other wight, He beauty was throughout the world confest. This pleased the monarch, who the praise conferred, As that wherein he most delighted, heard. VI "Faustus Latinus, one of his array, Who pleased the king, a Roman cavalier, Hearing ofttimes Astolpho now display The beauties of his hand, now of his cheer, And, questioned by that monarch, on a day, If ever in his lifetime, far or near, He any of such beauty had espied, To him thus unexpectedly replied: VII "Faustus to him replied: `By what I see, And what I hear, is said by every one, Few are there that in beauty rival thee; And rather I those few confine to one: Jocundo is that one, my brother he; And well I ween that, saving him alone, Thou leavest all in beauty far behind; But I in him thy peer and better find.' VIII "Impossible Astolpho deemed the thing, Who hitherto had thought the palm his own; And such a longing seized the Lombard king To know that youth whose praises so were blown, He prest, till Faustus promised him to bring The brother praised by him, before his throne, Though 'twould be much if thither he repaired, (The courier added) and the cause declared: IX "Because the youth had ne'er been known to measure, In all his life, a single pace from Rome; But, on what Fortune gave him, lived at leisure, Contented in his own paternal dome; Nor had diminished nor encreased the treasure, Wherewith his father had endowed that home; And he more distant would Paris deem Than Tanais another would esteem; X "And that a greater difficulty were To tear Jocundo from his consort; who Was by such love united to that fair, No other will but hers the husband knew: Yet at his sovereign's hest he would repair To seek the stripling, and his utmost do. The suit with offers and with gifts was crowned, Which for that youth's refusal left no ground. XI "Faustus set forth, and, after few days' ride, Reached Rome, and his paternal mansion gained: There with entreaties so the brother plied, He to that journey his consent obtained; And wrought so well (though difficult to guide) Silent even young Jocundo's wife remained; He showing her what good would thence ensue, Besides what gratitude would be her due. XII "Jocundo names a time to wend his way, And servingmen meanwhile purveys and steeds; And a provision makes of fair array; For beauty borrows grace from glorious weeds. Beside him or about him, night and day, Aye weeping, to her lord the lady reads; She knows not how she ever can sustain So long an absence, and not die with pain. XIII "For the mere thought produced such misery, It seemed from her was ravished her heart's core. -- `Alas! my love (Jocundo cried) let be Thy sorrows' -- weeping with her evermore -- `So may this journey prosper! as to thee Will I return ere yet two months are o'er; Nor by a day o'erpass the term prescribed, Though me the king with half his kingdom bribed.' XIV "This brought his troubled consort small content: She that the period was too distant said, And that 'twould be a mighty wonderment, If her, at his return, he found not dead. The grief which, day and night, her bosom rent, Was such, that lady neither slept nor fed: So that for pity oft the youth repented He to his brother's wishes had consented. XV "She from her neck unloosed a costly chain That a gemmed cross and holy reliques bore; Which one, a pilgrim of Bohemia's reign, Had gathered upon many a distant shore; Him did her sire in sickness entertain, Returning from Jerusalem of yore; And hence was made that dying pilgrim's heir: This she undoes, and gives her lord to wear; XVI "And round his neck entreats him, for her sake, That chain in memory of herself to wind: Her gift the husband is well pleased to take; Not that a token needs his love to bind: For neither time, nor absence, e'er will shake, Nor whatsoever fortune is behind, Her memory, which, rooted fast and deep, He still has kept, and after death will keep. XVII "The night before that morning streaked the sky, Fixt for his journey, to his sore dismay, Her husband deemed that in his arms would die The wife from whom he was to wend his way. She slumbered not: to her a last goodbye He bade, while yet it lacked an hour of day, Mounted his nag, and on his journey sped; While his afflicted spouse returned to bed. XVIII "Jocundo was not two miles on his road, When he that jewelled cross recalled to mind; Which he beneath his pillow had bestowed, And, through forgetfulness, had left behind. `Alas! (the youth bethought him) in what mode Shall I excuse for my omission find, So that from this my consort shall not deem I little her unbounded love esteem? XIX "He pondered an excuse; then weened' twould be Of little value, if it were exprest By page or other -- save his embassy He did himself; his brother he addrest; ` -- Now to Baccano ride you leisurely, And there at the first inn set-up your rest; For I must back to Rome without delay; But trust to overtake you by the way. XX " `No other but myself my need could do. Doubt not but I shall speedily be back.' -- No servant took he, but, with an adieu, Jocundo, at a trot, wheeled round his hack, And when that cavalier the stream was through, The rising sun 'gan chase the dusky rack. At home he lighted, sought his bed, and found The consort he had quitted sleeping sound. XXI "He, without saying aught, the curtains drew, And, what he least believed, within espied; For he beneath the quilt, his consort true And chaste, saw sleeping at a stripling's side. Forthwith Jocundo that adulterer knew, By practice, of his features certified, In that he was a footboy in his train, Nourished by him, and come of humble strain. XXII "To imagine his distress and wonderment, And warrant it, that other may believe, Is better than to make the experiment, And, like this wretch, the cruel proof receive: By anger stirred, it was his first intent To draw his sword, and both of life bereave; But love, which spite himself, he entertained For that ungrateful woman, him restrained. XXIII "You see if like a vassal he obeyed This ribald Love, who left him not the force To wake her, lest to know her guilt surveyed, Should in his consort's bosom move remorse. As best he could, he forth in silence made, The stair descended, and regained his horse. Goaded by Love, he goads his steed again, And ere they reach their inn rejoins his train. XXIV "His change of mien to all was manifest; All saw his heart was heavy; yet not one, Mid these, in any sort, the reason guessed, Nor read the secret woe which caused his moan; All thought he had to Rome his steps addrest, Woe to the town, surnamed of horns, had gone. That Love has caused the mischief all surmise, Though none of them conjectures in what wise. XXV "His brother weened he was in grief immersed For his deserted wife: he, on his side, For other reason, inly chafed and cursed, -- That she was but too well accompanied. Meanwhile, with swelling lips and forehead pursed, The ground that melancholy stripling eyed. Faustus, who vainly would apply relief, Ill cheered him, witless what had caused his grief. XXVI "He for his sore an evil salve had found, And, where he should retire, encreased his woes; Who, with the mention of his wife, that wound Inflamed and opened, which he sought to close. He rests not night nor day, in sorrow drowned; His appetite is gone, with his repose, Ne'er to return; and (whilom of such fame) His lovely visage seems no more the same. XXVII "His eye-balls seem deep-buried in his head, His nose seems grown -- his cheeks are pined so sore -- Nor even remains (his beauty so is fled) Enough to warrant what he was before. Such fever burns him, of his sorrow bred, He halts on Arbia's and on Arno's shore; And, if a charm is left, 'tis faded soon, And withered like a rose-bud plucked at noon. XXVIII "Besides that Faustus sorrowed to descry Him so bested; worse cause for sorrowing Was to that courtier to appear to lie Before Astolpho; he was pledged to bring One that was fairest deemed in every eye, Who must appear the foulest to that king; Yet he continued on his way to wend, And brought him to Pavia in the end. XXIX "Not that forthwith he lets the youth be seen, Lest him the king of little wit arraign; He first by his dispatches lets him ween, That thither he Jocundo brings with pain: Saying, that of his beauteous air and mien Some secret cause of grief had been the bane, Accompanied by a distemper sore: So that he seemed not what he was before. XXX "Glad was the monarch, of his coming taught, As of a friend's arrival he could be; Since in the universal world was nought, That he so much desired as him to see: Nor was the Lombard's king displeased in ought To mark his guest's inferiority; Though, but for his misfortune, it was clear, He his superior would have been or peer. XXXI "Lodged by him in his palace, every day And every hour, the stranger youth he sees, Studious to honour him, and bids purvey Store of provision for his better ease. While still his thoughts to his ill consort stray, Jocundo languishes; nor pastimes please That melancholy man; nor music's strain One jot diminishes his ceaseless pain. XXXII "Above his chambers, on the upper floor, Nearest the roof, there was an ancient hall: Thither, in solitary mood, (for sore Pastime and company, the stripling gall,) He aye betakes himself; while evermore Sad thoughts some newer cause of grief recall. He here (who would believe the story?) found A remedy unhoped, which made him sound. XXXIII "At that hall's farther end, more feebly lighted, (For windows ever closed shut out the day) Where one wall with another ill united, He, through the chink, beheld a brighter ray: There laid his eye, and saw, what he had slighted As hard to credit, were it but hearsay: He hears it not, but this himself descries; Yet hardly can believe his very eyes. XXXIV "He of the Queen's apartment here was sight, Her choicest and her priviest chamber, where Was never introduced whatever wight, Save he most faithful was esteemed: he there, As he was peeping, saw an uncouth fight; A dwarf was wrestling with the royal fair; And such that champion's skill, though undergrown, He in the strife his opposite had thrown. XXXV "As in a dream, Jocundo stood, beside Himself, awhile of sober sense bereaved; Nor, but when of the matter certified, And sure it was no dream, his sight believed. -- `A scorned and crooked monster,' (then he cried,) `Is, as her conqueror, by a dame received, Wife of the comeliest, of the curtiest wight, And greatest monarch; Oh! what appetite!' XXXVI "And he the consort to whom he was wed, Her he most used to blame, recalled to mind, And, for the stripling taken to her bed, To deem the dame less culpable inclined: Less of herself than sex the fault he read, Which to one man could never be confined: And thought, if in one taint all women shared, At least his had not with a monster paired. XXXVII "To the same place Jocundo made return, At the same hour, upon the following day; And, putting on the king the self-same scorn, Again beheld that dwarf and dame at play: And so upon the next and following morn; For -- to conclude -- they made no holiday: While she (what most Jocundo's wonder moved) The pigmy for his little love reproved. XXXVIII "One day, amid the rest, the youth surveyed The dame disordered and opprest with gloom; Having twice summoned, by her waiting-maid, The favoured dwarf, who yet delayed to come; A third time by the lady sent, she said: -- `Engaged at play, Madonna, is the groom, Nor, lest he lose a doit, his paltry stake, Will that discourteous churl his game forsake.' XXXIX "At such strange spectacle, the Roman knight Cleared up his brow, his visage and his eyes; He jocund, as in name, became in sprite, And changed his tears for smiles; with altered guise, He waxed ruddy, gay, and plump in plight, And seems a cherubim of Paradise. So that such change with wonderment all see, Brother and king, and royal family. XL "If from the youth Astolpho wished to know From whence this sudden light of comfort came, No less Jocundo this desired to show, And to the king such injury proclaim: But willed that like himself he should forego Revenge upon the author of that shame. Hence, that he might discern her guilt, yet spare, He made him on the Agnus Dei swear. XLI "He made him swear that he, for nothing said, Or seen, which might to him displeasing be, (Though he, in what he should discover, read An outrage offered to his majesty,) Would, now or ever, venge him on his head: Moreover him he bound to secrecy; That the ill doer ne'er, through deed or word, Might guess his injured king that case had heard. XLII "The monarch, who to every thing beside Could better have given credit, freely swore: To him the cause Jocundo signified, Why he had many days lamenting sore; -- Because he had his evil wife espied In the embraces of a serjeant poor; And vowed he should in fine have died of grief, If he for longer time had lacked relief. XLIII "But that within his highness' palace said, He had witnessed what had much appeased his woe; For, if foul shame had fallen upon his head, At least he was not single; saying so, He to that chink the Lombard monarch led, Who spied the mannikin of hideous show. (Lines 7 & 8 untranslated by Rose) XLIV "You may believe he shameless deemed that act, Without my swearing it; he, at the sight, It seemed, would go distraught, -- with fury racked, He against every wall his head would smite -- Would cry aloud -- would break the solemn pact, Yet kept parforce the promise he had plight; And gulped his anger down and bitter scorn; Since on the holy water he had sworn. XLV "Then to Jocundo: `What remains to me To do in this misfortune, brother, speak; Since vengeance with more noted cruelty Thou wilt not let me on the sinners wreak.' (Jocundo answered) `Let these ingrates be; And try we if all women are as weak; And if the wives of others can be won To do what others by our own have done. XLVI " `Both fair and youthful, measured by this scale, Nor easily our equals shall we find; What woman but to us shall strike her sail, If even to the ugly these are kind? At least, if neither youth nor grace avail, The money may, with which our bags are lined; Nor will I that we homeward more return, Ere the chief spoils we from a thousand earn. XLVII " `Long absence, seeing with a distant part, Converse with different women, oft allay, As it would seem, the troubles of a heart, Whereof Love's angry passions make their prey.' The king is pleased to hear the youth impart This counsel, nor his journey will delay: Thence on their road, with but two squires beside, He and the Roman knight together ride. XLVIII "Disguised they go through France and Italy, They Flanders next and England scower, and where A woman they of lovely visage spy, Aye find the dame complaint with their prayer. They upon some bestow what others buy, And oft replaced their squandered treasures are. Our travellers to the wives of many sued, And by as many other dames were wooed. XLIX "By solid proof those comrades ascertain, Here tarrying for a month, and there for two, That their own wives are of no other vein Than those of others, and as chast and true. After some season, wearied are the twain With ever running after something new: For, without risk of death, thus evermore The intruders ill could enter other's door. L "-- 'Twere best to find a girl whose natural bent And face to both of us should pleasing be; A girl, that us in common might content, Nor we in her find cause for jealousy; And wherefore wouldst thou that I should lament More than with other, to go halves with thee?' (Exclaimed Astolpho) `well I know is none, Of all the female sex, content with one. LI " `One damsel that in nought shall us constrain, -- Then only, when disposed to please the fair -- Will we in peace and pleasure entertain, Nor we, about her, have dispute or care. Nor, deem I, she with reason could complain: For if two fell to every other's share, Better than one might she keep faith with two; Nor haply we such frequent discord view.' LII "Much seems the king's proposal to content The Roman youth; and thus it is, the twain, To execute Astolpho's project bent, Journey by many a hill and many a plain; And find at last, well fitting their intent, The daughter of a publican of Spain, Of presence and of manners framed to win; Whose father at Valencia kept his inn. LIII As yet, upon the bloom of spring, the maid Was a fresh flower that scarce began to blow: Her sire with many children was o'erlaid, And was to poverty a mortal foe. Hence 'tis an easy matter to persuade Mine host his buxom daughter to forego, And let them, where they will the damsel bear; In that to treat her well the travellers swear. LIV (Lines 1-6 untranslated by Rose) They to Zattiva come upon the day That from Valencia they had bent their way. LV "The travellers from their inn to street and square And places, public and divine, resort; Who, wheresoever they had made repair, Themselves were so accustomed to disport, The girl is with the valets left in care, Who make the beds, and wearied hackneys sort: While others in the hostel-kitchen dight The meal against their lords' return at night. LVI "As groom, a stripling in the hostel plied, Who in the other landlord's house had been: He, from her childhood at the damsel's side, Had joyed her love: they, without change of mien, On meeting, closely one another eyed, Since either apprehended to be seen: But when alone -- now left together -- raised Their eyelids and on one another gazed. LVII "The stripling asked her whitherward they sped, And of the two which claimed her as his right; This, point by point, to him Flammetta read; Flammetta she, the Greek that boy was hight. ` -- When I had hoped the time was coming,' said The Greek -- `that I should live with thee, my light, Flammetta, thou, alas! art lost to me, Nor know I if I more thy face shall see. LVIII " `I to the bitter dregs the cup must drain Of promised sweets; since thou art others' prey. 'Twas my design, having with mickle pain And labour sore, some money put away, Which I had hoarded out of frequent gain From parting guests, and from my yearly pay, To seek again Valencia, and demand Thee from thy sire in lawful wedlock's band. LIX "The damsel shrugs her shoulders, and complains; And -- that he is too late -- is her reply. The Greek laments and sobs, and partly feigns: ` -- Wilt thou (he answered her) thus let me die? Let me, at least, exhale my amorous pains! Let me, but once, in thine embrace lie! For every moment in thy presence spent, Ere thou depart, will make me die content.' LX "To him the damsel, full of pity, cries: `Believe, I covet this no less than thee; But here, surrounded by so many eyes, Is neither time nor opportunity.' ` -- I feel assured' (to her that youth replied) `Were I beloved by you, as you by me, This very night you would find out a place Wherein to solace us some little space.' LXI (Stanza LXI untranslated by Rose) LXII "She bade him come -- when she awhile had thought -- When he believed that all asleep were laid; And how by him her chamber should be sought, And how he should return, at full, displaid. The cautious stripling did as he was taught, And, when he found all silent, thither made: He pushed, till it gave way, the chamber-door, And, upon tiptoes, softly paced the floor. LXIII - LXX (Stanzas LXIII - LXX untranslated by Rose) LXXI "Gazing on one another, with surprise, The monarch and Jocundo are confused; Nor even to have heard a case surmise Of two, that ever thus had been abused: Then laughed so, that they sate with winking eyes, And open mouth, and lungs which breath refused; And, wearied with the mirth her tale had bred, Fell backwards, both, exhausted on the bed. LXXII "When they had laughed so loud a laugh, the dew Stood in their eyes, and each with aching breast Remained, the pair exclaimed: `What shall we do In order not to be a woman's jest? Since we, with all our heed, between us two, Could not preserve the one by us possest, A husband, furnished with more eyes than hair, Perforce must be betrayed with all his care. LXXIII " `A thousand, beauteous all, have we found kind, Nor one of those so many has stood fast. If tried, all women we by proof should find Like these; but be the experiment our last. Then we may deem our own not worse inclined Than are the wives of others, and as chaste: And, if like others we our own discern, I hold it best that we to them return.' LXXIV "When they have come to this resolve, they, through Flammetta, call the youth into their bower; And with the girl her leman, in the view Of many, gift, and add a fitting dower. They mount, and to the east their way pursue, Accustomed westward hitherto to scower; To their deserted wives again repair, Nor of their after deeds take farther care." LXXV Here paused mine host; to whom on every side His audience had with careful heed attended. Rodomont listened, nor a word replied, Until the landlord's story was suspended. Then -- "Fully I believe," that paynim cried, "The tale of women's frauds would ne'er be ended; Nor could that man in any volume note The thousandth part, who would their treasons quote." LXXVI Of sounder judgement, 'mid that company, There was an elder, one more wise and bold; That undefended so the sex to see, Was inly wroth, and could no longer hold: To the relater of that history He turned; and, "Many things we have been told" (Exclaimed that ancient) "wherein truth is none, And of such matters is thy fable one. LXXVII "Him I believe not, that told this truth to you, Though in all else he gospel-truths exprest; As less by his experience, than untrue Conceit respecting women prepossest. The malice which he bears to one or two, Makes him unjustly hate and blame the rest. But you shall hear him, if his wrath o'erblow, Yet greater praise than blame on these bestow. LXXVIII "And he a larger field for speaking well Will find, than blaming womankind withal; And of a hundred worthy fame may tell, For one whose evil deeds for censure call. He should exalt the many that excel, Culled from the multitude, not rail at all, If otherwise your friend Valerio said, He was by wrath, and not by reason, led. LXXIX - LXXXIII (Stanzas LXXIX - LXXXIII untranslated by Rose) LXXXIV So reasoning, that just elder and sincere, With ready instances, supports his creed; Showing there many women are who ne'er Sinned against chastity, in word or deed: But him with impious visage and severe The paynim scared, ill pleased the truth to read. So that, through fear, he further speech forbore, But changed not therefore aught his former lore. LXXXV Having stopt further question in this wise, The paynim monarch from the table rose: Then lays him on his bed, till from the skies The dusky shades depart, and morning glows: But spends a larger part of night in sighs At his liege-lady's sin, than in repose. Rodomont thence departs at dawn of day, Resolved by water to pursue his way. LXXXVI For with such care for his good horse's plight, As is becoming a good cavalier, The courser fair and good, made his in spite Of young Rogero and Circassia's peer; Seeing he, for two days, that horse's might Had taxed too hardly in his long career, -- As well he for his ease embarked the steed, As to pursue his way with better speed. LXXXVII He straight makes launch the vessel from the marge, And bids put forth the oars from either side: Nor big nor deeply laden, she, at large, Descends the Saone, transported by the tide. Care never quits him, though the shifting barge The king ascend, or nimble horse bestride: This he encounters aye on prow or poop, And bears behind him on his courser's croup; LXXXVIII Rather within his head or heart always Care sits; whence every comfort is o'erthrown: No remedy the wretched man surveys, In that his enemies are in the town. From others hope is none; since they who raise This fearful war against him, are his own: Vext by that cruel one, aye night and day, Whom he might hope to find his natural stay. LXXXIX Rodomont navigates the day and night Ensuing, aye by heavy thoughts opprest; Nor can he ever banish the despite, Suffered from King and Lady, from his breast. The self-same grief sate heavy on his sprite Aboard the bark, as when his steed he prest. Such fire was not by water to be drowned, Nor he his nature changed by changing ground. XC As the sick man who with a fever grows, And, weak and weary, shifts his place in vain, Whether he right or left himself bestows, And hopes in turning some relief to gain, Finds neither on this side nor that repose, But everywhere encounters equal pain; The pagan monarch so found small relief, By land or water, for his secret grief. XCI Rodomont brooked no more aboard to stay, But bade them land him, and by Lyons hied; By Vienne and Valence next took his way, And the rich bridge in Avignon descried. For these and more, which 'twixt the river lay And Celtiberian hills upon that side, (Theirs, from the day they conquered the champaigne) Obeyed the kings of Afric and of Spain. XCII To pass to Afric straight, the cavalier Kept to the right, towards Acquamorta's shore, And lighted on a stream and hamlet, dear To Ceres and to Bacchus, which that Moor Found quitted by the peasants, in their fear, As often by the soldier harried sore. The beach upon one side broad ocean laved, And on the other yellow harvests waved. XCIII Here, newly built upon a hillock's crest, A little church the Saracen espied; Abandoned by its priesthood, like the rest, For war was flaming upon every side. Rodomont of this place himself possest; Which, from its site, as well as lying wide Of fields, from whence he tidings loathed to hear, So pleased him, he for it renounced Argier. XCIV He changed his scheme of seeking Afric's land, (So this fair spot seemed fit for his behoof!) And here housed carriages, and steed, and band, Together with himself, beneath one roof, At few leagues' distance, did Montpelier stand, And other wealthy towns, not far aloof. The village was upon a river's side, So that its every need might be supplied. XCV Here standing, full of thought, upon a day, (Such was his common wont) the paynim spied, Advancing by a narrow path, which lay Through a green meadow, from the adverse side, A lovely damsel, that upon her way Was by a bearded monk accompanied; And these behind them led a lusty steed, Who bore a burden, trapt with sable weed. XCVI Who that attendant monk and damsel were, And what that burden, will to you be clear, Remembering Isabella is the fair, Charged with the corse of her Zerbino dear: I left her, where from Provence, in the care Of that good sire, she bowned herself to steer, By whom persuaded, had the lady given The remnant of her virtuous life to heaven. XCVII Although in her pale face and troubled guise, The sorrow of that dame is manifest, Although two fountains are her streaming eyes, And sobs aye issue from her burning breast, And more beside of suffering testifies, With what a load of grief she is opprest, Yet, in her faded cheek such beauties meet, Love and the Graces there might fix their seat. XCVIII As soon as he of Sarza saw appear The beauteous dame, he laid the thought aside Of hatred to that gentle race and dear, By whom alone the world is glorified; And best by Isabel the cavalier Believed his former love would be supplied, And one love by another be effaced, As bolt by bolt in timber is displaced. XCIX Her with the kindest mien and mildest tone That he could fashion, met the Sarzan knight; To whom the dame her every thought made known; And said, when she was questioned of her plight, She would with holy works -- this world forgone -- Seek favour in her Heavenly Father's sight. Loud laughed that godless paynim at the thought, Who every faith and worship held at nought; C And said that she from reason wandered wide, And termed her project sudden and unsound; Nor deemed her less to blame than those who hide, Through greediness, their treasure under ground, And keep it from the use of all beside, Though hence no profit to themselves redound. Rightly were prisoned lion, snake, and bear, But ill whate'er is innocent and fair. CI The monk, that to this talk has lent an ear, Prompt with advice that mournful dame to stay, And lest she quit her course, prepared to steer His bark, like practised pilot, on her way, A sumptuous table, rich in spiritual cheer, Had speedily bestirred him to array; But, born with evil taste, that paynim rude No sooner tasted, than he loathed, the food. CII And having interrupted him in vain, Nor having power to make him stint his lore, That paynim, stirred to fury, broke the rein Of patience, and assailed the preacher hoar. But haply wearisome might seem the strain, If I upon this theme dilated more: So here I close, nor words will idly spend, Admonished by that ancient's evil end. CANTO 29 ARGUMENT Isabel makes the paynim take her head, Rather than he his wicked will should gain; Who, having his unhappy error read, Seeks to appease his wounded spirit in vain. He builds a bridge, and strips those thither led; But falls from it with Roland the insane; Who thence, of him regardless, endlong speeds, And by the road achieves prodigious deeds. I O feeble and unstable minds of men! How quickly our intentions fluctuate! All thoughts we lightly change, but mostly when These from some lover's quarrel take their date. But now, so wroth I saw that Saracen With woman, so outrageous in his hate, I weened not only he would ill assuage, But never more would calm, his amorous rage. II That which he rashly uttered to your blame, Ye gentle dames, does so my spirit grieve, Till I his error teach him, to his shame, He shall no quarter at my hands receive; So him with pen and page will I proclaim, That, whosoever reads me, shall believe He had better held -- aye, better bit, his tongue, Than ever have your sex with slander stung. III But that in this the witless infidel Spake as a fool, the event demonstrates clear: Even now, with dagger drawn, that paynim fell In fury on all women whomsoe'er. Next him so touched one look of Isabel, She quickly made his fickle purpose veer; For her, scarce seen, and to that warrior strange, He would his Doralice already change; IV And, as new love the king did heat and goad, He moved some arguments of small avail, To shake her stedfast spirit, which abode Wholly with God; but he, her shield and mail, That hermit, lest she from the better road Should wander, and her chaste intention fail, With stronger arguments with him contended, And still, as best he could, the dame defended. V The king, who long had taxed himself to bear The monk's bold sermon to his sore displeasure, And vainly bade him to his cell repair Anew, without that damsel, at his leisure, Yet seeing he would still his patience dare, Nor peace with him would keep, nor any measure, Upon that preacher's chin his right-hand laid, And whatsoe'er he grasped, as rudely flayed. VI And (so his fury waxed) that, as it were With tongs, he griped his neck, and after he Had whirled him once or twice about in air, Dismist him form his hand towards the sea. I say not -- know not, what befel him there: Many the rumours are, and disagree. One says he burst upon a rock's rude bed, And lay one shapeless jelly, heels and head. VII He fell into the sea, by one is said, Distant three miles and more; and, in that sound, He having prayer, and Ave vainly made, Because he knew not how to swim, was drowned. Others report a Saint bestowed his aid, And dragged him with a visible hand aground. Whichever be the reading of this mystery, Of him I speak no further in mine history. VIII Cruel King Rodomont, when from his side He had removed the prating eremite, With visage less disturbed, again applied To that sad lady, heartless with affright; And, in the language used by lovers, cried, She was his very heart, his life, his light, She was his comfort, and his dearest hope; With all such words as have that common scope. IX And now, so temperate showed that infidel, 'Twould seem that he no violence designed, The gentle semblance of fair Isabel, Enamoured him, so tamed his haughty mind; And, though he might that goodly kernel shell, The paynim would not pass beyond the rhind, Who that its favour would be lost, believed, Unless 'twere as a gift from her received; X And by degrees so thought to mould the dame To his desires. She in that lone retreat And savage, open to his evil aim, And like a mouse, beneath Grimalkin's feet, Had liefer found herself i' the midst of flame; And ever on one thought her fancy beat: If any mode, if any way, remained To scape that wilful man, untouched, unstained. XI Sad Isabella in her mind is bent To slay herself with her own hand, before That fell barbarian compass his intent; And be the means to make her wrong so sore That cavalier, by cruel Fortune spent, Within her loving arms, to whom she swore With mind to him devoted, his to be, Vowing to Heaven perpetual chastity. XII She sees that paynim monarch's passion blind Increasing still, nor what to do she knows; Well knows what foul intention is behind, Which she is all too feeble to oppose: Yet moving many matters in her mind, Finds out at last a refuge for her woes, And means to save her chastity from shame, (How I shall say) with clear and lasting fame. XIII She cried unto that paynim, foul to see, Already threatening her with word and act, And now devoid of all that courtesy, Which he in the beginning did enact, "If thou mine honour wilt ensure to me, Beyond suspicion, I, upon this pact, Will upon thee bestow what shall o'erpay, By much, that honour thou wouldst take away. XIV "For pleasure, which endures so brief a space, Wherewith this ample world does so o'errun, Reject not lightly a perpetual grace, A real joy, to be postponed to none. Of women everywhere of pleasing face A hundred and a thousand may be won; But none beside me, or few others, live Who can bestow the boon which I can give. XV "I know, and on my way a herb did view, And nearly know where I on this could light, Which, being boiled with ivy and with rue, Over a fire with wood of cypress dight, And squeezed, when taken from the caldron, through Innocent hands, affords a juice of might, Wherewith whoever thrice his body laves, Destructive steel or fire securely braves. XVI "If thrice therewith he bathe himself, I say, His flesh no weapon for a month shall score: He once a month must to his body lay Mine unction, for its virtue lasts not more: This liquor can I make, and will to-day, And thou to-day shalt also prove my lore: And well, I trust, thou shalt more grateful be, Than were all Europe won to-day by thee. XVII "In guerdon for this present, I request That thou to me upon thy faith wilt swear, Thou never wilt my chastity molest In word or deed." So spake that damsel fair; And Rodomont who heard, again represt His evil will: for so he longed to bear A charmed life, that readily he more Than Isabel of him demanded swore; XVIII And will maintain his promise, till the fact Vouched of that wondrous water shall appear; And force himself, meanwhile, to do no act, To show no sign of violence; but the peer Resolves he will not after keep the pact, As one who holds not God or saint in fear; And to that king, regardless of his oath, All lying Afric yields in breach of troth. XIX Argier's perfidious king to Isabel More than a thousand times assurance swore, In case that water rendered him what fell Achilles and what Cygnus were of yore. She, aye by beetling cliff and darksome dell, Away from city and from farm, a store Of herbs collected, nor this while e'er Abandoned by the paynim cavalier. XX When herbs enow by them in many a beat, With or without their roots, collected were, At a late hour, the twain to their retreat Betook them; and, throughout night's remnant, there, That paragon of continence did heat What simples she had culled, with mickle care, While to those mysteries and her every deed The pagan, present still, gave curious heed; XXI Who, wearing out the weary night in sport, -- He and those followers that with him remained -- Had suffered thirst in such a grievous sort, From the fierce fire in that small cave contained, That drinking round, in measure full or short, Of Graecian wine two barrels had they drained; A booty which those squires who served the Moor, From travellers seized a day or two before. XXII To Argier's warlike king, unused to wine, (Cursed, and forbidden by his law, esteemed) The liquor, tasted once, appeared divine, Sweeter than nectar or than manna seemed: He, quaffing largely, now of Ishmael's line The sober use deserving censure deemed. So fast their cups with that good wine they fill, Each reveller's head is whirling like a mill. XXIII Meanwhile that lady from the fire does lift The pot, wherein she cooked those herbs, and cries To Rodomont: "In proof I not adrift Have launched the words I spake, in random guise, -- By that, which can the truth form falsehood sift, Experience, which can make the foolish wise, Even now the thing shall to thyself be shown, Not on another's body, but my own. XXIV "I first will trial make" (that lady said) "Of this choice liquor with rare virtue blest; Lest haply thou shouldst harbour any dread That mortal poison form these herbs be prest. With this will I anoint myself, from head Downwards below the naked neck and breast. Then prove on me thy faulchion and thine arm, And prove if one can smite, the other harm." XXV She washed, as said, and gladly did decline Her neck to that unthinking pagan's brand; Unthinking, and perhaps o'ercome by wine, Which neither helm, nor mail, nor shield withstand, That brutish man believed her, and, in sign Of faith, so struck with cruel steel and hand, That her fair head, erewhile Love's place of rest, He severed from the snowy neck and breast. XXVI This made three bounds, and thence in accents clear Was heard a voice which spake Zerbino's name, To follow whom, escaping Sarza's peer, So rare a way was taken by the dame. Spirit! which nobly didst esteem more dear Thy plighted faith, and chaste and holy name, (Things hardly known, and foreign to our time) Than thine own life and thine own blooming prime! XXVII Depart in peace, O spirit blest and fair! -- So had my verses power! as evermore I would assay, with all that happy care, Which so adorns and points poetic lore! And, as renowned should be thy story rare, Thousands and thousands of long years and more! -- Depart in peace to radiant realms above, And leave to earth the example of thy love! XXVIII His eyes from heaven did the Creator bend, At the stupendous and unequalled feat, And said: "I thee above that dame commend. Whose death drove Tarquin from his royal seat; And I to register a law intend, 'Mid those which ages change not as they fleet, Which -- I attest the inviolable river -- Unchanged through future times, shall last for ever. XXIX "I will that all, in every future age, Who bear thy name, be blest with genius high; Be courteous, gentle, beautiful, and sage, And to the real pitch of honour fly. That to their glory the historic page They may with worthy argument supply; So that for aye Parnassus' hill and well Shall ring with Isabel and Isabel." XXX So spake the Sire; and cleared the ambient air, And hushed beyond its wont the heaving main. To the third heaven her chaste soul made repair, And in Zerbino's arms was locked again. On earth, with shame and sorrow for his share, That second Breuse sans pity did remain; Who, when digested was the maddening bowl, Lamented sore his error, sad at soul. XXXI That placated, or in some content, The sainted soul of Isabel might be; That, if to death that damsel he had shent, He might at least revive her memory, He, as a means to compass his intent, Would turn into a tomb that church, where he Inhabited, and where she buried lies; To you shall be related in what wise. XXXII In all parts round about this chosen site, For love or fear, he master-masons found; And, making full six thousand men unite, Stript of their heavy stones the mountains round, And raised a fabric ninety yards in height, From its extremest summit to the ground; And he within its walls the church enclosed; Wherein entombed the lovers twain reposed. XXXIII This nearly imitates that pile beside Old Tyber's stream, by Adrian built; and nigh The sepulchre, will he a tower provide, Wherein he purposes some time to lie. A narrow bridge, and only two yards wide, He flung across the stream which rolled fast by. Long, but so scanty is that bridge, with pain The narrow pass two coursers can contain; XXXIV Two coursers, that abreast have thither made, Or else, encountering, on that causeway meet: Nor any where was ledge or barricade, To stay the horses's fall, who lost his feet. He wills that bridge's toll be dearly paid By Christian or by Moor, who pass his seat; For with a thousand trophies, arms, and vest, That damsel's tomb is destined to be drest. XXXV Within ten days, or shorter time, was placed The bridge, whose arch across the stream was dight; But not that pile and tower with equal haste Were so conducted to their destined height. Yet was the last so high, a sentry paced Its top, who, whensoever any knight Approached the bridge, was wont his lord to warn, Sounding a signal on his bugle-horn. XXXVI Whereat he armed, and issued for the stower, Now upon one and now the other side: For when a warrior pricked towards the tower, Him from the adverse bank that king defied: The bridge affords the field their steeds must scour; And, should one but a little swerve aside, (Peril unparalleled!) the horse will go Into the deep and dangerous stream below. XXXVII The pagan had imagined, as a pain, That, risking oft to tumble in the course, Head-first into that stream, where he must drain Huge draughts of water in his fall, parforce, He would assoil and cleanse him from that stain, Whereof excess in wine had been the source; As if what ill wine prompts to do or say, Water, as well as wine, could wash away. XXXVIII Soon thitherward flocked many a cavalier; Some who pursued the beaten road and plain; Since for way-faring men, who southward steer, No straighter lay for Italy or Spain: Their courage and their honour, held more dear Than life, excited others of the train; And all, where they had hoped the meed of strife, Had lost their arms, and many arms and life. XXXIX If those he conquers are of pagan strain, He is content to take their arms and vest: And of those first arrived the titles plain Are written, and their arms suspended rest. But he in prison pens the christened train, ('Twould seem) to be to Argier's realm addrest. Not yet was brought that building to a head When thitherward the crazed Orlando sped. XL It chanced Orlando, in his furious mood, Came thither where that foaming river ran; Where Rodomont beside the mighty flood Was hurrying on his work; nor yet were done The tower and tomb, the bridge, scarce finished, stood: Here -- save his casque was open -- Ulien's son Steeled cap-a-pee, stood ready armed for fight, When to the bridge approached Anglantes' knight. XLI Orlando running thus his wild career, The barrier tops, and o'er the bridge would fly, But sullen Rodomont, with troubled cheer, Afoot, as he that tower is standing nigh, For he disdains to brandish sword or spear, Shouts to him from afar with threatening cry, "Halt! thou intrusive churl and indiscreet, Rash, meddling, saucy villain, stay thy feet! XLII "Only for lord and cavalier was made, And not for thee, dull slave, that bridge was meant." To this no heed insane Orlando paid, But, fixt upon his purpose, forward went. "This madman must I school," the paynim said, And was approaching with the fell intent Him into that deep river to dispatch, Nor deeming in such foe to find his match. XLIII This while, a gentle damsel sought the place That towards that bridge across the river rode, Richly arraid and beautiful of face, Who sage reserve in her demeanor showed. 'Tis she that, of her Brandimart in chase, (If you remember, sir,) through every road And place her lover seeks in anxious wise, Excepting Paris, where the warrior lies. XLIV When Flordelice that bridge and tower was near, (So was by name the wandering damsel hight) Grappling with Roland stood the Sarzan peer, And would into that river pitch the knight. She, conversant with Brava's cavalier, The miserable county knew aright; And mighty marvel in that dame it raised To see him rove, a naked man and crazed. XLV She stopt, the issue of that strife to know, Wherein those two so puissant warriors vied. His opposite by might and main to throw, Into the stream each doughty champion tried. "How can a fool such mighty prowess show?" Between his teeth, the furious paynim cried. And, shifting here and there, was seen to strain, Brimfull of pride, and anger, and disdain. XLVI This hand and now that other he puts out, To take new hold, where he his vantage spies; Now within Roland's legs, and now without, Locks his right foot or left, in skilful wise; And thus resembles, in that wrestling bout, The stupid bear, who in his fury tries The tree, from whence he tumbled, to o'erthrow; Deeming it sole occasion of his woe. XLVII Roland, whose better wit was lost withal, I know no where, and who used force alone; That utmost force, to which this earthly ball Haply affords few paragons, or none, Let himself backwards in that struggle fall, Embracing as he stood with Ulien's son. Together in the foaming stream they sank; High flashed the wave, and groaned the echoing bank. XLVIII Quickly the stream asunder bore the pair. Roland was naked, and like fish could swim, Here shot his feet, his arms extended there, And gained the bank; nor, when upon the brim, Halted to mark if his adventure were Achieved with praise or shame: in evil trim, The pagan, by his arms impeded sore, With heavier pain and trouble, toiled ashore. XLIX Along the bridge which spanned that foaming tide Did Flordelice meantime securely pace, And, having vainly sought on every side Brandimart's bearing, since nor iron case Nor vest of his she anywhere espied, She hoped to find the knight in other place. But here return we of the count to tell, Who left behind him stream, bridge tower, and cell. L 'Twere phrensy of his every frantic feat To promise the relation, one by one; So many and many, -- should I these repeat, I know not when my story would be done. Yet some of his notorious deeds, and meet For mention in my song, will I make known: Nor will I not that wondrous one recount, Near Thoulouse, on the Pyrenaean Mount. LI Much country had been traversed by the knight, Urged by the furious rage which him misguides: At last he reached the hill whose boundary height Arragonese and neighbouring Frank divides. Thither directing aye his course outright, Where the descending sun his visage hides, He reached a path upon the rugged steep, Which overhung a valley dark and deep. LII Here he by chance encountered in mid road Two youths, that wood men were, and drove before An ass along that pathway, with a load Of logs; they, marking well what scanty store Of brain in poor Orlando's head was stowed, Called to the approaching knight, and threatened sore; Bidding him stand aside, or else go back, Nor to their hindrance block the common track. LIII To this address Orlando answered nought, Save that his foot he to their beast applied, Smote in mid-breast, which, with that vigour fraught, -- That force exceeding every force beside -- Tost him so hight, that the beholders thought It was a bird in air which they descried. The ass upon a mountain-summit fell, Which rose above a mile beyond that dell. LIV Upon those youths next sprang the furious knight. With better luck than wit, one woodman shear From that tall cliff, twice thirty yards in height, Cast himself headlong downward in his fear: Him a moist patch of brambles, in his flight, Received; and, amid grass and bushes, here, From other mischief safe, the stripling lit, And for some scratches in his face was quit. LV That other to a jutting fragment clung, Who so to gain the higher steep would strive; Because he hopes, if once those crags among, To keep him from that fool he may contrive; But by the feet Orlando, ere he sprung, Seized him, who will not leave the wretch alive; And stretching them as wide as he could strain, So stretched his arms, he rent his prey in twain. LVI Even in such mode as often we descry Falconer by heron or by puller do; Whose entrails he plucks out, to satisfy Merlin or falcon that the game pursue. How happy was that other not to die! Who risqued his neck in that deep bottom, who Rehearsed the tale so often, Turpin heard, And handed down to us the wondrous word. LVII These and more marvels does the count, who bends His steps across that mountain to the plain; And, seeking long a path, at length descends Towards the south, upon the land of Spain. His way along the beach he after wends, Near Arragon, beside the rumbling main, And, ever prompted by his phrensy rank, Will make himself a dwelling on the bank, LVIII Where he somedeal may shun the noontide ray, With dry and powdery sea-sand covered o'er; And here, while so employed, upon their way Arrives Angelica with her Medore, Who, as you have been told in former lay, Had from the hills descended on that shore. Within a yard or less approached the fair, Ere yet she of his presence was aware. LIX So different from himself was he to sight, Nought of Orlando she in him surveyed: For, from the time that rage possest his sprite, He had gone naked forth in sun and shade. Had he been born on hot Syene's site, Or sands where worship is to Ammon paid, Or nigh those hills, whence Nile's full waters spin, Orlando had not borne a dingier skin. LX Nigh buried in their sockets are his eyes, Spare in his visage, and as dry as bone: Dishevelled is his hair in woeful wise, With frightful beard his cheek is overgrown: No sooner is he seen, than backward flies Angelica, who, trembling sore, is flown: She shrieking loud, all trembling and dismaid, Betakes her to her youthful guide for aid. LXI When crazed Orlando was of her aware, To seize the damsel he upsprang in haste; So pleased the wretched count her visage fair, So quickly was his mood inflamed: effaced In him all ancient recollections are, How she by him was whilom served and graced. Behind her speech the count and hunts that dame, As questing dog pursues the sylvan game. LXII The youth, that sees him chase his love who fled, His courser spurs, and in pursuit is gone. With naked faulchion after him he sped, And cut and thrust at Roland as he run. He from his shoulders hoped to cleave his head, But found the madman's skin as hard as bone; Yea, harder far than steel, nor to be harmed; So good Orlando at his birth was charmed. LXIII When on his back Orlando felt him beat, He turned, and turning on his youthful foe, Smote with clenched fist, and force which nought can meet, -- Smote on his horse's head, a fearful blow; And, with skull smashed like glass, that courser fleet Was by the madman's furious stroke laid low. In the same breath Orlando turned anew, And chased the damsel that before him flew. LXIV At speed Angelica impelled her mare. And whipt and spurred her evermore; whom slow She would esteem, albeit that palfrey were Yet faster than a shaft dismist from bow: Her ring she thought upon, and this the fair Placed in her mouth; nor failed its virtue now; For putting it between her lips, like light Extinguished by a puff, she past from sight. LXV Was it through fear, or was she, while she stript This from her finger, shaken in her seat; Or was it rather, that her palfrey tript, (For neither this nor that I surely weet) Angelica, while 'twixt her lips she slipt The virtuous ring, and hid her visage sweet, Her stirrups lost; and, tumbling form the sell, Reversed upon the sand that lady fell. LXVI If but two inches short had fallen his prey, Upon her would have pounced Orlando near; Who would have crushed her in his furious way, But that kind Fortune saved her from the peer. Let her by other theft herself purvey With other palfrey, as she did whilere; For never will she have this courser more, Who chased by swift Orlando scours the shore. LXVII Doubt not that she another will provide; And follow we in mad Orlando's rear; Whose rage and fury nevermore subside, Wroth that Angelica should disappear: After that beast along the sands he hied, Aye gaining on the mare in this career. Now, now he touches her, and lo! The mane He grasps, and now secures her by the rein. LXVIII Orlando seizes her with that delight That other man might seize a damsel fair; The bit and bridle he adjusts aright, Springs on her back, and o'er the sea-beach bare For many miles impels the palfrey's flight, Without repose or pause, now here, now there: Nor ever sell or bridle be displaced, Nor let her grass or heartening forage taste. LXIX As in this course to o'erleap a ditch he sought, Head over heels, she with her rider went: Nor harmed was he, nor felt that tumble aright; But she, with shoulder slipt, lay foully shent. Long how to bear her thence Orlando thought, And in the end upon his shoulders hent. He from the bottom climbed, thus loaded sore, And carried her three bow-shots' length and more. LXX Next, for he felt that weight too irksome grow, He put her down, to lead her by the rein; Who followed him with limping gait and slow, "Come on," Orlando cried, and cried in vain; And, could the palfrey at a gallop go, This ill would satisfy his mood insane. The halter from her head he last unloosed, Wherewith her hind off-foot the madman noosed. LXXI 'Tis thus he comforts and drags on that mare, That she may follow with more ease, so led; Who whiles despoiled of flesh, and whiles of hair, Is scathed by stones which that ill road o'erspread. At length the misused beast, with wear and tear Of the rude rocks, and suffering sore, lies dead. Orlando nought the slaughtered mare regards, Nor anywise his headlong course retards. LXXII To drag that palfrey ceased he not, though dead, Continuing still his course towards the west, And all this while sacked hamlet, farm, and stead, Whenever he by hunger was distrest; And aye to glut himself with meat, and bread, And fruit, he every one by force opprest. One by his hand was slain, one foully shent; Seldom he stopt, and ever onward went. LXXIII As much, or little less, would do the knight By his own love, did not that damsel hide; Because the wretch discerns not black from white, And harms where he would help. A curse betide The wonder-working ring, and eke the wight Who gave it to that lady, full or pride! Since Roland, but for this, would venge the scorn He and a thousand more from her had borne. LXXIV Would that of her Orlando were possest, And of all women that are above ground! For one and all are ingrates at the best, Nor is in all an ounce of goodness found. But it is meet I let my hearer rest Ere my strained chords return a faltering sound, And that he may less tedious deem the rhyme, Defer my story till another time. CANTO 30 ARGUMENT Great feats achieve Orlando by the way. The Tartar king is by Rogero slain: For whom fair Bradamant, his spouse, does stay, But Fate forbade, that he who wounded lay To her his plighted promise should maintain. He after boldly with the brethren made, Their lord Rinaldo in his need to aid. I When Reason, giving way to heat of blood, Herself from hasty choler ill defends, And, hurried on by blind and furious mood, We with the tongue or hand molest our friends, Though the offence is, after, wept and rued, The penance which we pay is poor amends. Alas! I sorrow and lament in vain For what I said in other angry strain. II But like sick man am I, who, sore bested, Suffering with patience many and many a day, When against pain he can no more make head, Yields to his rage, and curses; pain give way, And with it the impetuous wrath is fled, Which moved his ready tongue such ill to say; And he is left his willful rage to rue, But cannot that which he has done undo. III Well hope I, from your sovereign courtesy, Your pardon, since I crave it, ladies bright; You will excuse, if moved by madness, I Rave in my passion; let your censure light On foe, who treats me so despiteously, I could not be reduced to worser plight; Who prompts what sore repents me: Heaven above Knows how she wrongs me, knows how well I love. IV No less beside myself than Brava's peer And I, nor less my pardon should obtain; He, who by mead or mountain, far or near, Had scowered large portion of the land of Spain, Dragging that jennet in his wild career, Dead as she was, behind him by the rein; But, where a river joined the sea, parforce Abandoned on the bank her mangled corse. V And he, who could like any otter swim, Leapt in and rose upon the further side. Behold! a mounted shepherd at the brim Arrived, his horse to water in the tide; Nor when he saw Orlando coming, him Eschewed, whom naked and alone he spied. -- "My jennet for thy hackney were I fain To barter," cried the madman to the swain: VI "Her will I show thee, if thou wilt; who dead Upon the river's other margin fell; At leisure may'st thou have her cured," (he said) "And of no other fault have I to tell. Give me thy hackney, with some boot instead: Prythee, dismount thee, for he likes me well." The peasant, laughing, answered not a word, But left the fool and pricked towards the ford. VII "Hearest thou not? hola! I want thy steed," (Cried Roland) and advanced with wrathful cheer. A solid staff and knotted, for his need, That shepherd had, wherewith he smote the peer; Whose violence and ire all bounds exceed, Who seems withal to wax more fierce than e'er: A cuff he levels at that rustic's head, And splits the solid bone, and lays him dead. VIII Then leaping on his horse, by different way The country scowers, to make more spoil and wrack: That palfrey never more tastes corn or hay; So that few days exhaust the famished hack. But not afoot does fierce Orlando stray, Who will not, while he lives, conveyance lack. As many as he finds, so many steeds -- Their masters slain -- he presses for his needs. IX He came at last to Malaga, and here Did mightier scathe than he had done elsewhere; For now -- besides that the infuriate peer Of all its people left the country bare, Nor (such the ravage) could another year The desperate havoc of the fool repair -- So many houses burnt he, or cast down, Sacked was a third of that unhappy town. X Departing thence, insane Orlando flees To Zizera, a seaward town, whose site Is in Gibraltar's bay, or (if you please) Say Gibletar's; for either way 'tis hight; Here, loosening from the land, a boat he sees Filled with a party, and for pleasure dight: Which, for their solace, to the morning gale, Upon that summer sea, had spread their sail. XI "Hoah! the boat! put back!" the count 'gan cry, Who was in mind to go aboard their barge: But vainly on their ears his clamours die: For of such freight none willingly take charge. As swiftly as a swallow cleaves the sky, Furrowing the foamy wave the boat goes large. Orlando urges on, with straightening knee, And whip and spur, his horse towards the sea. XII He plunged into the waves, at last, parforce; For vainly would he shun the waters green. Bathed are knees, paunch, and croup, till of that horse Scarcely the head above the wave is seen: Let him not hope to measure back his course, While smitten with the whip his ears between. Woe worth him! he must founder by the way, Or into Africa his load convey. XIII Nor poops nor prows does Roland more descry, For all have launched their shallops, which are wide Of that dry shore; while from his level eye Their hulls the tall and shifting surges hide. He spurs his horse amid the billows high, Wholly resolved to reach the farther side. The courser ends his swim and life in fine, Drained of his strength, and drenched brimfull of brine. XIV He sinks, and would with him draw down his load; But that himself the madman's arms upbear: With sinewy arms and either palm he rowed, And puffed and blew the brine before; the air Breathed softly, and the water gently flowed; And well was needed weather more than fair: For if the waters yet a little rise, Whelmed by the waxing tide Orlando dies. XV But Fortune, that of madmen is the guide, Him from the water drew near Ceuta's shore, Upon that beach, and of those walls as wide As twice an archer's hand could shoot at score. For many days along the bank he hied, At hazard, ever westward hurrying sore, Until he came where on the sea-beat strand Encamped a host of blacks, a countless band. XVI Leave we the paladin at will to stray! To speak of him occasion will come round. -- Sir, what befel the lady of Catay, Who scaped, in time, from him of wit unsound, And afterwards, upon her homeward way, Was with good bark and better weather bound; And how she made Medoro, India's king; Perchance some voice in happier verse may sing. XVII To say so many things I am intent, I mean not to pursue the cavalier. To Mandricardo my fair argument It now behoves me, in his turn, to veer He happily enjoyed, his rival spent, The beauty, left in Europe without peer, Since fair Angelica from hence had wended, And virtuous Isabel to heaven ascended. XVIII King Mandricardo, proud that in his right His lady had adjudged the amorous suit, Enjoys not her award with full delight; Since others with him other points dispute. By young Rogero claimed, that eagle white Of one disastrous quarrel is the root; Another moves the king of Sericana Against the Tartar king, for Durindana. XIX Agramant and Marsilius strive in vain, With labour sore, this tangle to undo; Nor only cannot they persuade the twain In peace and concord to unite anew, But cannot make the valiant Child refrain From claiming Hector's buckler as his due; Nor yet Gradasso move the sword to lend, 'Till this, or till that, quarrel have an end. XX Rogero brooks not that in other fight His shield be braced, nor will Gradasso bear That save against himself the Tartar knight Should wield the sword Orlando used to wear "See we, in fine, on whom the chance will light (Cries Agramant) and further words forbear. How Fortune rules the matter let us see, And choose him that of her shall chosen be. XXI "And -- would ye do what most would me delight, And be an obligation evermore -- You shall by casting lots decide your right: Premising, he whose lot is drawn before The other, shall upon two quarrels fight: So he who wins, on his companion's score Shall win as well as on his own; and who Loses the battle lose alike for two. XXII "Between Rogero and Gradasso, we Deem there is little difference, rather none; And wot whichever shall elected be. In arms will make his martial prowess known, As for the rest, let doubtful victory Descend on him whom Heaven is pleased to own! Upon the vanquished knight no blame shall fall, But we to Fortune will impute it all." XXIII Rogero and Gradasso, at this say Of Agramant, stood silent, and agreed, That he whose lot first issued, the assay Should undertake for both in listed mead. Thus in two scrolls, inscribed in the same way, Their names are writ as destined to succeed. These afterwards are cast into an urn, Which much they shake and topsy turvy turn. XXIV A seely boy then dipt his hand and drew A billet from the vase, and if befel, Thereon Rogero's name the assistants knew; -- Gradasso's left behind -- I cannot tell How joyed renowned Rogero at the view, And can as little say what sorrow fell Upon Gradasso, on the other side; But he parforce his fortune must abide. XXV Gradasso every thought and every deed Employs, Rogero to instruct and aid, That in the strife his champion may succeed; And teaches every sleight he has assaid: -- How best to manage sword and shield at need -- -- What strokes are feints, and what with vantage made -- And when he should tempt Fortune, when eschew -- Reminds him, one by one, in long review. XXVI After the drawing lots and king's award, What of the day remained the champions spent As wont, in giving tokens of regard, To this or to that other warrior sent. The people, greedy for the fight, toward The field is gone, and many not content With wending thither ere the dawn of light, Upon the place of combat watch all night. XXVII The foolish rabble anxiously attends Those goodly champions' contest for the prize, A crowd which neither sees nor comprehends Other than that which is before its eyes. But they who know what boots and what offends, -- Marsilius and Sobrino, and the wise -- Censure the fight, and monarch that affords A field of combat to those martial lords. XXVIII Nor what a heavy loss he would sustain (Cease they to royal Agramant to read) Were Mandricardo or Rogero slain; A thing by cruel Destiny decreed. Since they, to combat against Charlemagne, Of one of these alone have greater need Than of ten thousand more, amid which crew They scarce would find one champion good and true. XXIX Agramant recognized this truth; but thought That ill his royal word could be repealed; Yet Mandricardo and the Child besought That they the right, conferred by him, would yield: More; that the question was a thing of nought, Nor worthy to be tried in martial field; And prayed them -- would they not obey his hest At least somewhile, to let their quarrel rest. XXX Five or six months would they the strife delay, Or more or less, till Charles defeated were, And stript of mantle, crown, and royal sway. But each, though he would willingly forbear, And much desired his sovereign to obey, Stood out against the Moorish monarch's prayer: Since either deemed he would be foully shent Who to this treaty first should yield consent. XXXI But more than king, than all, who sought in vain To soften Agrican's infuriate son, The beauteous daughter of King Stordilane Lamented, besought him, woe-begone, Besought him he would do what all would fain Behold by the relenting warrior done; -- Lamenting her, as through the cavalier, For ever kept in agony and fear. XXXII "Alas! and what (exclaims she) can I find Which may avail to minister repose, If aye, by this or that desire inclined, You don your harness to affront new foes? What boots it to restore my harassed mind That I behold one fearful quarrel's close, Against one champion moved for love of me, If one as fierce already kindled be? XXXIII "Woe worth me! I was proud, with little right, So good a king, so stout a cavalier For he should in the fierce and dangerous fight Peril his life, who now, I see to clear, Upon a ground of strife so passing light, With the same risk prepares to couch the spear. You, more than love for me, to strife impels The natural rage, wherewith your bosom swells. XXXIV "But if the love you force yourself to show, Be in good earnest, that which you profess, By this I pray you, by that chastening woe Which does my spirit, does my heart oppress, Be not concerned, because the bird of snow Rogero, pictured on his shield, possess. I know not wherefore you should joy or grieve That he the blazoned buckler bear or leave. XXXV "Much evil may ensue and little gain Out of the battle you to wage prepare; Small guerdon will be bought with mickle pain If from Rogero you his eagle bear; But if your fortune shifts on listed plain, She whom you hold not captive by her hair, You cause an evil with such mischief fraught, My heart is broken at the simple thought. XXXVI "If of small value life to you appear, And you esteem a painted bird more high, At least for my life's sake esteem yours dear; For one without the other shall not die. With you to die excites in me no fear; With you, prepared for life or death am I: Yet would I fain not die so ill content, As I should die if you before me went." XXXVII Accompanying words with tears and sighs, In such, or such like speech she him did pray, Throughout that livelong night, in piteous wise, Hoping her lover's anger to allay; And Mandricardo, sucking from her eyes Those sweet tears, glittering in their humid ray, And that sweet moan, from lips more deeply dyed Than crimson rose, himself in tears, replied. XXXVIII "Alack! my dearest life! take thou no dread, Alack! for love of Heaven! of thing so light: For if (to my sole harm) with banners spread, Their following of the Frank or paynim rite King Agramant and Charles united led, This need not cause you matter for affright. What poor account you make of me is clear If this one, sole, Rogero breeds such fear. XXXIX "And yet should you remember how alone (Nor had I scimetar or sword in hand) Of knights, with a spear's truncheon overthrown, I singly cleared the field, an armed band. Though to his shame and sorrow this he own, Gradasso tells to them who make demand, He was my prisoner in the Syrian tower: Yet other than Rogero's is his power. XL "Not King Gradasso will the truth deny: Sacripant knows it and your Isolier: I say King Sacripant of Circassy, And Aquilant, and Gryphon, famous peer; With hundreds -- yea and more -- from far and nigh Made prisoners at that fearful pass whilere, Baptized or Infidel; and all by me From prison on the selfsame day set free. XLI "And even yet they marvel evermore At the great feat which I performed that day; Greater than if the squadrons of the Moor And Frank united I had held at bay; And shall Rogero, new to martial lore, Me, onto to one, with scathe or scorn appay? And me shall now this young Rogero scare, When Hector's sword and Hector's arms I wear? XLII "Ah! as I might have won you from my foe, Why did I not for you in arms contend? I so had them my valour shown, I know, You would have well foreseen Rogero's end. For heaven's sake dry your tears, nor by such woe -- An evil omen for my arms -- offend; And learn, 'tis Honour pricks me to the field, And not an argent bird and blazoned shield." XLIII So said he; and with reasons passing good To him that dame replied, with saddest face; Nor only would have changed his sullen mood, But would have moved a pillar from its place. She would the champion quickly have subdued, Though she was gowned, he locked in iron case; And make him satisfy the Moorish lord, If Agramant spake further of accord; XLIV And had; but that Aurora -- on his way Ushering aye the sun -- no sooner stirred, Than young Rogero, anxious to display That rightfully he bore Jove's beauteous bird, To cut the quarrel short, and lest delay Be further interposed, in act or word, Where round the palisade the people close, Appears in armour and his bugle blows. XLV When that loud sound is by the Tartar heard, Which the proud warrior to the strife defies, No more of treaty will he hear a word: From bed upspringing, "Arms," the monarch cries, And shows a visage with such fury stirred, Doralice dares no longer peace advise, Nor speak of treaty or of truce anew; And now parforce the battle must ensue. XLVI The Tartar arms himself in haste; with pain The wonted service of his squires he tarries: This done, he springs upon the steed amain, Erewhile the champion's who defended Paris; And him with speed towards the listed plain, Fixt for that fierce assay, the courser carries. Even then the king and barons thither made, So that the strife was little time delaid. XLVII Put on and laced the shining helmets were, And given to either champion was the spear: Quickly the trumpet's blast was heard in air, Whose signal blanched a thousand cheeks with fear. Levelled those cavaliers their lances bear, Spurring their warlike steeds to the career, And, in mid champaign, meet with such a shock, That Earth appears to rive and Heaven to rock. XLVIII From this side and from that, the eagle flew, Which Jove in air was wonted to sustain; So hurtled, but with plumes of different hue, Those others often on Thessalian plain. The beamy lances, rested by the two, Well warranted the warriors' might and main, And worse than that encounter had withstood: So towers resist the wind, so rocks the flood. XLIX As Turpin truly writes, into the sky Upwent the splinters, broke in the career; For two or three fell flaming from on high, Which had ascended to the starry sphere. The knights unsheathed their faulchions from the thigh, And, like those who were little moved by fear, For new encounter wheeled, and, man to man, Pointing at one another's vizor ran. L They, pointing at the vizors' sight, attacked, Nor with their faulchions at the steeds took aim, Each other to unhorse, unseemly act! Since in that quarrel they are nought to blame. Those err, nor know the usage, why by pact Deem they were bound their horses not to maim: Without pact made, 'twas reckoned a misdeed, And an eternal blot to smite a steed. LI They level at the vizor, which is double, And yet resists such mighty blows with pain. The champions evermore their strokes redouble Faster than pattering hail, which mars the grain, And bruises branch and leaf, and stalk and stubble, And cheats the hopes of the expecting swain. To you is known the force of either brand, And known the force of either warrior's hand. LII But yet no stroke well worthy of their might Those peers have dealt, so cautious are the twain. The Tartar's faulchion was the first to bite, By which was good Rogero well nigh slain. By one of those fell blows which either knight So well could plant, his shield was cleft in twain; Beneath, his cuirass opened to the stroke, And to the quick the cruel weapon broke. LIII The assistants' hearts were frozen at the blow, So did Rogero's danger them appal, On whom the many's favor, well they know, And wishes rest, if not of one and all. And then (had Fortune ordered matters so, As the most part desired they should befall) Taken had been the Tartar king or slain; So had that blow offended all the train. LIV I think that blow was by some angel stayed, To save Rogero from the mischief near: Yet at the king (nor answer he delayed) He dealt a stroke more terrible than e'er. As Mandricardo's head he aims his blade, But such the fury of the cavalier, And such his haste, he less my blame deserves, If slanting from the mark his faulchion swerves. LV Had Balisarda smote him full, though crowned With Hector's helm, the enchantment had been vain. So reels the Tartar, by that stroke astound, He from the bristle-hand lets go the rein: Thrice with his head he threats to smite the ground, While his unguided courser scowers the plain; That Brigliadoro, whom by name you know, Yet, for his change of master, full of woe. LVI Never raged trampled serpent, never so Raged wounded lion, as in fell despite Raged Mandricardo, rallying from that blow, Which had deprived of sense the astonied knight; And as his pride and fury waxes, grow As much, yea more, his valour and his might. He at Rogero makes his courser vault, With sword uplifted high for the assault. LVII Poised in his stirrups stood the Tartar lord, And aiming at his foeman's casque, believed He with the stroke of his descending sword Rogero to the bosom should have cleaved; But from that youth, yet quicker in his ward, A wound beneath his arm the king received, Which made wide daylight in the stubborn mail, That clothed the better armpit with its scale. LVIII Rogero drawing Balisarda back, Out sprang the tepid blood of crimson stain; Hence Mandricardo's arm did vigour lack, And with less dint descended Durindane: Yet on the croup the stripling tumbled back, Closing his eyelids, through excess of pain; And memorable aye had been that blow, Had a worse helmet clothed the warrior's brow. LIX For this he pauses not, but spurs amain, And Mandricardo smites in the right side. Here little boots the texture of the chain, And the well wealded metal's temper tried, Against that sword, which never falls in vain, Which was enchanted to no end beside, But that against it nothing should avail, Enchanted corselet or enchanted mail. LX Whate'er that sword takes-in it shears outright, And in the Tartar's side inflicts a wound: He curses Heaven and raves in such despite, Less horribly the boisterous billows sound. He now prepares to put forth all his might: The shield, with argent bird and azure ground, He hurls, with rage transported, from his hand, And grasps with right and left his trenchant brand. LXI "Marry," (Rogero cried,) "it needs no more To prove your title to that ensign vain, Which now you cast away, and cleft before; Nor can you more your right in it maintain." So saying, he parforce must prove how sore The danger and the dint of Durindane; Which smites his front, and with such weight withal, A mountain lighter than that sword would fall. LXII If cleft his vizor through the midst; 'twas well That from the sight diverged the trenchant blade, Which on the saddle's plated pommel fell; Nor yet its double steel the faulchion stayed: It reached his armour (like soft wax, the shell Oped, and the skirts wherewith 'twas overlaid) And trenched upon his thigh a grievous wound; So that 'twas long ere he again waxed sound. LXIII The spouting blood of either cavalier Their arms had crimsoned in a double drain: Hence diversly the people guessed, which peer Would have the better of the warlike twain: But soon Rogero made the matter clear With that keen sword, so many a champion's bane: With this he at that part in fury past Whence Mandricardo had his buckler cast. LXIV He the left side of his good cuirass gored, And found a passage to the heart below; Which a full palm above the flank he bored; So that parforce the Tartar must forego His every title to the famous sword, The blazoned buckler, and its bird of snow, And yield, together with these seeds of strife, -- Dearer than sword and shield -- his precious life. LXV Not unavenged the unhappy monarch dies; For in the very moment he is smit, The sword -- for little period his -- he plies, And good Rogero's vizor would have split. But that he stopt the stroke in wary wise, And broke its force and vigour ere it lit; Its force and vigour broke: for he, below The better arm, first smote his Tartar foe. LXVI Smit was the Child by Mandricardo's hand, At the same moment he that monarch slew: He, albeit thick, divides an iron band And good steel cap beneath it; inches two, Lies buried in the head the trenchant brand, The solid bone and sinew severed through. Astound Rogero fell, on earth reversed, And from his head a stream of life-blood burst. LXVII Rogero was the first who went to ground, And so much longer did the king delay, Nigh every one of those who waited round Weened he the prize and vaunt had borne away. So, erred his Doralice, that oft was drowned In tears, and often clad in smiles that day: She thanked her God, with hands to Heaven extended, That in such wise the fearful fight had ended. LXVIII But when by tokens manifest appear The live man living and the dead man slain, The favourers of those knights, with change of cheer, Some weep and some rejoice, an altered train. King, lord, and every worthiest cavalier Crowd round Rogero, who has risen with pain. Him to embrace and gratulate they wend, And do him grace and honour without end. LXIX Each with Rogero is rejoiced, and feels That which he utters in his heart; among The crowd the Sericane alone conceals Other than what he vouches with his tongue. He pleasure in his countenance reveals, With envy at the conquest inly stung; And -- were his destiny or chance to blame -- Curses whiche'er produced Rogero's name. LXX What of Rogero's favour can be said? What of caresses, many, true, and kind, From Agramant? that not without his aid Would have unrolled his ensigns the wind; Who had to move from Africk been afraid, Nor would have trusted in his host combined. He, now King Mandricardo is no more, Esteems him the united world before. LXXI Nor to Rogero lean the men alone; To him incline as well the female train, Who for the land of France had left their own, Amid the troops of Africk or of Spain; And Doralice, herself, although she moan, And for her lover, cold and pale, complain, Save by the griding curb of shame represt, Her voice, perchance, had added to the rest. LXXII I say perchance, nor warrant it I dare, Albeit the thing may easily be true; For such his manners, such his merits are, So beauteous is Rogero's form to view, She (from experience we are well aware) So prone to follow whatsoe'er is new, That not to play the widow's lovelorn part, She on Rogero well might set her heart. LXXIII Though he did well alive, what could be done With Mandricardo, after he was dead? 'Tis fitting she provide herself with one That her, by night or day, may bravely stead. Meanwhile to young Rogero's succour run The king's physician in his art best read; Who, having seen the fruits of that fell strife, Already has ensured Rogero's life. LXXIV Agramant bids them diligently lay The wounded warrior in his tent, and there Is evermore beside him, night and day; Him with such love he watches, with such care: To his bed the Tartar's arms and buckler gay, So bade the Moorish king, suspended were; Suspended all, save trenchant Durindana, Relinquished to the King of Sericana. LXXV With Mandricardo's arms, his other weed Was to Rogero given, and given with these Was warlike Brigliador, whom on the mead Orlando left, distraught with his disease. To Agramant Rogero gave the steed, Well knowing how that goodly gift would please. No more of this: parforce my strain returns To her that vainly for Rogero burns. LXXVI Bradamant's torment have I to recount, While for the courier damsel she did stay: With tidings of her love to Alban's Mount, To her Hippalca measured back her way: She of Frontino first and Rodomont, And next of good Rogero had to say; How to the fount anew he had addrest His way, with Richardetto and the rest; LXXVII And how the Child, in rescue of the steed, Had gone with her to find the paynim rude; And weened to have chastized his foul misdeed, That from a woman took Frontino good. And how the youth's design did ill succeed, Because the king had other way pursued. The reason too why to Mount Alban's hold Rogero had not come, at full she told; LXXVIII And fully she to Bradamant exprest What to excuse himself Rogero said: She after drew the letter from her breast, Wherewith entrusted she had thither sped: With visage which more care than hope confest, The paper Bradamant received and read; Which, but that she expected to have seen Rogero's self, more welcome would have been. LXXIX To find herself with written scroll appaid In good Rogero's place, whom she attends, Marred her fair visage; which such fear pourtrayed, Despite and sorrow as her bosom rends. Ten times the page she kisses, while the maid As oft to him who writes her heart commends: The tears alone which trickle from her eyes Keep it from kindling at her burning sighs. LXXX Four times, nay six, she that epistle read, And willed moreover that as many more The message by that damsel should be said, Who word and letter to Mount Alban bore. This while unceasing tears the lady shed, Nor, I believe, would ever have given o'er, Save by the hope consoled, that she anew Should briefly her beloved Rogero view. LXXXI Rogero's word was pledged for his return When fifteen days or twenty were gone by: So had he after to Hippalca sworn, Bidding her boldly on his faith rely. "From accidents that chance at every turn" (Cried Bradamant) "what warranty have I, Alas! -- and such are commonest in war -- That none the knight's return for ever bar? ` LXXXII "Alas! alas! Rogero, that above Myself hast evermore been prized by me, Who would have thought thou more than me could'st love Any, and most thy mortal enemy? And harm'st where thou should'st help; nor do I see If thou as worthy praise or blame regard Such tardiness to punish and reward. LXXXIII "I know not if thou knowest -- the stones know -- How by Troyano was thy father slain; And yet Troyano's son, against his foe, Thou would'st defend, and keep from harm or stain Such vengeance upon him do'st thou bestow? And do his vengers, as their meed obtain, That I, descended of his stock, should be The martyr of the mortal cruelty?" LXXXIV To her Rogero, in his absence, said The lady these sad words, and more beside, Lamenting aye; while her attendant maid Nor once alone, but often, certified The stripling would observe his faith, and prayed Her -- who could do no better -- to abide The Child's arrival till the time came round When he by promise to return was bound. LXXXV The comfort that Hippalca's words convey, And Hope, companion of the loving train, Bradamant's fear and sorrow so allay, That she enjoys some respite from her pain: This moves her in Mount Alban's keep to stay; Nor ever thence that lady stirred again Until the day, that day the youthful knight Had fixt, who ill observed his promise plight. LXXXVI But in that he his promise ill maintained, No blame upon Rogero should be cast; Him one or other cause so long detained, The appointed time parforce he overpast: On a sick bed, long time, he, sorely pained, Was laid, wherein a month or more he past In doubt of death; so deeply him had gored Erewhile in fight the Tartar monarch's sword. LXXXVII Him on the day prefixed the maid attended, Nor other tidings of the youth had read, But those he through Hippalca had commended, And that which after Richardetto said; Who told how him Rogero had defended, And freed the captive pair to prison led. The tidings, overjoyed, she hears repeat; Yet blended with some bitter is the sweet. LXXXVIII For she had heard as well in that discourse, For might and beauty voiced, Marphisa's praise; Heard, how Rogero thither bends his course, Together with that lady, as he says, Where in weak post and with unequal force King Agramant the Christian army stays. Such fair companionship the lady lauds, But neither likes that union nor applauds. LXXXIX Nor light suspicion has she of that queen: For, were Marphisa beauteous, as was said, And they together till that time had been, 'T were marvel but Rogero loved the maid: Yet would she not believe; but hung between Her hopes and fears, and in Mount Alban stayed; And close and anxious there, until the day Which was to bring her joy or sorrow, lay. XC This while Mount Alban's prince and castellain, Rinaldo, first of that fair brotherhood, -- I say in honour, not in age, for twain In right of birth before the warrior stood, Who -- as the sun illumes the starry train -- Had by his deeds ennobled Aymon's blood, One day at noon, with none beside a page To serve him, reached that famous fortilage. XCI Hither had good Rinaldo now repaired; Because returning Paris ward again, From Brava, (whither had he often fared, As said, to seek Angelica in vain) He of that pair those evil news had heard. His Malagigi and his Viviane, How they were to Maganza to be sent; And hence to Agrismont his way had bent. XCII There, hearing of the safety of that pair, And of their enemies' defeat and fall; And how Rogero and Marphisa were The authors of their ruin; and how all His valiant brethren and his cousins are Returned, and harboured in Mount Alban's hall, Until he there embrace the friendly throng Each hour appears to him a twelvemonth long. XCIII His course to Mont Albano had he ta'en; And, there embracing wife and children dear, Mother and brethren and the cousins twain, (They who were captives to their foe whilere) A parent swallow seems, amid that train, Which, with full beak, its fasting youth doth cheer. With them a day or more the warrior stayed, Then issued forth and others thence conveyed. XCIV Guichard, Duke Aymon's eldest born, and they, Richard, Alardo, and Richardet' combined, Vivian and Malagigi, wend their way In arms, the martial paladin behind. Bradamant, waiting the appointed day, Which she, in her desire, too slow opined, Feigned herself ailing to the brethren true, Nor would she join in arms the banded crew; XCV And, saying that she ailed, most truly said; Yet 'twas not corporal pain or fever sore, It was Desire that on her spirit preyed, Diseased with Love's disastrous fit: no more Rinaldo in Mount Alban's castle stayed: With him his kinsman's flower the warrior bore. How he for Paris journeyed, and how well He succoured Charles, shall other canto tell. CANTO 31 ARGUMENT Rinaldo and Dudon fight; then friendship make, And to each other fitting honour pay. Agramant's host the united champions break, And scatter it, like chaff, in disarray. Brandimart wages war, for Roland's sake, With Rodomont, and loses in the fray. This while, for good Baiardo, with more pain, Contend Rinaldo and the Sericane. I What sweeter, gladder, state could be possest Than falls to the enamoured bosom's share? What happier mode of life, what lot more blest, Than evermore the chains of love to wear? Were not the lover, 'mid his joys, distrest By that suspicious fear, that cruel care, That martyrdom, which racks the suffering sprite, That phrensied rage, which jealousy is hight. II For by all bitters else which interpose Before enjoyment of this choicest sweet, Love is augmented, to perfection grows, And takes a finer edge; to drink and eat, Hunger and thirst the palate so dispose, And flavour more our beverage and our meat. Feebly that wight can estimate the charms Of peace, who never knew the pain of arms. III That which the heart aye sees, though undiscerned Of human eye, we can support in peace. To him long absent, to his love returned, A longer absence is but joy's increase. Service may be endured, though nought is earned, So that the hope of guerdon does not cease. For worthy service in the end is paid, Albeit its wages should be long delaid. IV Scorn, and repulse, and finally each pain Of suffering love, his every martyrdom, Through recollection, make us entertain Delights with greater rapture, when they come. But if weak mind be poisoned by that bane, That filthy pest, conceived in Stygian home, Though joy ensue, with all its festive pleasures, The wretched lover ill his comfort measures. V This is that cruel and envenomed wound Where neither salve nor portion soothes the smart; Nor figure made by witch, nor murmured sound; Nor star benign observed in friendly part; Nor aught beside by Zoroaster found, Inventor as he was of magic art. Fell wound, which, more than every other woe, Makes wretched man despair, and lays him low! VI O' cruel wound! incapable of cure, Inflicted with such ease on lover's breast, No less by false suspicion than by sure! O wound! whose pangs so wofully molest, They reason and our better wit obscure, And from it natural bent our judgment wrest: Wound, which against all reason didst destroy The damsel of Dordona's every joy! VII I speak not of what fatal mischief wrought Hippalca's and the brother's bitter blow; I speak of fell and cruel tidings brought Some few days after; for the former woe, Weighed with this other, was a thing of nought: This after some digression will I show: But first Rinaldo's feats I must declare, Who with his troop to Paris made repair. VIII The following day they met a cavalier, Towards evening, with a lady by his side; Sable his shield, and sable was his gear, Whose ground a bar of silver did divide. As foremost, and of seeming force, the peer, Young Richardetto to the joust defend: He, prompt for battle, wheeled his courser round, And for the tourney took sufficient ground. IX Between those knights no further parley past: Without more question, charged the martial two. Rinaldo with the friendly troop stood fast, And looked to see what issue would ensue. "Him from his saddle will I quickly cast, If firm the footing, and mine arm prove true"; Within himself young Richardetto cries: But that encounter ends in other wise. X Him underneath the vizor's sight offends The stranger champion, of the sable weed, With force so fell, that he the youth extends Above two lances' length beyond his steed. Quickly to venge the knight Alardo wends, But falls himself astounded on the mead; Sore handled, and unhorsed by such a stroke, His buckler in the cruel shock is broke. XI His lance Guichardo levelled, when he spied Outstretched upon the field, the brethren two; Although "Halt, halt," (renowned Rinaldo cried,) "For this third course to me is justly due": But he as yet his helmet had not tied; So that Guichardo to the combat flew. He kept his seat no better than the twain; Forthwith, like them, extended on the plain. XII All to be foremost in the joust contend, Richardo, Malagigi, Viviane: But to their strife Rinaldo puts an end; He shows himself in arms before the train, Saying, " 'Tis time that we to Paris wend; For us too long the tourney will detain, If I expect till each his course has run, And ye are all unseated, one by one." XIII So spake the knight, yet spake not in a tone To be o'erheard in what he inly said; Who thus foul scorn would to the rest have done. Both now had wheeled, and fierce encounter made. In the career Rinaldo was not thrown, Who all the banded kinsmen much outweighed; Their spears like brittle glass to pieces went, But not an inch the champions backward bent. XIV The chargers such a rough encounter made, That on his crupper sank each staggering horse: Rinaldo's rose so quick, he might be said Scarcely to interrupt his rapid course: The stranger's broke his spine and shoulder-blade; That other shocked him with such desperate force. When his lord sees him slain, he leaves his seat, And in an instant springs upon his feet; XV And to his foe, that having wheeled anew, Approached with hand unarmed, the warrior cried: "Sir, to the goodly courser whom ye slew, Because, whenas he lived, he was my pride, I deem, I ill should render honour due, If thus unvenged by my good arm he died; And so fall on, and do as best ye may, For we parforce must meet in new assay." XVI To him Rinaldo, "If we for thy horse Have to contend in fight, and nought beside, Take comfort, for I ween that with no worse Thou, in his place, by me shalt be supplied." -- "Thou errest if thou deem'st his loss the source Of my regret" (the stranger knight replied); "But I, since thou divinest not my speech, To thee my meaning will more plainly teach. XVII "I should esteem it were a foul misdeed, Unless I proved thee also with the brand. I, if thou in this other dance succeed Better or worse than me, would understand: Then, as it please, afoot or on thy steed, Attack me, so it be with arms in hand. I am content all vantage to afford; Such my desire to try thee with the sword!" XVIII Not long Rinaldo paused: he cried, "I plight My promise not to balk thee of the fray; And, for I deem thou art a valiant knight, And lest thou umbrage take at mine array, These shall go on before, nor other wight, Beside a page, to hold my horse, shall stay." So spake Mount Alban's lord; and to his band, To wend their way the warrior gave command. XIX To that king paladin with praise replied The stranger peer; alighting on the plain, Rinaldo to the valet, at his side, Consigned the goodly steed Baiardo's rein, And when his banner he no longer spied, Now widely distant with the warrior's train, His buckler braced, his biting faulchion drew, And to the field defied the knight anew. XX And now each other they in fight assail: Was never seen a feller strife in show. Neither believes his foeman can avail, Long, in that fierce debate, against his blow: But when they knew, well neighed in doubtful scale, That they were fitly matched, for weal or woe, They laid their fury and their pride apart, And for their vantage practised every art. XXI Their cruel and despiteous blows resound, Re-echoing wide, what time the valiant twain With cantlets of their shields now strew the ground, Now with their faulchions sever plate and chain. Yet more behoves to parry than to wound, If either knight his footing would maintain; For the first fault in fence, by either made, Will with eternal mischief be appaid. XXII One hour and more than half another, stood The knights in battle; and the golden sun Already was beneath the tumbling flood, And the horizon veiled with darkness dun: Nor yet had they reposed, nor interlude Had been, since that despiteous fight begun, 'Twixt these, whom neither ire nor rancour warms, But simple thirst of fame excites to arms. XXIII Rinaldo in himself revolving weighed Who was the stranger knight, so passing stout; That not alone him bravely had gainsaid, But oft endangered in that deadly bout; And has so harassed with his furious blade, He of its final issue stands in doubt. -- He that the strife was ended would be fain, So that his knightly honour took no stain. XXIV The stranger knight, upon the other side, As little of his valiant foeman knew; Nor in that lord Mount Alban's chief descried, In warfare so renowned all countries through. And upon whom, with such small cause defied, His faulchion he in deadly combat drew. He was assured he could not have in fight Experience of a more redoubted wight. XXV He gladly would be quit of the emprize He undertook to venge his courser's fall; And, could he, without blame, a mean devise, Would fain withdraw from that disastrous brawl. So overcast already were the skies, Their cruel strokes well nigh fell harmless all. Both blindly strike; more blindly yet those lords Parry the stroke, who scarce discern their swords. XXVI He of Mount Alban is the first to say, They should not combat darkling, on the plain; But should their duel till such time delay As slow Arcturus should have turned his wain. (And adds,) as safely as himself might stay The foe in his pavilion, of his train As duly tended, honoured, and well seen, As he in any place had ever been. XXVII To pray him has Rinaldo little need: He courteously accepts him for his host; And thither the united warriors speed, Where lies Mount Alban's troop in chosen post. From his attendant squire a goodly steed, With sumptuous housings gorgeously embossed, Rinaldo takes, with tempered sword and spear, And these bestows upon the cavalier. XXVIII For Montalbano's lord the stranger guest, The baron recognised, with whom he came; Because, before they reached their place of rest, The paladin had chanced himself to name; And (for they brethren were) with love opprest, His tenderness him wholly overcame; And touched with kind affection, at his heart, From his full eyes the tears of pleasure start. XXIX Guido the savage was that cavalier, Who, with Marphisa leagued, the martial maid, Sansonet, and the sons of Olivier, Long sailed the sea, as I erewhile have said; From earlier meeting with his kindred dear By Pinnabel, the felon knight, delaid; Seized by that traitor, and by him detained, To enforce the wicked law he had ordained. XXX Sir Guido, when he knew his host to be Rinaldo, famed above each famous knight, Whom he had burned with more desire to see Than ever blindman covets the lost light, In rapture cries, "What fortune tempted me With you, my lord, to strive in deadly fight, Whom long I have beloved, and love, whose worth I prize above all dwellers' upon earth? XXXI "Me on the distant bank of Euxine's flood (I Guido am yclept) Constantia bare, Conceived of the illustrious seed and good Of generous Aymon, as ye likewise are. To visit you and my bold brotherhood Is the occasion, hither I repair; And, where to honour you I had in thought, I see my coming has but mischief wrought. XXXII "But that I neither ye nor the others knew, Must for so foul a fault be my excuse; And, if I can amend it, bid me do Whate'er thou wilt, nor ought will I refuse." When, on this part and that, between the two, Of interchanged embraces there was truce, "Take you no farther thought upon your side The battle to excuse," Rinaldo cried. XXXIII "For in complete assurance that you are A real offset of our ancient tree, You could no better testimony bear Than the tried valour which in you we see; If your demeanour more pacific were, We ill should have believed your ancestry: Since neither lion from the doe proceeds, Nor fearful pigeon, hawk or eagle breeds." XXXIV While neither they through talk their journey stay, Neither through speed abate their talk, those two Reached the pavilions where the kinsmen lay: There good Rinaldo, crying to his crew That this was Guido, whom so many a day They had impatiently desired to view, Much pleased the friendly troop; and, at his sight All like his father deemed the stranger knight. XXXV I will not tell what welcome to the peer Made Richardet, Alardo, and those twain; What Malagigi, what Sir Aldigier, And gallant Vivian, of that kindred train; What every captain, every cavalier; What Guido spake, what they replied again: I for conclusion of my tale will say, He was well greeted of the whole array. XXXVI Ever, I deem, good Guido would have been Dear to his brethren bold; but welcomed more Was now the valiant knight, and better seen That at another time, as needed sore. When the sun, garlanded with radiance sheen, Upraised his visage from the watery floor, Sir Guido and his kinsmen, in a band, Beneath Rinaldo's banner took their stand. XXXVI So one day and another prick the train, That they to Paris' leaguered gates are nigh, Scarce ten miles distant, on the banks of Seine; When, as good Fortune wills it, they descry Gryphon and Aquilant, the two that stain Their virtuous armour with a different dye; Sable was Aquilant's, white Gryphon's, weed; Good Olivier's and Sigismonda's seed. XXXVIII In parley were they by a damsel stayed, Nor she of mean condition to behold; That in a snowy samyte was arraid, The vesture edged about with list of gold: Graceful and fair; although she was dismaid, And down her visage tears of sorrow rolled; Who with such mien and act her speech enforced, It seemed of some high matter she discoursed. XXXIX As Guido them, they gallant Guido knew. He with the pair had been few days before; And to Rinaldo: "Behold those! whom few In valour and in prowess go before, And if they join your banner, against you Feebly will stand the squadrons of the Moor." Rinaldo vouched what valiant Guido told, How either champion was a warrior bold. XL Nor them he less had recognized at sight; Because (such was the usage of the pair) One by a vest all black, and one all white, He knows, and by the ornaments they wear. The brethren know as well Mount Alban's knight, And give the warlike kinsmen welcome fair: They both embrace Rinaldo as a friend, And of their ancient quarrel make an end. XLI They -- erst at feud and with sore hate possest, Through Truffaldino -- (which were long to say) Each other with fraternal love carest, Now putting all their enmity away. Rinaldo next Sir Sansonet addrest, Who somewhat later joined that fair array; And (knowing well his force and mighty thew) Received the cavalier with honour due. XLII When she, that gentle damsel, now more near, Beholds renowned Rinaldo, him she knows, Acquainted with each paladin and peer. She news which sorely grieve the warrior shows; And thus begin: "My lord, your cousin dear, To whom its safety Church and Empire owes, Roland, erewhile so honoured and so sage, Now roves the world, possest with frantic rage. XLIII "Whence woe, so direful and so strange, ensued Cannot by me to you be signified: I saw on earth his sword and armour strewed, Doffed by that peer, and scattered far and wide; And I a pious knight and courteous viewed Those arms collecting upon every side, Who, in the guise of trophy, to a tree Fastened that fair and pompous panoply. XLIV "But from the trophied stem the sword withdrew The son of Agrican that very day. Thou mayst conceive what mischief may ensue To Charles and to the christened host's array, From loss of Durindana, if anew The infidels that goodly blade should sway. Good Brigliador as well, who roved, forsaken, About those arms, was by the paynim taken. XLV "Few days are past, since I in shameful wise Saw Roland, running naked in his mood, Sending forth piteous shrieks and fearful cries. In fine, that he is frantic I conclude; Nor this had I believed, save with these eyes That strange and cruel wonder I had viewed." She added next, how from the bridge's top, Embraced by Rodomont, she saw him drop. XLVI "To whosoe'er I deem not Roland's foe I tell my tale," (pursued the dame again,) "That, of the crowd who hear this cruel woe Some one, in pity to his cruel pain, May strive the peer in Paris to bestow, Or other friendly place, to purge his brain. Well wot I, if such tidings he receive, Nought unattempted Brandimart will leave." XLVII Fair Flordelice was she, the stranger dame; That his own self to Brandimart more dear: Who in pursuit of him to Paris came. That damsel, after, tells the cavalier, How hate and strife were blown into a flame Between Gradasso and the Tartar peer, For Roland's faulchion; fierce Gradasso's prey, When slain in combat Mandricardo lay. XLVIII By accident, so strange and sad, distrust, Rinaldo is distraught with ceaseless woe: He feels his heart dissolve within his breast, As in the sun dissolves the flake of snow; And, with unchanged resolve, upon the quest Of good Orlando, every where will go; In hopes, if he discover him, to find Some means of cure for his distempered mind. XLIV But since his band already had he dight, (Did him the hand of Heaven or Fortune sway) He first to put the Saracens to flight, And raise the siege of Paris, will assay. But (for it promised vantage) he till night The assault of their cantonments will delay, Till the third watch or fourth, when heavy sleep Their senses shall in Lethe's water steep. L His squadron in the wood he placed, and there, Ambushed, he made them lie the daylight through; But when the sun, leaving this nether air In darkness, to his ancient nurse withdrew; And fangless serpent now, and goat, and bear, With other beasts, adorned the heavens anew, Which by the greater blaze had been concealed, Rinaldo moved his silent troop afield. LI A mile an-end with Aquilant he prest, Gryphon, Alardo, and Vivian of his race, Guido and Sansonetto, and the rest, Without word spoken, and with stealthy pace. The Moorish guard they find with sleep opprest: They slaughter all, nor grant one paynim grace; And, ere they were by others seen or heard, Into their midmost camp the squadron spurred. LII At the first charge on that unchristened band, Their guard and sentries, taken by surprise, So broken are by good Rinaldo's brand, No wight is left, save he who slaughtered lies. Their first post forced, the paynims understand No laughing matter is the lord's emprize; For. sleeping and dismaid, their naked swarms Make small resistance to such warriors' arms. LIII To strike more dread into the Moorish foe, Mount Alban's champion, leading the assault, Bade beat his drums and bade his bugles blow, And with loud echoing cries his name exalt. He spurs Baiardo, that is nothing slow; He clears the lofty barriers at a vault, Trampling down foot, o'erturning cavalier, And scatters booth and tent in his career. LIV Is none so bold of all that paynimry But what his stiffened hair stands up on end, Hearing Mount Alban's and Rinaldo's cry From earth into the starry vault ascend. Him the twin hosts of Spain and Afric fly, Nor time in loading baggage idly spend; Who will not wait that deadly fury more, Which to have proved so deeply irks them sore. LV Guido succeeds; no less their foe pursue, The valiant sons of warlike Olivier, Alardo, Richardet, and the other two; Sansonet's sword and horse a pathway clear; And well is proved upon that paynim crew The force of Vivian and of Aldigier. Thus each bestirs himself like valorous knight, Who follows Clermont's banner to the fight. LVI Seven hundred men with good Rinaldo speed, Drawn from Mount Alban and the townships nigh -- No fiercer erst obeyed Achilles' lead -- Enured to summer and to winter sky: So stout each warrior is, so good at need, A hundred would not from a thousand fly; And, better than some famous cavaliers, Many amid that squadron couch their spears. LVII If good Rinaldo gathers small supplies From rents or cities, which his rule obey, So these he bound by words and courtesies, And sharing what he had with his array, Is none that ever from his service buys Deserter by the bribe of better pay. Of Montalbano these are left in care, Save pressing need demands their aid elsewhere. LVIII Them now in succour of King Charles he stirred, And left with little guard his citadel. Among the Africans that squadron spurred, That squadron, of whose doughty feats I tell, Doing by them what wolf on woolly herd Does where Galesus' limpid waters well, Or lion by the bearded goat and rank, That feeds on Cinyphus's barbarous bank. LIX Tidings to Charles Rinaldo had conveyed, That he for Paris with his squadron steers, To assail, by night, the paynims ill purveyed; And ready and in arms the king appears. He, when his help is needed, comes in aid, With all his peerage, and, beside his peers, Brings Monodantes' son, amid that crew, Of Flordelice the lover chaste and true; LX Whom by such long and by such tedious way She sought throughout the realm of France in vain; Here by the cognizance, his old display, Afar, by her distinguished from the train. At the first sight of her he quits the fray, And wears a semblance loving and humane. He clipt her round with many a fond caress, And kissed a thousand times, or little less. LXI To dame and damsel in that ancient age They trusted much, that, in their wandering vein, Roved, unescorted, many a weary stage, Through foreign countries and by hill and plain; Whom they returning hold for fair and sage, Nor of their faith suspicion entertain. Here Brandimart by Flordelice was taught How Roland wandered, of his wits distraught. LXII Had he such strange and evil tidings heard From other lips, he scarce had these believed: But credited fair Flordelice's word, From whom more wondrous things he had received, Nor this, as told by other, she averred; This had she seen, and ill could be deceived; For well as any she Orlando knows; And both the when and where that damsel shows. LXIII She tells him how the perilous bridge's floor From cavaliers king Rodomont defends; Where, on a pompous sepulchre, the Moor His prisoners' ravished arms and vest suspends; Tells how she saw Orlando, raging sore, Do fearful deeds, and her relation ends, Describing how the paynim fell reversed, To his great peril, in the stream immersed. LXIV Brandimart, who the Country loves as dear As man can love a brother, friend, or son, Disposed to seek Orlando, far and near, Nor pain nor peril in the adventure shun, Till something for the comfort of that peer By wizard's or by leech's art be done, Armed as he is, leaps lightly on his steed, And takes his way beneath the lady's lead. LXV Thitherward were Orlando she had spied, In company the knight and lady made. They daily post till to that bridge they ride, Which Argier's king maintained, in arms arraid, To him the guard their coming signified; Courser and arms his squires as well conveyed; And Brandimart no sooner is at hand Than Rodomont is armed and at his stand. LXVI With lofty voice the sovereign of Argier, Assorting with his moody rage, 'gan say: " -- Whoe'er thou art, sir knight, and whencesoe'er -- Brought by mistake of purpose or of way, Light from thine horse and doff thy warlike gear, To deck this sepulchre, ere thee I slay, An offering to its lovely tenant's spirit; And thou in thy forced homage have no merit." LXVII Brandimart, at the paynim's proud discourse, His weapon in the rest, for answer, layed; He good Batoldo spurred, his gentle horse, And at the champion with such fury made, As showed that he, for courage and for force, With any warrior in the world had weighed. King Rodomont as well, with rested spear, Thundered along the bridge, in fierce career. LXVIII The paynim's courser, ever used to go Upon that bridge's fearful pass, where one Fell prone parforce into the stream below, Securely to the fierce encounter run: While, trembling, and irresolute in show, That other to the unwonted course is gone. Quivers the bridge beneath, as it would sink: Narrow that passage is, unfenced the brink! LXIX With heavy spears, the growth of forest hoar, Saplings rough-hewn, those masters of the just, Upon the perilous bridge encountering sore, Exchange, on either side, no gentle thrust. Nor much their mighty strength or manege-lore Avails the steeds; for, prostrate in the dust, Crumbles each knight and charger in mid-course; Whelmed in one fate, the rider and his horse. LXX When either steed would nimbly spring from ground, As the spur galled and gored his bleeding flank, He on that little bridge no footing found; For all to narrow was the scanty plank. Hence both fall headlong, and the deafening sound Re-echo vaulted skies and grassy bank. So rang our stream, when from the heavenly sphere Was hurled the sun's ill-fated charioteer. LXXI With all their weight, down hurtled from the steep, Coursers and cavaliers, who sate them well; And dived into the river's darksome deep, To search for beauteous nymph in secret cell. Nor this the first nor yet the second leap Which from the bridge had made that infidel! Who, often floundering in its oozy bed, Well in the soundings of that stream was read. LXXII He where 'tis hand and where 'tis softer knows, Where shallow is the water, where profound: With breast and flanks above the waves he rose, And Brandimart assailed on safer ground. Brandimart, whirling with the current, goes, While his steed's feet the faithless bottom pound. He, with his lord, stands rooted in the mud, With risk to both of drowning in the flood. LXXIII Whelming them upside-down, the waters flow, And plunge them in the river's deepest bed; The horse is uppermost, the knight below. From the bridge looks his lady, sore bested, And tear employs, and prayer, and suppliant vow: -- "Ah, Rodomont! for love of her, whom dead Ye worship, do not deed of such despite! Permit not, sir, the death of such a knight. LXXIV "Ah! courteous lord! if e'er you loved withal, Have pity upon me who love this peer; Let it suffice that he become thy thrall! For if thou on this stone suspend his gear, Amid whatever spoils adorn the wall, The best and worthiest will his spoils appear." She ended, and her prayer so well addrest, It touched, though hard to move, the paynim's breast. LXXV Moved by her words, he lent her lover aid, So by his courser in the stream immersed; And largely drank, albeit with little thirst. But Rodomont a while his help delayed, And seized the warrior's sword and helmet first. Him half exhausted from the stream he drew, And prisoned with that other captive crew. LXXVI All happiness was in that damsel spent, When taken she her Brandimart espied, Although to see him captive more content, Than to behold him perish in the tide. None but herself she blames for the event, Who thitherward had been the champion's guide, She having to that faithful warrior shown, How at the bridge Orlando she had known. LXXVII She parts, and has anew already planned Thither with good Rinaldo to resort; With Guido, Sansonet of doughty hand, Or other cavalier of Pepin's court; Some warrior good by water and by land, That with the Saracen will well assort. Who, if no stronger than her baffled knight, With better fortune may maintain the fight. LXXVIII For many days the damsel vainly strayed, Ere she encountered any one who bore Semblance of knight, that might afford her aid, And free her prisoned lover from the Moor; After she long and fruitless search had made, At length a warrior crost her way, that wore A richly ornamented vest, whose ground With trunks of cypresses was broidered round. LXXIX Who was that champion, shall be said elsewhere; For I to Paris must return, and show How Malagigi and Rinaldo are Victorious o'er the routed Moorish foe. To count the flyers were a useless care, Or many drowned in Stygian streams below. The darkness rendered Turpin's labour vain, Who tasked himself to tell the pagans slain. LXXX King Agramant in his pavilion lies, From his first sleep awakened by a knight: He that the king will be a prisoner cries, Save he with speed betake himself to flight, The monarch looks about him and espies His paynim bands dispersed in panic fright. Naked, they far and near desert the field; Nay, never halt to snatch the covering shield. LXXXI Uncounselled and confused, the king arrayed His naked limbs in knightly plate and chain, When thither Falsiron, the Spaniard, made Grandonio, Balugantes, and their train: They to the Moorish king the risk displayed Of being taken in that press, or slain; And vouched if thence he should in safety fare, He well might thank propitious Fortune's care. LXXXII Marsilius so, Sobrino so, their fear Express; so, one and all, the friendly band; They warn him that Destruction is as near As swift Mount Alban's lord is nigh at hand. And if against so fierce a cavalier, And such a troop, he seeks to make a stand, He and his friends in that disastrous strife Will surely forfeit liberty or life. LXXXIII But he to Arles and Narbonne may retreat, With such few squadrons as his rule obey: Since either is well fortified, and meet The warfare to maintain above one day; And having saved his person, the defeat May venge upon the foe, by this delay: His troops may rally quickly in that post, And rout in fine King Charles' conquering host. LXXXIV Agramant to those lords' opinion bent, Though that hard counsel he could ill endure; As if supplied with wings, towards Arles he went, By roads which offered passage most secure. Beside safe guides, much favoured his intent His setting out, when all things were obscure. Scaping the toils by good Rinaldo spread, Some twenty thousand of the paynims fled. LXXXV Those whom Rinaldo, whom his brethren slew, Whom Oliviero's sons, the valiant twain, Those who were slaughtered by Mount Alban's crew, -- The fierce seven hundred, good Rinaldo's train -- Those whom the valiant Sansonet o'erthrew, And those that in their flight were drowned in Seine, He who would count, might count as well what flowers Zephyr and Flora shed, mid April-showers. LXXXVI Here one conjectures Malagigi bore A part in the alarum of that night: Not that he stained the mead with paynim gore, Nor splintered heads; but that the wizard wight, Infernal angels, by his magic lore, Called from Tartarean caverns into light; Whose many spears and banners waving wide Two kingdoms such as France had scarce supplied. LXXXVII And with them such sonorous metal brayed, So many drums and martial noises sounded; So many steeds in that encounter neighed; So many cries -- with rush of foot confounded -- Rose all about, that hill, dale, wood, and glade, From distant parts, the deafening din rebounded; And struck into the Moors such sudden dread, They turned and from the field in panic fled. LXXXVIII Their king forgets no, how Rogero lay Sore wounded, and as yet in evil case. Him, with what care they could, he made convey From that dread field, on horse of easy pace. Borne to the sea by the securest way, They in a bark the suffering warrior place, And thence commodiously to Arles transport; Whither their wasted squadrons make resort. LXXXIX Chased by Rinaldo and King Charlemagne, A hundred thousand, or well nigh, I ween, By wood, by mountain, valley, and by plain, Flying the fury of the Franks are seen; More find the passage blocked, and widely stain With crimson what before was white and green. Not so Gradasso's puissant troops was spent, Who farther from the field had pitched his tent. XC Nay; when he hears it is Mount Alban's knight By whom assailed the paynim quarters are, He in his heart exults, with such delight, That he, for very joy, leaps here and there. He thanks and lauds his God, who him that night Blest with so high a fortune and so rare; Hoping to win the horse without a peer, Baiardo, from the Christian cavalier. XCI Gradasso had desired long time before (I think you will have read the tale elsewhere) To back that courser, which Rinaldo bore, And Durindana by his side to wear: He with a hundred thousand men and more To France, with this design, had made repair; And had erewhile to bloody fight defied, Even for that good steed, Mount Alban's pride. XCII Hence had that king repaired to the sea-shore, The place assigned to end their discord fell: But all was marred by Malagigi's lore; Who, cheating good Rinaldo with a spell, To sea the champion in a pinnace bore. Too tedious were the tale at length to tell. Hence evermore Gradasso had opined, The gentle baron was of craven kind. XCIII Now that Gradasso learns Mount Alban's peer Is he, that storms the camp, in huge delight, Armed, on Alfana leaps the cavalier, And through the pitchy darkness seeks the knight, O'erturning all who cross his fierce career, He leaves afflicted and in piteous plight The broken bands of Afric and of France. All, food alike for his wide-wasting lance. XCIV He seeks the paladin, now here now there, Echoing his name as loud as he can shout; And thitherward inclines his courser, where The bodies are most thickly strown about. At length encounter, sword to sword, the pair, For broken are alike their lances stout; Which shivering in their hands, had flown upright. And smote the starry chariot of the Night. XCV When King Gradasso recognized the foe, Not by the blazoned bearing of his shield, But by Baiardo -- by that horrid blow, Which made him seem sole champion of the field, He to reproach the knight was nothing slow, And of unworthy action him appealed; In that he had not kept his ground and day, Erewhile appointed for the fierce assay. XCVI "Belike thou hoped," (said he of Sericane,) "If for that time my vengeance thou couldst fly, We should not meet in this wide world again: But we are met, thou seest, anew; and I, Be sure, though thou shouldst seek the Stygian reign, Or be from earth translated to the sky, Will hunt thee, save that courser thou forego, Be it through heaven above or hell below. XCVII "Dost thou, as matched with me mistrust thy force, (And that thou wert ill paired was seen whilere,) And more esteemest life than fame, a course Remains, which thee may from thy peril clear. And thou, if thou in peace resign the horse, May'st live, if life be deemed so passing dear; But live afoot, unmeriting a steed, That dost by chivalry such foul misdeed." XCVIII Guido the savage, as he spake, was nigh With Richardetto; and the warlike twain Brandished alike their trenchant swords on high, To teach more wit to him of Sericane: But them Rinaldo stopt with sudden cry, Nor brooked that he should injury sustain. "Am I too weak," (he cried,) "without your aid, To answer him that dares my deeds upbraid?" XCIX Then to the pagan thus: "Gradasso hear, And wilt thou listen, thou shalt understand, And I will prove it manifest and clear, I came to seek thee out upon the strand; And afterwards on thee will made appear The truth of all I say with arms in hand; Know then thou liest, if e'er with slanderous speech Thou taxest me with aught in knighthood's breach. C "But warmly I beseech thee, that before The battle be, thou fully comprehend My just excuses, that thou may'st no more Me for my failure wrongly reprehend: Next for Baiardo, as agreed of yore, 'Tis my desire that we afoot contend; Even as ordained by thee, in desert place, Alone in knightly duel, face to face." CI Courteous was Sericana's cavalier, (For generous bosoms aye such practise use) And is content to listen to the peer, How he his breach of promise will excuse. With him he seeks the river side, and here In simple words what chanced Rinaldo shews; Form the true history removes the veil, And cites all Heaven to witness to his tale. CII Next calls upon the son of Buovo, who Is of that history informed aright; And now, from point to point, relates anew (Nor more nor less rehearsed) the magic sleight. When thus Rinaldo: "What I warrant true By witness, I with arms in single fight, For better proof, will vouch upon thy crest, Both now and ever, as it likes thee best." CIII The king of Sericane, as loath to leave The second quarrel for the former breach, Though doubtful how that tale he should receive, Takes in good part the bold Rinaldo's speech. Not, as upon the former battle's eve, They choose their ground on Barcellona's beach: But on the morn ensuing, and, fast by A neighbouring fountain, will the question try. CIV Thither Rinaldo will the steed convey, There to be placed in common, 'twixt the two. If good Gradasso take his foe or slay, He wins Baiardo without more ado. But if Gradasso fails in that affray, -- Should he be slain, or else for mercy sue, A prisoner to Mount Alban's valiant lord, Rinaldo shall possess the virtuous sword. CV With mighty marvel and with greater pain, The paladin from Flordelice (as shown) Had heard how troubled was his cousin's brain. And from the damsel's lips as well had known How he his arms had scattered on the plain; And heard the quarrel which from thence had grown; In fine, how King Gradasso had the brand, Which won such thousand palms in Roland's hand. CVI When they so agreed, Gradasso made Thither where, camped apart, his servants lay, Albeit warmly by Rinaldo prayed, He would with him in his pavillion stay. The paynim king in armour was arrayed, And so the paladin, by break of day; And to the destined fount came either lord, The field of combat for the horse and sword. CVII It seemed Rinaldo's friends were all in fear, And dreaded much, before it was begun, The issue of the fight their cavalier Should wage against Gradasso, one to one. Much force, much daring, and much skill appear In that fierce king; and since of Milo's son The goodly sword was to his girdle tied, All cheeks looked pale upon Rinaldo's side; CVIII And Malagigi, more than all the rest, Sore doubted the event which would ensue, He willingly himself would have addrest To disappoint the destined fight anew; But fears if he that deadly strife arrest, Rinaldo's utter enmity to rue, Yet wroth with him upon that other score, When he conveyed the warrior from the shore. CIX Let others nourish idle grief and fears! Rinaldo wends afield secure and gay, Hoping that shame, which to the knight appears Too foul to be endured, to wipe away: So that of Altafoglia and Poictiers, He may for ever silence the mis-say. Boldly, and in his heart secure to win That battle's honour, wends the paladin. CX When now from either side those warriors meet, Nigh at the same time at the fountain-side, So in all points the pair each other greet, With countenance, so kind, so satisfied, 'Twould seem by kindred and by friendship sweet Rinaldo and Gradasso were allied. But how they after closed in fierce affray, I till another season shall delay. CANTO 32 ARGUMENT To her that does for her Rogero stay, Tidings are brought which irk the damsel sore, That fair Marphisa caused the youth's delay; She bent to slay her, grieving evermore, Departs, and overtakes, upon the way, Ullania with the three kings who rode before. These she o'ercomes, and had o'ercome that maid, But that an evil law she disobeyed. I I recollect that I was bound to sing (I promised so, but it escaped my mind) Of a suspicion, fraught with suffering To Bradamant of more displeasing kind, And made by keener and more venomed sting Than caused that other wound, wherewith she pined, Which, hearing Richardet his news impart, Had pierced her breast and preyed upon her heart. II So was I bound to sing, but I begun Another song, Rinaldo crossed my way, And then those deeds by savage Guido done, Kept me employed and caused no small delay; And so from subject I to subject run, That I forgot of Bradamant to say. I now remember, and will tell you, ere You of Rinaldo or Gradasso hear. III But it behoves, ere more of these be said, I should awhile of Agramant discourse, Who had from that night's raging fire conveyed To Arles, the remnant of his scattered force: Since to unite his troops, and furnish aid And victual, 'twas a place of much resource, Seated upon a river, nigh the shore, With Spain in front and Africa before. IV With horse and foot, of good or evil sort, Marsilius throughout Spain their loss repairs; And each armed back in Barcellona's port, Furnished through love or fear, for sea prepares. The Moor to council daily calls his court; Nor care nor cost the watchful monarch spares: Meanwhile sore taxes and repeated cess, All Africa's o'erburdened towns oppress. V He offers Rodomont, if to his side He will return, but offers him in vain, Renowned Almontes' daughter, as a bride; His cousin she, her portion Oran's reign. He lures not from his bridge that knight of pride, Who has so many sells, such plate and chain Collected there, from cavaliers o'erthrown, As serve to hide the monumental stone. VI Marphisa would not such a course pursue: Nay, the redoubted damsel hearing said That Agramant, subdued by Charles's crew, -- His choicest warriors taken, chased, or dead -- In Arles was sheltered with his broken few, Thither, unbidden by the monarch, sped, Prompt to assist him with her friendly blade; And proffered purse and person in his aid. VII As a free gift to him the martial fair Brunello bore, nor had she done him wrong. He, for ten days and nights, to swing in air, Had sorely feared, from lofty gallows hung: But seeing him unhelped by force or prayer Of any one amid the paynim throng, She thought foul scorn to stain her generous hands With such base blood, and loosed the losel's bands. VIII She pardoned every ancient injury, And him to Agramant in Arles conveyed. Well may you fancy with what joy and glee The monarch greeted her who brought him aid; He in Brunello's fate wills all shall see In what esteem he holds that warlike maid; For he in earnest does upon her foe What fierce Marphisa menaced but in show. IX The hangman hung his corpse in desert field, The craving vulture and the crow to feed. Rogero, that erewhile had been his shield, And from the noose that caitiff would have freed, Heaven's justice willed, now lay with wound unhealed, Nor could assist the craven in his need; And when the news were known, the knot was tied; So that Brunello, unassisted, died. X This while does good duke Aymon's daughter mourn, Because those twenty days so slowly trail: -- Which term elapsed -- Rogero should return, And be received into her church's pale. Time halts not more with him to foreign bourne Exiled, with prisoner pent in noisome jail, Pines the poor wretch for liberty and light, Or his loved land, desired and gladsome sight! XI Aye sick with hope deferred, the expecting maid, That Phoebus' steeds were foundered one while deemed; Then that his wheels were out of frame, so stayed, Beyond the wonted term, his chariot seemed. Yet longer than that day when Faith delayed The sun, which on the righteous Hebrew beamed, Or than that night Alcides was conceived, She every day and every night believed. XII How oft of dormouse, badger, or of bear, The heavy slumber would she fain partake! For she that time in sleep would waste and wear; Nor such prolonged repose desired to break; Nor wished the damsel any sound to hear, Until Rogero's voice should her awake: But not alone is this beyond her power; She cannot close her eyes one single hour. XIII She here and there, throughout the livelong night, Tosses and turns, nor ever finds repose; And still, impatient for the dawn of light, From time to time she to her window goes, To see if Tithon's spouse the lily white Yet scatters mingled with the crimson rose. Nor less desires the damsel, when 'tis morn, To see the golden stars the heaven adorn. XIV When, saving some four days, the term was ended, Appointed for the youthful warrior's stay, She, full of hope, the messenger attended From hour to hour, that should arrive, and say, "Behold Rogero comes"; and oft ascended A turret, from whose top she might survey Gay champaign, wood, and, mid the wide expanse, A portion of the road, that led to France. XV When shining arms at distance she perceives, Or any thing that speaks a cavalier, 'Tis her desired Rogero, she believes; And her fair eyes and brows are seen to clear. If footman, or unarmed, the maid conceives, It is a courier from the youthful peer; And, though fallacious every hope she feeds, Another and another aye succeeds. XVI And then she arms, and will the warrior meet; And from the hill descends into the plain: She finds him not, and to Montalban's seat Hopes he by other road his way has ta'en. In the design, wherewith she moved her feet From thence, she to her fort returns in vain; Nor finds him here nor there; meanwhile expired The period whose approach she so desired. XVII -- The period so prefixt o'erpast by one, By two, three, six, by eight, by twenty days -- She seeing not her spouse, and tidings none Receiving of the youth, laments 'gan raise, Which had from snake-haired Furies pity won, In those dark realms that Rhadamanthus sways. She smote her eyes divine, and bosoms fair; She rent the tresses of her golden hair. XVIII "Can it be true?" -- (she cried) -- "Shall I be fain To follow one, that strives to hide and fly? Esteem a man that has me in disdain? Pray him that never hears my suppliant cry? Suffer who hates me o'er my heart to reign? One that his lofty virtues holds so high, 'Twere need some heaven-born goddess should descend From realms above, his stubborn heart to bend? XIX "Proud youth! he knows my worship and my love, Nor me will have for lover or for slave. The cruel stripling knows what pangs I prove, Yet will not aid me till I am in my grave. Nor let me tell my sorrows, lest they move Him his perverse and evil will to wave; Shunning me like malignant asp, that fears To change his mood, if he the charmer hears. XX "Ah! Love, arrest this wight who runs so free, Outstripping my slow feet, or me install In the condition whence thou tookest me, Such as I was, ere thine or other's thrall. -- Alas! how vain the hope! that thou shouldst be Ever to pity moved by suppliant call, Who sport, yea feed and live, in streams that rise From the distracted lover's brimming eyes. XXI "But, woe is me, alas! and, what can I Save my irrational desire lament? Which makes me soar a pitch so passing high, I reach a region, where my plumes are brent; Then, unsustained, fall headlong from the sky; Nor ends my woe; on other flight intent, Again I imp my wings, again I soar; To flame and fall, tormented evermore. XXII "Yea; rather of myself should I complain, Than the desire, to which I bared my breast Whereby was Reason hunted from her reign, And all my powers by stronger force opprest. Thus borne from bad to worse, without a rein, I cannot the unbridled beast arrest; Who makes me see I to destruction haste, That I more bitterness in death may taste. XXIII "Yet, ah! why blame myself? Wherein have I Ever offended, save in loving thee? What wonder was it then that suddenly A woman's feeble sense opprest should be? Why fence and guard myself, lest bearing high, Wise words, and beauty rare should pleasure me? Most wretched is the mortal that would shun To look upon the visage of the sun. XXIV "Besides that me my destiny entrained, Words, worthy credence, moved me much, that drew A picture of rare happiness, ordained As meed of this fair unless to ensue. If these persuasive words were false and feigned, If famous Merlin's counsel was untrue, Wrath at the wizard may I well profess; But cannot therefore love Rogero less. XXV "Both Merlin and Melissa have I need To blame, and shall for ever blame the twain, That, to exhibit suckers of my seed, Conjured up spirits from infernal reign, Who with this empty hope my fancy feed, Me in perpetual bondage to detain. Nor other cause for this can I suppose, Save that they grudge me safe and sweet repose." XXVI Sorrow the maid so wholly occupies, Room has she none for comfort or for rest. Yet, maugre her affliction, Hope will rise, And form a lodgement in her harassed breast; And to the damsel's memory still supplies Rogero's parting words to her addrest; So makes her, in all seeming facts' despite, Await from hour to hour the youthful knight. XXVII For a month's space beyond those twenty days This hope affords fair Bradamant content: Hence sorrow not on her so heavy weighs As it would else her harassed soul have shent. She, one day that along the road she strays, By which she oft to meet Rogero went, Hears tidings, that of Hope -- last comfort left -- (Like every other good) her breast bereft. XXVIII Bound homeward from the hostile camp, where lay King Agramant, she met a Gascon knight, A prisoner to those paynims, from the day, That fought nigh Paris was the famous fight. The damsel prest him all he knew to say: Then to the point she covets led the knight: Asks of Rogero, on that theme abides, Listens to that, not aught inquires besides. XXIX Of him a full account did he afford, As well acquainted with the court; he said How, matched with Mandricardo, strove that lord, And layed the martial king in combat dead. And how, sore wounded by the Tartar's sword, Above a month the stripling kept his bed: And had the stranger here but closed his news, Well might his tale the missing knight excuse. XXX But then subjoins the Gascon cavalier How in the Moorish camp a damsel lies, By name Marphisa hight, of beauteous cheer, Bold and as skilled in arms of every guise, Who loves Rogero and to him is dear; And then the host so rarely sundered spies, That every one, throughout the paynim train, Deems that betrothed in wedlock are the twain. XXXI And hope, when healed shall be the youthful knight, The marriage of those lovers will succeed; (For sure) with pleasure and sincere delight, Those tidings paynim prince and monarch read: Since, knowing either's superhuman might, They augur, from their loins will spring a breed, In little season, which shall pass in worth The mightiest race that ever was on earth. XXXII What he rehearsed, the Gascon knight believed, Nor without cause believed the news he bore, A rumour universally received And bruited through the squadrons of the Moor; Who had that notion of their love conceived From signs of kindness witnessed evermore. For -- good or bad -- though from one mouth it flows, Fame to a boundless torrent quickly grows. XXXIII That she with him had brought the Paynim aid, And ne'er was seen without the cavalier, The first foundation of the rumour layed: But what confirmed that fame in every ear, Was, that she, having from the camp conveyed The thief Brunello (as I sang whilere) As if alone to see Rogero brought, Had to the camp returned, uncalled, unsought. XXXIV She solely to the camp had ta'en her way, To visit him that on a sick-bed smarted; Nor once alone; but often all the day There passed that maid, and but at eve departed: Who gave yet greater cause of her to say, That -- known as one so haughty and hard-hearted, Who all the world despised -- she now was grown Benign and humble to the Child alone. XXXV When Bradamant the Gascon's story heard, That lady suffered such tormenting pain, Such cruel woe her inmost bosom stirred, From falling she preserved herself with pain. She turned her courser round, without a word, Inflamed with jealousy and fierce disdain: From her all hope the wretched damsel spurns, And to her chamber breathing wrath returns. XXXVI Turned on her face, her body on the bed, Armed as she is, th4e grieving damsel throws, And that the sad lament by sorrow bred, May be unheard of any, bites the clothes; And so, repeating what the stranger said, To such a pitcher her smothered anguish grows, Her plaints no longer able to restrain, So vents the maid parforce her piteous pain: XXXVII "Who ever can be trusted? woe is me! All false and cruel well may be esteemed, If thou, Rogero, false and cruel be, That I so pious and so faithful deemed. What foul and felon act, what treachery, Was ever yet by tragic poet dreamed, But will fall short of thine, if thou wilt set The sum of my desert, against thy debts? XXXVIII "Wherefore, Rogero, since no cavalier Mates thee in beauteous form and daring feat, Since thou in matchless valour hast no peer, And none with thee in gentleness compete, Why cannot we, 'mid godlike gifts and clear, Allow thee truth, thy graces to complete? The praise of spotless truth to thee allow, To which all other virtues yield and bow? XXXIX "Knowest thou not, without it, worthless are All gentle bearing and all martial might? As there is nothing, howsoever fair, That can be seen without the aid of light. Easily mightest thou a maid ensnare, Lord as thou was, and idol in her sight. Her with thy honied words thou might'st have won, To deem that cold and darksome was the sun. XL "Cruel, what sin can trouble thee, if thou Do'st not her murder who loved thee repent? If held so lightly be a breach of vow -- Beneath what burden will thy heart be bent? What treatment will thine adversary know, If one who loves like me thou so torment? Justice is none in heaven, I well may say, If Heaven its vengeance for my wrongs delay. XLI "If of all human sins of deepest dye Be fell ingratitude; if doomed to smart For this, the fairest angel of the sky Was banished into foul and darksome part; If mighty sins for mighty vengeance cry, Where due atonement cleanses not the heart; Beware lest thou beneath such vengeance groan, Ingrate! that wouldest not thy sin atone. XLII "Cruel Rogero, I of theft, beside All other sins, may justly thee arraign. That thou my heart has ravished form my side, -- Of this offence I will not, I complain -- But, having made it mine, that thou defied All right, and took away thy gift again. Restore it; well thou know'st what pains requite His sin, who keeps what is another's right. XLIII "Thou hast left me, Rogero; thee to leave, Alas! I neither will nor power possess. But will and power have I my life to reave, To scape from this o'erwhelming wretchedness. To die at strife with thee alone I grieve: For, had the gods so pleased my lot to bless, As to require my life, when loved of thee, Never so welcome had been death to me." XLIV Resolved to die, 'twas so the damsel cried; And starting from her bed, by passion warmed, To her left breast her naked sword applied; Then recollected she was wholly armed. Meanwhile her better Spirit, at her side, With these persuasive words her fury charmed: "O lady, born to such illustrious name! Would'st thou conclude thy life with such foul shame? XLV "Were it not better to the field to go, Where aye thy breath with glory may be spent? There, should Rogero chance to lay thee low, He to have slain thee haply may repent; But, should his faulchion deal the mortal blow, What death could ever yield thee more content? Reason it were thou should'st by him be slain, Who dooms thee living to such passing pain. XLVI "Haply of that Marphisa, too, before Thou die, thou yet may deadly vengeance take, Who with dishonest love and treacherous lore Did thy beloved Rogero's fealty shake." This seemed to please the mournful lady more Than her first thought; and she forthwith bade make A mantle for her arms, which should imply Her desperation and desire to die. XLVII The vest is of that colour which is spied In leaf, when gray and yellow are at strife; When it is gathered from the branch, or dried Is the green blood, that was it's parent's life. Embroidered is the surcoat's outer side With stems of cypress which disdain the knife; Which shoot not, when by biting steel laid low. A habit well according with her woe. XLVIII She took the courser that was wont to bear Astolpho, and with him the lance of gold, By whose sole touch unhorsed all champions were. Needless anew I deem it to unfold Why by Astolpho given, and when and where, Or how that spear obtained the warrior bold. The lady took the lance, but nothing guessed Of the stupendous virtue it possessed. XLIX Without attendants, without squire, alone, The hill descending by the nearest way, Toward Paris is the mournful damsel gone, Where camped erewhile the Moorish forces lay; For yet to her the tidings were unknown, That good Rinaldo and his bold array Had raised, with Charles' and Malagigi's aid, The siege the paynims had to Paris laid. L -- Cadurci, and Cahors city left behind -- Bradamant sees the mountain, far and near, Whence Dordogne's waters to the valley wind; And Montferrant's and Clermont's towers appear: When she, a lady fair, of semblance kind, Beholds, by that same road, towards her steer. Three knights were nigh, and -- at the pommel hung -- A buckler from the damsel's saddle swung. LI Before the lady and behind her ride More squires and maids, a numerous company. Fair Bradamant of one that past beside Demanded who the stranger dame might be? "That lady to the king of France" (replied The squire) "is sent upon an embassy From THE LOST ISLE, which lies mid seas that roll Their restless waves beyond the northern pole. LII "Some THE LOST ISLE, some Iceland call the reign Whereof a royal lady fills the throne; Whose charms (before those charms all beauties wane) Are such as Heaven had dealt to her alone. The shield you see she sends to Charlemagne, But with the pact and purpose plainly shown, He should confer it on the knight, whose worth Is, in his judgment, fairest upon earth. LIII "She, as she deems herself (and it is true She is the fairest of all womankind), A cavalier, that should in heart and thew Surpass all other warriors, fain would find; Resolved, should her a hundred thousand woo, None shall unfix the purpose of her mind; -- But he, held worthiest by the world's accord, Alone shall be her lover and her lord. LIV "In France, in royal Charles's famous court, The damsel hopes to find the cavalier, Who in a thousand feats of high report Has shown that he excels each puissant peer. All three are monarchy who the dame escort, And what their kingdoms ye as well shall hear. One Sweden rules, one Gothland, Norway one; Surpast in martial praise by few or none. LV "These three, whose kingdoms at some distance lie, Yet the least distant lie from the LOST ISLE, (Because few mariners its shore descry, As little known, that island so they style), Wooed and yet woo her for a wife, and vie In valour, and, to win the lady's smile, Illustrious deeds have done, which Fame shall sound, While Heaven shall circle in its wonted round. LVI "Yet she not these will wed, nor cavalier That does not, as she deems, all else excell. -- `Lightly I hold your proof of valour here,' (Those northern monarchs was she wont to tell) `And if, like sun amid the stars, one peer Outshines his fellows, him I honour well: But therefore hold him not, in fierce alarms, Of living men the bravest knight at arms. LVII " `To Charlemagne, whom I esteem and hold As wisest among reigning kings, by me Shall be dispatched a costly shield of gold, On pact and on condition, that it be Bestowed on him, deemed boldest of the bold, Amid the martial ranks of chivalry. Serves the king Charlemagne or other lord, I will be governed by that king's award. LVIII " `If when King Charles the buckler shall receive And give to one so stout, that best among All others he that warrior shall believe, Do they to his or other court belong. For me the golden buckler shall retrieve One of you three, in his own virtue strong; My every love and thought shall he possess; Him for my spouse and lord will I confess.' LIX "Moved by these stirring speeches, hither hie From that wide-distant sea, those monarchs bold, Resolved to win the buckler, or to die Beneath his hand who has that shield of gold." Bradamant ponders much the squire's reply: He give his horse the head -- his story told -- And plies him so with restless heel and hand, He overtakes the damsel's distant band. LX After him gallops not, nor hurries ought, Bradamant, who pursues her road at ease: Much evermore evolving in her thought Things that may chance, she finally foresees That through the buckler by that damsel brought, Will follow strife and boundless enmities, Amid king Charles's peerage and the rest, If with that shield he shall reward the best. LXI This grieved the damsel's heart, but far above That grief, the former fear her heard did goad; That young Rogero had withdrawn his love From her, and on the warlike queen bestowed. So buried in the thoughts wherewith she strove, Was Bradamant, she heeded nor her road, Nor took she care where, at the close of light, To find befitting shelter for the night. LXII As when from squall, or other chance, a barge Drives from the river-side, where late it lay, Under no mariner or pilot's charge, The winds and waves at will transport their prey; So Rabican with Bradamant, at large, -- She musing on Rogero -- wends his way. For thence, by many miles, was distant wide That mind which should her courser's bridle guide. LXIII She raised her eyes at last, and saw the sun Had turned his back on Bocchus' towers and wall; Then, like a cormorant, his journey done, Into his nurse's lap beheld him fall, Beyond Marocco; and for her to run To tree, for shelter from the rising squall, Had been a foolish thought; for now 'gan blow A blustering wind, which threatened rain or snow. LXIV To better speed fair Bradamant aroused Her courser, yet but little way did ride, When with his flock, which on the champaign browsed, Leaving the fields, a shepherd she espied. To him where, well or ill, she might be housed, -- With many instances the maid applied -- For never house could such ill shelter yield, But that in rain 'twere worse to lodge afield. LXV To her the shepherd said, "I know of none Whereto I could direct you, near at hand. At least six leagues are distant all, but one, Named TRISTRAM'S TOWER, throughout the neighbouring land. But not to all men is the door undone; For it behoves that they, with lance in hand, Achieve their footing first and the defend, Who to be lodged within its walls pretend. LXVI "If there be room within, to stranger knight The castellain gives kindly welcome there: But is a lodging claimed by other wight, To joust with all new comers makes him swear: If none, he need not move; but arms and fight He must what stranger thither shall repair; And he that worst his warlike arms shall ply, Must wander forth beneath the naked sky. LXVII "If two. three, four, or more, seek shelter, they That first arrive, in peace their quarters take. Who follows, has a harder game to play; For war upon those many must he make. So, if one only in that mansion stay, He with those two, or more, a lance must break. Then with as many others as succeed: Thus he what strength he has shall sorely need. LXVIII "As well, if wife or maid seek that repair, (Is she alone, is she accompanied), And afterwards another, the most fair Is housed; that other must without abide." Bradamant asked the kindly shepherd where That castle stood; and he with signs replied As well as words, and pointed with his hand Where, five or six miles wide, the tower did stand. LXIX Though Rabican's good paces merit praise, To hurry him the damsel had no skill, By those so passing foul and broken ways, (By season somewhat rainy rendered ill) So, as to reach the tower, ere Night o'erlays The world, whose every nook dark shadows fill. Arrived, that lady finds the portal barred, And that she seeks a lodging tells the guard. LXX He answers that the place is occupied By dame and knight already housed, who, met About the fire, in that chill evening-tide, Wait till their supper be before them set. To him that maid: "The board is not supplied, I deem, for them, unless the meal be eat. Now, say I wait their coming." (she pursues,) Who know and will observe your castle's use." LXXI The guard his message bore, where at their ease Reposed the weary cavaliers; his tale Not overlikely was those kings to please; For cold and peevish blew the wintry gale, And now fast fell the rain; yet, forced to seize Their arms, they slowly don the martial mail. The rest remain within; while they proceed Against the damsel, but with little speed. LXXII Three cavaliers they were, of might so tried, Few champions but to them in prowess yield, The same that she that very day, beside The courier maid, encountered in the field, They that in Iceland boasted, in their pride, To bear away from France the golden shield: Who (for they had the martial maid outrode) Arrived before her at that lord's abode. LXXIII In feats of arms few warriors were more stout; But she besure will be among those few, She, that on no account will wait without, Fasting and wet, night's weary watches through. Within from window and from lodge, the rout Look forth, and will the joust by moonlight view, Which streams from underneath a covering cloud; Albeit the furious rain beats fast and loud. LXXIV Such transport as the longing gallant cheers, About to seize the stolen fruits of love, When, after long delay, the listener hears The bold within its socket softly move, Such transport cheered her, of those cavaliers The prowess and the pith a-fire to prove, When now the opened portals she descried, And drawbridge dropt, and issuing knights espied. LXXV When she beheld, how, of the drawbridge clear Those knights, together or scarce sundered, came, She took her ground; and next in fierce career, With flowing bridle, drove the furious dame, Levelling against those kings that virtuous spear, Her cousin's gift, which never missed its aim; Whose touch each warrior must unseat parforce; Yea Mars, should Mars contend in mortal course. LXXVI The king of Sweden, foremost of those knights, In falling too is foremost of the train; With such surpassing force his helmet smites That spear, which never yet was couched in vain. Gothland's good king next meets the maid, and lights With feet in air, at distance on the plain. The third (unhorsed by Aymon's beauteous daughter) Half buried lies in mire and marshy water. LXXVII When at three strokes she had unhorsed them all, Lighting with head on earth and heels in air, Retiring from the field, she sought the Hall, In search of lodging; but, ere harboured there, To issue forth, at whosoever's call, Is, by the warder's hest, obliged to swear. That lord who well had weighed her famous feats, The damsel with surpassing honour greets. LXXVIII So does by her the lady, that erewhile Had thither journeyed, with those monarchs three, As I related, sent from the LOST ISLE To France's king, upon an embassy. Kind as she is and affable of style, She renders back the stranger's courtesy; Rises to welcome her with smiling air, And to the fire conducts that warlike fair. LXXIX As Bradamant unarms, and first her shield, And after puts her polished casque away, A caul of shining gold, wherein concealed And clustering close, her prisoned tresses lay, She with the helmet doffs; and now revealed, (While the long locks about her shoulders play,) A lovely damsel by that band is seen, No fiercer in affray than fair of mien. LXXX As when the stage's curtain is uprolled, Mid thousand lamps, appears the mimic scene, Adorned with arch and palace, pictures, gold, And statues; or, as limpid and serene The sun his visage, glorious to behold, Unveils, emerging from a cloudy screen; So when the lady doffs her iron case, All paradise seems opened in her face. LXXXI Already so well-grown and widely spread Were the bright tresses which the hermit shore, These, gathered in a knot, behind her head, Though shorter than their wont, the damsel wore; And he, that castle's master, plainly read, (Who often had beheld her face before) That this was Bradamant; and now he paid Yet higher honours to the martial maid. LXXXII With modest and with mirthful talk this while, Seated about the fire, they feed the ear; And in this way the weary time beguile Till they are heartened with more solid cheer. If new or ancient were his castle's style, (Bradamant asks the courteous cavalier) By whom begun, and how it took its rise? And thus that castellain to her replies. LXXXIII "When Pharamond of France possessed the throne, His son, prince Clodion, had a mistress rare; And damsel in that ancient age was none More graceful, beauteous, or more debonair; So loved of Pharamond's enamoured son, That he lost sight no oftener of the fair Than Io's shepherd of his charge whilere: For jealous as enamoured was the peer. LXXXIV "Her in this mansion, which his sire bestowed, He kept, and rarely issued from his rest: With him were lodged ten cavaliers, allowed Through France to be the boldest and the best. Hither, while in this castle he abode, Sir Tristram and a dame their course addrest: Whom from a furious giant, in her need, Short time before that gentle knight had freed. LXXXV "Sir Tristram and his lady reached the Hall, When now the sun had Seville left behind. They for admission on the porter call, Since they for ten miles round no shelter find, But Clodion, that loved much, and was withal Sore jealous, was determined in his mind No stranger in his keep should ever inn, So long as that fair lady lodged therein. LXXXVI "When, after long entreaties made in vain, The castellain refused to house the knight, He said, `What supplication cannot gain, I hope to make thee do in they despite'; And loudly challenged him, with all his train, Those ten which he maintained, to bloody fight; Offering, with levelled lance and lifted glaive, To prove Sir Clodion a discourteous knave; LXXXVII "On pact, if he sate fast, and overthrown Should be the warder, and his warlike rout, He in that castle should be lodged alone, And Clodion with his knights remain without. Against him goes the king of France's son, At risque of death, to venge that galling flout; But falls astound; the rest partake his fate, And on the losers Tristram bars the gate. LXXXVIII "Entering the tower, he finds her harboured there Whereof I spake, so dear in Clodion's eyes; Whom SHE had equalled with the loveliest fair, Nature, so niggard of such courtesies. With her Sir Tristram talks, while fell despair Aye racks the houseless prince in horrid wise. Who prays the conquering knight, with suppliant cry, Not to his arms the damsel to deny. LXXXIX "Though she small worth in Tristram's sight possess, Nor any, saving Yseult, please his sight, Nor other dame to love or to caress, The philtre, drunk erewhile, allows the knight; Yet, for he would that foul discourteousness Of Clodion with a fit revenge requite, He cries, `I deem it were foul wrong and sore, If so such beauty I should shut the door. XC " `And, should Sir Clodion grieve beneath the tree To lodge alone, and company demand; Although less beautiful, I have with me A fair and youthful damsel, here at hand, Who, I am well content, his mate shall be, And do in all things, as he shall command. But she that is most fair to the most strong, Meseemeth, in all justice should belong.' XCI "Shut out all night, the moody Clodion strayed, Puffing and pacing round his lofty tower, As if that prince the sentinel had played On them, that slept at ease in lordly bower: Him, sorer far than wind and cold dismayed That lovely lady's loss in Tristram's power: But he, with pity touched, upon the morrow, Rendered her back, and so relieved his sorrow. XCII "Because, he said, and made it plain appear, Such as he found her, he returned the fair; And though for his discourtesy whilere, Clodion had every scorn deserved to bear, He was content with having made the peer Outwatch the weary night in open air. Accepting not that cavalier's excuse, Who would have thrown on Love his castle's use. XCIII "For Love should make a churlish nature kind, And not transform to rude a gentle breast. When Tristram hence was gone, not long behind Remained the enamoured prince who changed his rest: But first he to a cavalier consigned The tower; whereof that baron he possest, On pact, that he and his in the domain Henceforth this usage ever should maintain; XCIV "That cavalier of greater heart and power Should in this hall be harboured without fail: They that less worthy were should void the tower, And seek another inn, by hill or dale. In fine, that law was fixt, which to this hour Endures, as you have seen"; while so his tale To Bradamant recounts that castle's lord, The sewer with savoury meats has heaped the board. XCV In the great hall that plenteous board was laid, (None fairer was in all the world beside) Then came where those beauteous ladies stayed, And them, with torches lit, did thither guide. On entering, Bradamant the room surveyed, And she, that other fair, on every side; Who as they gaze about the gorgeous hall Filled full of picture, mark each storied wall. XCVI So beauteous are the figures, that instead Of eating, on the painted walls they stare; Albeit of meat they have no little need, Who wearied sore with that day's labour are. With grief the sewer, with grief the cook takes heed, How on the table cools the untasted fare. Nay, there is one amid the crowd, who cries, "First fill your bellies, and then feast your eyes." XCVII The guests were placed, and now about to eat, When suddenly bethought that castellain, To house two damsels were a thing unmeet; One lady must dislodge, and one remain; The fairest stay, and she least fair retreat. Where howls the wind, where beats the pattering rain. Because they separate came, 'tis ordered so: One lady must remain, one lady go. XCVIII The lord some matrons of his household crew Calls, with two elders, in such judgments wise; He marks the dames, and bids them of the two Declare which is most beauteous in their eyes; And all, upon examination due, Cry, Aymon's daughter best deserves the prize, And vouch as she in might those kings outweighed, No less in beauty she surpassed the maid. XCIX The warder cries to that Islandic dame, Who of her sentence has a shrewd suspicion, "O lady, let it be no cause of blame, That we observe our usage and condition; To seek some other rest must be thine aim, Since, by our universal band's admission, Though unadorned that martial maid be seen, Thou canst not match her charms and lovely mien." C As in a moment's time a cloud obscure Steams from the bottom of some marshy dale, Which the sun's visage, late so bright and pure, Mantles all over with its dingy veil; So that poor damsel, sentenced to endure, Without, the pelting shower and blustering gale, Is seen to change her cheer, and is no more The fair and mirthful maid she was before. CI The maid turns pale, and all her colour flies, Who dreads so stern a sentence to obey: But generous Bradamant, in prudent guise, Who could not bear to see her turned away, Cried to that baron, "Partial and unwise Your judgment seems, as well all judgments may, Wherein the losing party has not room To plead before the judge pronounces doom. CII "I, who this cause take on me to defend, Say (whether fairer or less fair I be) I came not as a woman, nor intend That now mine actions shall be womanly. But, saving I undress, who shall pretend To say I am or am not such as she? Neither should aught be said but what we know, And least of all what works another woe. CIII "Many, as well as I, long tresses wear, Yet are not therefore women; if, as guest, I have admittance gained to your repair, Like woman or like man, is manifest: Then why should I the name of woman bear, That in my actions stand a man confest? 'Tis ruled that woman should a woman chase; Nor that a knight a woman should displace. CIV "Grant we (what I confess not howsoe'er) That you the woman in my visage read; But that in beauty I am not her peer: Not therefore, deem I, of my valour's meed Ye would deprive me, though in beauteous cheer The palm I to that damsel should concede 'Twere hard, before I yield to her in charms, That I should forfeit what I won in arms. CV "And if it be your usage, that the dame Who yields in beauty, from your tower must wend, Here to remain I my design to proclaim, Should my resolve have good or evil game, Hence I infer, unequal were the game, If she and I in beauty should contend: For if such strife 'twixt her and me ensues, Nought can the damsel gain, and much may lose; CVI "And save the gain and loss well balanced be In every match, the contest is unfair. So that by right, no less than courtesy, May she a shelter claim in you repair. But are there any here that disagree, And to impugn my equal sentence dare, Behold my prompt, at such gainsayer's will, To prove my judgment right, his judgment ill!" CVII Bradamant -- grieved that maid of gentle kind Should from that castle wrongfully be sped, To bide the raging of the rain and wind, Where sheltering house was none, nor even shed -- With reasons good, in wary speech combined, Persuades that lord; but mostly what she said On ending silences the knight; and he Allows the justice of that damsel's plea. CVIII As when hot summer sun the soil has rived, And most the thirsty plant of moisture drains, The weak and wasting flower, well nigh deprived Of that quick sap which circled in its veins, Sucks in the welcome rain, and is revived; So, when bold Bradamant so well maintains The courier maid's defence, her beauteous cheer And mirth revive, and brighten as whilere. CIX At length the supper, which had long been dight, Nor yet was touched, enjoys each hungry guest; Nor any further news of errant knight Them, seated at the festive board, molest; All, saving Bradamant, enjoy, whose sprite, As wont, is still afflicted and opprest. For that suspicious fear, that doubt unjust, Which racked her bosom, marred the damsel's gust. CX The supper done -- brought sooner to a close Haply from their desire to feast their eyes -- First of the set, Duke Aymon's daughter rose, And next the courier maid is seen to rise. With that the warder signs to one, that goes And many torches fires in nimble wise; Whose light on storied wall and ceiling fell. What followed shall another canto tell. CANTO 33 ARGUMENT Bradamant sees in picture future fight There, where she gained admission by the spear. From combat cease, upon Baiardo's flight, Gradasso and Montalban's cavalier. While soaring through the world, the English knight Arrives in Nubia's distant realm, and here Driving the Harpies from the royal board, Hunts to the mouth of hell that impious horde. I Timagoras, Parrhasius, Polygnote, Protogenes, renowned Apollodore, Timanthes, and Apelles, first of note, Zeuxis and others, famed heretofore, Whose memory down the stream of Time will float, While we their wreck and labours lost deplore, Whose fame will flourish still in Fate's despite, (Grammercy authors!) while men read and write. II And those, yet living or of earlier day, Mantegna, Leonardo, Gian Belline, The Dossi, and, skilled to carve or to pourtray, Michael, less man than angel and divine, Bastiano, Raphael, Titian, who (as they Urbino and Venice) makes Cadoro shine; With more, whose works resemble what he hear And credit of those spirits, famed whilere; III The painters we have seen, and others, who Thousands of years ago in honour stood, Things which had been with matchless pencil drew, Some working upon wall, and some on wood. But never, amid masters old or new, Have ye of pictures heard or pictures viewed Of things to come; yet such have been pourtrayed Before the deeds were done which they displayed. IV Yet let not artist whether new or old, Boast of his skill such wondrous works to make; But leave this feat to spell, wherewith controlled The spirits of the infernal bottom quake. The hall, whereof in other strain I told, With volume sacred to Avernus' lake, Or Norsine grot, throught subject Demons' might, Was made by Merlin in a single night. V That art, whereby those ancient erst pourtrayed Such wonders, is extinguished in our day. But to the troop, by whom will be surveyed The painted chamber, I return, and say; A squire attendant on a signal made, Bore thither lighted torches, by whose ray Were scattered from that hall the shades of night, Nor this in open day had shown more bright. VI When thus the castle's lord addressed that crew: "Know, of adventures in this chamber wrought, Up to our days, have yet been witnessed few; A warfare storied, but its fields unfought. Who limned the battles, these as well foreknew. Here of defeats to come and victories taught, Whate'er in Italy our host befalls You may discern as painted on these walls. VII "The wars, wherein French armies should appear, Beyond the Alps, of foul event or fair, Even from his days until the thousandth year, By the prophetic Merlin painted were. Hither Great Britain's monarch sent the seer, To him, that of King Marcomir was heir: Why hither sent, and why this hall was made, At the same time to you shall be displayed. VIII "King Pharamond, the first of those that passed The Rhine, amid his Franks' victorious train, When Gaul was won, bethought him how to cast On restive Italy the curbing rein; And this; that evermore he wasting fast Beheld the Roman empire's feeble reign; And (for both reigned at once) would make accord, To compass his design, with Britain's lord. IX "The royal Arthur, by whom nought was done Without the ripe advice of Merlin sage, (Merlin, I say, the Devils mighty son, Well versed in what should chance in future age,) Knowing through him, to Pharamond made known, He would in many woes his host engage, Entering that region, which, with rugged mound, Apennine parts, and Alp and sea surround. X "To him sage Merlin shows, that well nigh all Those other monarchs that in France will reign, By murderous steel will see their people fall, Consumed by famine, or by fever slain; And that short joy, long sorrow, profit small, And boundless ill shall recompense their pain; Since vainly will the lily seek to shoot In the Italian fields its withered root. XI "King Pharamond so trusted to the seer That he resolved to turn his arms elsewhere; And Merlin, who beheld with sight as clear The things to be, as things that whilom were, 'Tis said, was brought by magic art to rear The painted chamber at the monarch's prayer; Wherein whatever deeds the Franks shall do, As if already done, are plain to view. XII "That king who should succeed, might comprehend, As he renown and victory would obtain, Whene'er his friendly squadrons should defend From all barbarians else the Italian reign; So, if to damage her he should descend, Thinking to bind her with the griding chain, -- Might comprehend, I say, and read his doom -- How he beyond these hills should find a tomb." XIII So said, he leads the listening ladies where Those pictured histories begin; to show How Sigisbert his arms will southward bear For what imperial Maurice shall bestow. "Behold him from the Mount of Jove repair Thither where Ambra and Ticino flow! Eutar behold, who not alone repels, But puts the foe to flight, and routs and quells. XIV "Where they with Clovis tread the mountain way, More than a hundred thousand warriors trace; See Benevento's duke the monarch stay, Whose thinner files his hostile army face. Lo! these who feign retreat an ambush lay. Lo! where through danger, havoc, and disgrace, The Franks, who to the Lombard wine-fat hie, Drugged by the bait, like poisoned mullets die. XV "Where Childibert the boundary hills has crost, Heading what bands of France and captains, see; Yet shall no more than baffled Clovis boast The conquest or the spoil of Lombardy. Heaven's sword descends so heavy on his host. Choked with their bodies every road shall be; So pined with watery flux and withering sun, That, out of ten, unharmed returns not one." XVI He shows King Pepin, shows King Charlemagne; How into Italy their march they bend; And one and the other fair success obtain, Because her land they came not to offend. But Stephen one, the other Adriane, And, after, injured Leo, would defend. This quells Astolpho, and that takes his heir, And re-establishes the papal chair. XVII A youthful Pepin of the royal line He after shows; who seemed to spread his host, Even from THE KILNS to the Isle of Palestine; And with a bridge, achieved at mighty cost, At Malamocco, to bestride the brine, And on Rialto's shore his battle post. Then fly and leave his drowning bands behind, His bridge destroyed by wasting waves and wind. XVIII "Burgundian Lewis ye behold descend Thither with his invading squadrons, where, Vanquishing and taken, nevermore to offend With hostile arms, he is compelled to swear. Behold! he slights his solemn oath -- to wend, Anew, with reckless steps, into the snare. Lo! there he leaves his eyes; and his array, Blind as the moldwarp, hence their lord convey. XIX "You see him named from Arles, victorious Hugh, From Italy the Berengari chase! Whom, quelled and broken twice and thrice, anew Now the Bavarians, now the Huns, replace. O'ermatched, he then for peace is fain to sue; Nor long survives, nor he who fills his place; To Berengarius yielding his domains, Who, repossest of all his kingdom, reigns. XX "You see, her goodly pastor to sustain, Another Charles set fire to Italy; Who has two kings in two fierce battles slain, Manfred and Conradine, and after see His bands, who seem to vex the new-won reign With many wrongs, and who dispersedly -- Some here, some there -- in different cities dwell. Slain on the rolling of the vesper-bell." XXI He shows them next (but after interval, 'Twould seem, of many and many an age, not years) How through the Alps, a captain out of Gaul, To war upon the great Viscontis, steers; And seems to straiten Alexandria's wall, Girt with his forces, foot and cavaliers: A garrison within, an ambuscade Without the works, the warlike duke has laid; XXII And the French host, decoyed in cunning wise Thither where the surrounding toils are spread, Conducted on that evil enterprise By Armagnac, the Gallic squadron's head, Slaughtered throughout the spacious champaign lies, Or is to Alexandria captive led: While, swoln not more with water than with blood, Tanarus purples wide Po's ample flood. XXIII Successively that castellain displayed One hight of Marca, of the Anjouites three. How "Marsi, Daunians, Salentines," (he said) "And Bruci, these shall oft molest, you see: Yet not by Frank or Latian's friendly aid Shall one delivered from destruction be. Lo! from the realm, as oft as they attack, Alphonso and Gonsalvo beat them back. XXIV "You see the eighth Charles, amid his martial train, The flower of France, through Alpine pass has pressed. Who Liris fords, and takes all Naples' reign, Yet draws not sword nor lays a lance in rest: All, save that rock which -- Typheus' endless pain -- Lies on the giant's belly, arms, and breast: By Inigo del Guasto here withstood, Derived from Avalo's illustrious blood." XXV The warder of the castle, who makes clear To beauteous Bradamant that history, Says, having shown her Ischia's island, "Ere I lead you further other things to see, I'll tell what my great-grandfather whilere -- I then a child -- was wont to tell to me. Which in like manner (that great-grandsire said), As well to him his father whilome read; XXVI "And his from sire or grandsire heard recite; So son from sire; even to that baron, who Heard it related by the very wight, That these fair pictures without pencil drew, Which you see painted azure, red, and white. He when to Pharamond (as now to you) Was shown the castle on the rocky mount, Heard him relate the things I now recount. XXVII "Heard him relate, how in that fortilage From that good knight should spring, who, 'twould appear, Guards it so well, he scorns the fires that rage, Even to the Pharo, flaming far and near, Then, or within short space, and in that age, (And named the week and day, as well as year,) A noble warrior, unexcelled in worth By other, that has yet appeared on earth. XXVIII "Nereus less fair, Achilles was less strong, Less was Ulysses famed for daring feat; Nestor, that knew so much and lived so long, Less prudent; nimble Ladas was less fleet; Less liberal and less prompt to pardon wrong, Caesar, whose praises ancient tales repeat. So that, compared with him, in Ischia born, Each might appear of vaunted virtues shorn; XXIX "And if illustrious Crete rejoiced of old In giving birth to Coelus' godlike heir; If Thebes in Hercules and Bacchus bold, If Delos boasted of her heavenly pair, Nought should as well this happy isle withhold From lifting high her glorious head in air, When that great Marquis shall in her be born, Whom with its every grace shall Heaven adorn. XXX "Sage Merlin said -- and oft renewed that say -- He was reserved to flourish in an age, When most opprest the Roman empire lay, That he might free that holy heritage: But as some deeds of his I must display Hereafter, these I will not now presage. So spake that wizard, and renewed the story, Which told of Charlemagne's predestined glory. XXXI "Lewis, (so learned Merlin said,) is woe To have brought to Italy King Charlemagne, Whom he called in to harass, not o'erthrow That ancient rival of his goodly reign; At his return declares himself his foe, And, leagued with Venice, would the king detain. Behold that valiant monarch couch his spear, And in his foes' despite a passage clear. XXXII "But his new kingdom leaving to his band, Far other destiny awaits that throng: For, with the Mantuan's friendly succour manned, Gonsalvo to the war returns so strong, He leaves not in few months, by sea or land, One living head, his slaughtered troops among. But then, because of one by treason spent, In him appears the joy of triumph shent." XXXIII So saying, to his guests the cavalier Alphonso, of Pescara hight, displayed: "Who in a thousand feats will shine more clear Than the resplendent carbuncle," he said. "Behold, deceived by faithless treaty, here, Mid snares by the malignant Aethiop laid, Transfixt with deadly dart the warrior lies, In whom the age's worthiest champion dies." XXXIV Under Italian escort next they see Where the twelfth Lewis o'er the hills is gone; Has by its roots uptorn the mulberry, And in Viscontis' land the lilies sown: "Treading in Charles's steps, by him shall be Bridges athwart the Garigliano thrown. Yet after shall he mourn his army's slaughter, Dispersed and drowning in that fatal water." XXXV (The lord pursues) "with no less overthrow, Broken in Puglia, see the Gallic train. In him who twice entraps the routed foe, Gonslavo you behold, the pride of Spain. Fortune to Lewis a fair face shall show, As late a troubled mien, upon that plain, Which even to where vext Adria pours her tides, Po, between Alp and Apennine, divides." XXXVI The host reproved himself, while so he said, And pieced his tale, as having left untold Things first in order; next to them displayed A royal castle by its warder sold. A prisoner by the faithless Switzer made, He shows the lord who hired him with his gold: Which double treason, without couching lance, Has given the victory to the king of France. XXXVII That warder then shows Caesar Borgia, grown Puissant in Italy, through this king's grace; For all Rome's peerage, and all lords that own Her sway, he into exile seems to chase: Then shows the king, that will the saw take down, And papal acorns in Bologna place: Then Genoa's burghers, by this monarch broke, And rebel city stooping to his yoke. XXXVIII "You see," (pursued that warder,) "how with dead Covered is Ghiaradada's green champaign. It seems each city opes her gates through dread; And Venice scarce her freedom can maintain. You see he suffers not the Church's head, Passing the narrow confines of Romagne, Modena from Ferrara's duke to reave; Who would not to that prince a remnant leave. XXXIX "Nay he Bologna rescues from his sway; Whither the Bentivogli them betake. You next see Lewis siege to Brescia lay, And the close-straitened city storm and take; Felsina almost at the same time stay With succour, and the papal army break; And next, 'twoud seem, that either hostile band Lies tented upon Chassis' level strand. XL "On this side France, upon the other Spain, Extend their files, and battle rages high; Fast fall the men at arms in either train, And the green earth is tinged with crimson dye. Flooded with human gore seems every drain; Mars doubts to whom to give the victory; When through Alphonso's worth the Spaniards yield, And the victorious Franks maintain the field; XLI "And, for Ravenna sacked and ravaged lies, The Roman pastor bites his lips through woe; Called by him, from the hills, in tempest's guise, Swoop the fierce Germans on the fields below. It seems each Frenchman unresisting flies, Chased by their bands beyond the mountain snow, And that they set the mulberry's thriving shoot There, whence they plucked the golden lily's root. XLII "Behold the Frank returns, and here behold Is broken, by the faithless Swiss betrayed, He, that his royal father seized and sold, Whose succour dearly by the youth is paid. Those over whom false Fortune's wheel had rolled, Erewhile, beneath another king arraid, You here behold, preparing to efface With vengeful deed Novara's late disgrace; XLIII "And see with better auspices return The valiant Francis, foremost of his train, Who so shall break the haughty Switzer's horn, That little short of spent their bands remain; And them shall nevermore the style adorn, Usurped by that foul troop of churlish vein, Of scourge of princes, and the faith's defence, To which those rustics rude shall make pretence. XLIV "Lo! he takes Milan, in the league's despite: Lo! with the youthful Sforza makes accord: Lo! Bourbon the fair city keeps, in right Of Francis, from the furious German horde: Lo! while in other high emprize and fight Elsewhere is occupied his royal lord, Nor knows the pride and license of his host, Through these the city shall anew be lost. XLV "Lo! other French who his grandsire's vein Inherits, not his generous name alone! Who by the Church's favour will regain -- The Gaul expelled -- a land which was his own. France too returns, but keeps a tighter rein, Nor over Italy, as wont, has flown: For Mantua's noble duke the foe shall stay, And, at Ticino's passage, bar his way. XLVI "Though on his cheek youth's blossoms scarce appear, Worthy immortal glory, Frederick shines; And well that praise deserves, since by his spear, But more by care and skill, Pavia's lines Against the French defends that cavalier, And frustrates the sea-lion's bold designs. You see two marquises, Italia's boast, And both, alike the terror of our host. XLVII "Both of one blood and of one nest they are; The foremost is the bold Alphonso's seed, Whom, led by that false black into the snare, You late beheld in purple torrent bleed. You see defeated by his counsel ware, How oft the Franks from Italy recede. The next, of visage so benign and bright, Is lord of Guasto and Alphonso hight; XLVIII "This is that goodly knight, whose praise you heard When rugged Ischia's island I displayed, Of whom sage Merlin, with prophetic word, To Pharamond such mighty matters said; Whose birth should to that season be deferred, When more than ever such a champion's aid, Against the barbarous enemy's attack, Vext Italy, and Church, and Empire lack. XLIX "He in his cousin of Pescara's rear, -- Prosper Colonna, chief of that emprize -- Makes the rude Switzer pay Bicocca dear, Paid by the Frenchman in yet dearer wise. Behold where France prepares for fresh career, And to repair her many losses tries Behold one host on Lombardy descend! Behold that other against Naples wend! L "Bust she, that moves us like the dust which flies Before the restless wind, which whirls it round, Lifts if aloft awhile, and from the skies Blows back anew the rising cloud to ground, To a hundred thousand swells, in Francis' eyes, The soldiers who Pavia's walls surround. The monarch sees but that which he commands, Nor marks how wax or waste his leaguering bands. LI " `Tis thus that, through the greedy servant's sin, And easy sovereign's goodness, on his side, The files beneath his banners muster thin, When in his midnight camp, `to arms,' is cried, For by the wary Spaniards charged within His ramparts is he; foes that with the guide Of Avalo's fair lineage, would assay To make to heaven or hell their desperate way. LII "You see the best of the nobility Of all fair France extinguished on the field; How many swords, how many lances, see The Spaniards round the valiant monarch wield. Behold! his horse falls under him; yet he Will neither own himself subdued, or yield; Though to assault him from all sides is run By wrathful bands, and succour there is none. LIII "The monarch well defends him from the foe, All over bathed with blood of hostile vein. But valour stoops at last to numbers; lo! The king is taken, is conveyed to Spain; And all upon Pescara's lord bestow And him of that inseparable twain -- Of Guasto hight -- the praise and prime renown For that great king captived and host o'erthrown. LIV "This host o'erthrown upon Pavia's plains, That, bound for Naples, halts upon its way: As an ill-nourished lamp or taper wanes, For want of wax or oil, with flickering ray. Lo! the king leaves his sons in Spanish chains, And home returns, his own domain to sway. Lo! while in Italy he leads his band, Another wars upon his native land. LV "In every part you see how Rome is woe, Mid ruthless rapine, murder, fire, and rape. See all to wasting rack and ruin go, And nothing human or divine escape. The league's men hear the shrieks, behold the glow Of hostile fires, and lo! they backward shape Their course, where they should hurry on their way, And leave the pontiff to his foes a prey. LVI "Lautrec the monarch sends with other bands; Yet not anew to war on Lombardy; But to deliver from rapacious hands The Church's head and limbs, already free, So slowly he performs the king's commands. Next, overrun by him the kingdom see, And his strong arms against the city turned, Wherein the Syren's body lies inurned. LVII "Lo! the imperial squadrons thither steer, Aid to the leaguered city to convey; And lo! burnt, sunk, destroyed, they disappear, Encountered by the Doria in mid-way. Behold! how Fortune light does shift and veer, So friendly to the Frenchman till this day! Who slays their host with fever, not with lance; Nor of a thousand one returns to France. LVIII These histories and more the pictures shew, (For to tell all would ask too long a strain) In beauteous colours and of different hue; Since such that hall, it these could well contain. The painting twice and thrice those guests review, Nor how to leave them knows the lingering train, 'Twould seem; perusing oft what they behold Inscribed below the beauteous work in gold. LIX When with these pictures they their sight had fed, And talked long while -- these ladies and the rest -- They to their chambers by that Lord were led, Wont much to worship every worthy guest. Already all were sleeping, when her bed At last Duke Aymon's beauteous daughter prest. She here, she there, her restless body throws, Now right, now left, but vainly seeks repose: LX Yet slumber toward dawn, and in a dream The form of her Rogero seems to view. The vision cries: "Why vex yourself, and deem Things real which are hollow and untrue? Backwards shall sooner flow the mountainstream Than I to other turn my thought from you. When you I love not, then unloved by me This heart, these apples of mine eyes, will be. LXI "Hither have I repaired (it seemed he said) To be baptized and do as I professed. If I have lingered, I have been delaid, By other wound than that of Love opprest." With that he vanished from the martial maid, And with the vision broken was her rest. New floods of tears the awakened damsel shed, And to herself in this sad fashion said: LXII "What pleased was but a dream; alas! a sheer Reality is this my waking bane; My joy a dream and prompt to disappear, No dream my cruel and tormenting pain. Ah! wherefore what I seemed to see and hear, Cannot I, waking, see and hear again? What ails ye, wretched eyes, that closed ye show Unreal good, and open but on woe? LXIII "Sweet sleep with promised peace my soul did buoy, But I to bitter warfare wake anew; Sweet sleep but brought with it fallacious joy, But -- sure and bitter -- waking ills ensue. If falsehood so delight and truth annoy, Never more may I see or hear what's true! If sleeping brings me weal, and watching woe, The pains of waking may I never know! LXIV "Blest animals that sleep through half the year, Nor ope your heavy eyelids, night nor day! For if such tedious sleep like death appear, Such watching is like life, I will not say, Since -- such my lot, beyond all wont, severe -- I death in watching, life in sleep assay. But oh! if death such sleep resemble, Death, Even now I pray three stop my fleeting breath!" LXV The clouds were gone, the horizon overspread With glowing crimson by the new-born sun, And in these signs, unlike the past, was read A better promise of the day begun: When Bradamant upstarted from her bed, And armed her for the journey to be done, Her thanks first rendered to the courteous lord, For his kind of cheer and hospitable board. LXVI And found, the lady messenger, with maid And squire, had issued from the castled hold, And was a-field, where her arrival stayed Those three good warriors, those the damsel bold The eve before had on the champaign laid, Cast from their horses by her lance of gold; And who had suffered, to their mighty pain, All night, the freezing wind and pattering rain. LXVII Add to such ill, that, hungering sore for food, They and their horses, through the livelong night, Trampling the mire, with chattering teeth, had stood: But (what well-nigh engendered more despite -- Say not well nigh -- more moved the warrior's mood) Was that they knew the damsel would recite How they had been unhorsed by hostile lance In the first course which they had run in France; LXVIII And -- each resolved to die or else his name Forthwith in new encounter to retrieve -- That Ulany, the message-bearing dame, (Whose style no longer I unmentioned leave), A fairer notion of their knightly fame Than heretofore, might haply now conceive, Bold Bradamant anew to fight defied, When of the drawbridge clear they her descried; LXIX Not thinking, howsoe'er, she was a maid, Who in no look or act the maid confest; Duke Aymon's daughter, loth to be delaid, Refuses, as a traveller that is pressed. But they so often and so sorely prayed, That she could ill refuse the kings' request. Her lance she levels, at three strokes extends All three on earth, and thus the warfare ends: LXX For Bradamant no more her courser wheeled, But turned her back upon the foes o'erthrown. They, that intent to gain the golden shield, Had sought a land so distant from their own, Rising in sullen silence from the field (For speech with all their hardihood was gone) Appeared as stupefied by their surprise, Nor to Ulania dared to lift their eyes. LXXI For they, as thither they their course addrest, Had vaunted to the maid in boasting vein, No paladin or knight with lance in rest, Against the worst his saddle could maintain. To make them vail yet more their haughty crest, And look upon the world with less disdain, She tells them, by no paladin or peer Were they unhorsed, but by a woman's spear. LXXII "Now what of Roland's and Rinaldo's might, Not without reason held in such renown, Ought you to think (she said) when thus in fight Ye by a female hand are overthrown? Say, if the buckler one of these requite, -- Better than by a woman ye have done, Will ye by those redoubted warriors do? So think not I, nor haply think so you. LXXIII "This may suffice you all; and need in none A clearer proof of prowess to display; And who desires, if rashly any one Desires, again his valour to assay, Would add but scathe to shame, now made his own; Now; and the same to-day as yesterday. Unless perchance he thinks it praise and gain, By such illustrious warriors to be slain." LXXIV When they by Ulany were certified A woman's hand had caused their overthrow, Who with a deeper black than pitch had dyed Their honour, heretofore so fair of show; And more than ten her story testified, Where one sufficed -- with such o'erwhelming woe Were they possest, they with such fury burned, They well nigh on themselves their weapons turned. LXXV What arms they had upon them, they unbound, And cast them, strung by rage and fury sore, Into the moat which girt that castle round, Nor even kept the faulchions which they wore; And, since a woman them had cast to ground, O'erwhelmed with rage and shame, the warriors swore, Themselves of such a crying shame to clear, They, without bearing arms, would pass a year; LXXVI And that they evermore afoot would fare Up hill or down, by mountain or by plain, Nor, when the year was ended, would they wear The knightly mail or climb the steed again; Save that from other they by force should bear, In battle, other steeds and other chain. So, without arms, to punish their misdeeds, These wend a-foot, those others on their steeds. LXXVII Lodged in a township at the fall of night, Duke Aymon's daughter, journeying Paris-ward, Hears how King Agramant was foiled in fight. Good harbourage withal of bed and board, She in her hostel found; but small delight This and all comforts else to her afford. For the sad damsel meat and sleep foregoes, Nor finds a resting place; far less repose. LXXVIII But so I will not on her story dwell, As not to seek anew the valiant twain; Who, by consent, beside a lonely well, Had tied their goodly coursers by the rein. I of their war to you somedeal will tell, A war not waged for empire or domain, But that the best should buckle to his side Good Durindana, and Baiardo ride. LXXIX No signal they, no trumpet they attend, To blow them to the lists, no master who Should teach them when to foin and when to fend, Or wake their sleeping wrath; their swords they drew: Then, one against the other, boldly wend, With lifted blades, the quick and dextrous two. Already 'gan the champions' fury heat, And fast and hard their swords were heard to beat. LXXX None e'er by proof two other faulchions chose For sound and solid, able to endure Three strokes alone of such conflicting foes, Passing all means and measure; but so pure, So perfect was their temper, from all blows By such repeated trial so secure, They in a thousand strokes might clash on high, -- Nay more, nor yet the solid metal fly. LXXXI With mickle industry, with mighty pain And art, Rinaldo, shifting here and there, Avoids the deadly dint of Durindane, Well knowing how 'tis wont to cleave and tear. Gradasso struck with greater might and main, But well nigh all his strokes were spent in air; Of, if he sometimes smote, he smote on part, Where Durindana wrought less harm than smart. LXXXII Rinaldo with more skill his blade inclined, And stunned the arm of Sericana's lord. Him oft he reached where casque and coat confined, And often raked his haunches with the sword: But adamantine was his corslet's rind, Nor link the restless faulchion broke or bored. If so impassive was the paynim's scale, Know, charmed by magic was the stubborn mail. LXXXIII Without reposing they long time had been, Upon their deadly battle so intent, That, save on one another's troubled mien, Their angry eyes the warriors had not bent. When such despiteous war and deadly spleen, Diverted by another strife, were spent, Hearing a mighty noise, both champions turn, And good Baiardo, sore bested, discern. LXXXIV They good Baiardo by a monster view, -- A bird, and bigger than that courser -- prest. Above three yards in length appeared to view The monster's beak; a bat in all the rest. Equipt with feathers, black as ink in hue, And piercing talons was the winged pest; An eye of fire it had, a cruel look, And, like ship-sails, two spreading pinions shook. LXXXV Perhaps it was a bird; but when or where Another bird resembling this was seen I know not, I, nor have I any where, Except in Turpin, heard that such has been. Hence that it was a fiend, to upper air Evoked from depths of nether hell I ween; Which Malagigi raised by magic sleight, That so he might disturb the champions' fight. LXXXVI So deemed Rinaldo too: and contest sore 'Twixt him and Malagigi hence begun; But he would not confess the charge; nay swore, Even by the light which lights the glorious sun, That he might clear him of the blame he bore, He had not that which was imputed done. Whether a fiend or fowl, the pest descends, And good Baiardo with his talons rends. LXXXVII Quickly the steed, possessed of mickle might, Breaks loose, and, in his fury and despair, Against the monster strives with kick and bite; But swiftly he retires and soars in air: He thence returning, prompt to wheel and smite, Circles and beats the courser, here and there. Wholly unskilled in fence, and sore bested, Baiardo swiftly from the monster fled. LXXXVIII Baiardo to the neighbouring forest flies, Seeking the closest shade and thickest spray; Above the feathered monster flaps, with eyes Intent to mark where widest is the way. But that good horse the greenwood threads, and lies At last within a grot, concealed from day. When the winged beast has lost Baiardo's traces. He soars aloft, and other quarry chases. LXXXIX Rinaldo and Gradasso, who descried Baiardo's flight, the conqueror's destined meed, The battle to suspend, on either side, Till they regained the goodly horse, agreed, Saved from that fowl which chased him, far and wide; Conditioning whichever found the steed, With him anew should to that fountain wend, Beside whose brim their battle they should end. XC Quitting the fount, they follow, where they view New prints upon the forest greensward made: By much Baiardo distances the two, Whose tardy feet their wishes ill obeyed. Himself the king on his Alfana threw, That near at hand was tethered in the glade, Leaving his foe behind in evil plight; -- Never more malcontent and vext in sprite. XCI Rinaldo ceased in little time to spy Baiardo's traces, who strange course had run; And made for thorny thicket, wet or dry, Tree, rock, or river, with design to shun Those cruel claws, which, pouncing from the sky, To him such outrage and such scathe had done. Rinaldo, after labour vain and sore To await him at the fount returned once more; XCII In case, as erst concerted by the twain, The king should thither with the steed resort; But having sought him there with little gain, Fared to his camp afoot, with piteous port. Return we now to him of Sericane, He that had sped withal in other sort, Who, not by judgement, guided to his prey, But his rare fortune, heard Baiardo neigh; XCIII And found him shrowded in his caverned lair, So sore moreover by his fright opprest, He feared to issue into open air. Thus of that horse himself the king possest. Well he remembered their conditions were To bring him to the fount; but little pressed Now was that knight to keep the promise made, And thus within himself in secret said: XCIV "Win him who will, in war and strife, I more Desire in peace to make the steed my own: From the world's further side, did I of yore Wend hitherward, and for this end alone. Having the courser, he mistakes me sore, That thinks the prize by me will be foregone. Him would Rinaldo conquer, let him fare To Ind, as I to France have made repair. XCV "For him no less secure is Sericane, Than twice for me has been his France," he said, And pricked for Arles, along the road most plain, And in its haven found the fleet arrayed. Freighted with him, the steed and Durindane, A well-rigged galley from that harbour weighed. Of these hereafter! -- I, at other call, Now quit Rinaldo, king, and France, and all. XCVI Astolpho in his flight will I pursue, That made his hippogryph like palfrey flee, With reins and sell, so quick the welkin through; That hawk and eagle soar a course less free. O'er the wide land of Gaul the warrior flew From Pyrenees to Rhine, from sea to sea. He westward to the mountains turned aside, Which France's fertile land from Spain divide. XCVII To Arragon he past out of Navarre, -- They who beheld, sore wondering at the sight -- Then, leaves he Tarragon behind him far, Upon his left, Biscay upon his right: Traversed Castile, Gallicia, Lisbon, are Seville and Cordova, with rapid flight; Nor city on sea-shore, nor inland plain, Is unexplored throughout the realm of Spain. XCVIII Beneath him Cadiz and the strait he spied, Where whilom good Alcides closed the way; From the Atlantic to the further side Of Egypt, bent o'er Africa, to stray; The famous Balearic isles descried, And Ivica, that in his passage lay; Toward Arzilla then he turned the rein, Above the sea that severs it from Spain. XCIX Morocco, Fez, and Oran, looking down, Hippona, Argier, he, and Bugia told, Which from all cities bear away the crown, No palm or parsley wreath, but crown of gold; Noble Biserta next and Tunis-town, Capys, Alzerba's isle, the warrior bold, Tripoli, Berniche, Ptolomitta viewed, And into Asia's land the Nile pursued. C 'Twixt Atlas' shaggy ridges and the shore, He viewed each regions in his spacious round; He turned his back upon Carena hoar, And skimmed above the Cyrenaean ground; Passing the sandy desert of the Moor, In Albajada, reached the Nubian's bound; Left Battus' tomb behind him on the plain, And Ammon's, now dilapidated, fane. CI To other Tremizen he posts, where bred As well the people are in Mahound's style; For other Aethiops then his pinions spread, Which face the first, and lie beyond the Nile. Between Coallee and Dobada sped, Bound for the Nubian city's royal pile; Threading the two, where, ranged on either land, Moslems and Christians watch, with arms in hand. CII In Aethiopia's realm Senapus reigns, Whose sceptre is the cross; of cities brave, Of men, of gold possest, and broad domains, Which the Red Sea's extremest waters lave. A faith well nigh like ours that king maintains, Which man from his primaeval doom may save. Here, save I err in what their rites require, The swarthy people are baptized with fire. CIII Astolpho lighted in the spacious court, Intending on the Nubian king to wait. Less strong than sumptuous is the wealthy fort, Wherein the royal Aethiop keeps his state, The chains that serve the drawbridge to support, The bolts, the bars, the hinges of the gate, And finally whatever we behold Herewrought in iron, there is wrought in gold. CIV High prized withal, albeit it so abound, Is that best metal; lodges built in air Which on all sides the wealthy pile surround, Clear colonnades with crystal shafts upbear. Of green, white, crimson, blue and yellow ground, A frieze extends below those galleries fair. Here at due intervals rich gems combine, And topaz, sapphire, emerald, ruby shine. CV In wall and roof and pavement scattered are Full many a pearl, full many a costly stone. Here thrives the balm; the plants were ever rare, Compared with these, which were in Jewry grown, The musk which we possess from thence we bear, In fine those products from this clime are brought, Which in our regions are so prized and sought. CVI The soldan, king of the Egyptian land, Pays tribute to this sovereign, as his head, They say, since having Nile at his command He may divert the stream to other bed. Hence, with its district upon either hand, Forthwith might Cairo lack its daily bread. Senapus him his Nubian tribes proclaim; We Priest and Prester John the sovereign name. CVII Of all those Aethiop monarchs, beyond measure, The first was this, for riches and for might; But he with all his puissance, all his treasure, Alas! had miserably lost his sight. And yet was this the monarch's least displeasure; Vexed by a direr and a worse despite; Harassed, though richest of those Nubian kings, By a perpetual hunger's cruel stings. CVIII Whene'er to eat or drink the wretched man Prepared, by that resistless need pursued, Forthwith -- infernal and avenging clan -- Appeared the monstrous Harpies' craving brood; Which, armed with beak and talons, overran Vessel and board, and preyed upon the food; And what their wombs suffice not to receive Foul and defiled the loathsome monsters leave. CIX And this, because upborn by such a tide Of full blown honours, in his unripe age, For he excelled in heart and nerve, beside The riches of his royal heritage, Like Lucifer, the monarch waxed in pride, And war upon his maker thought to wage. He with his host against the mountain went, Where Egypt's mighty river finds a vent. CX Upon this hill which well-nigh kissed the skies, Piercing the clouds, the king had heard recite, Was seated the terrestrial paradise, Where our first parents flourished in delight. With camels, elephants, and footmen hies Thither that king, confiding in his might; With huge desire if peopled be the land To bring its nations under his command. CXI God marred the rash emprise, and from on high Sent down an angel, whose destroying sword A hundred thousand of that chivalry Slew, and to endless night condemned their lord. Emerging, next, from hellish caverns, fly These horrid harpies and assault his board; Which still pollute or waste the royal meat, Nor leave the monarch aught to drink or eat. CXII And him had plunged in uttermost despair One that to him erewhile had prophesied The loathsome Harpies should his daily fare Leave unpolluted only, when astride Of winged horse, arriving through the air, An armed cavalier should be descried. And, for impossible appears the thing, Devoid of hope remains the mournful king. CXIII Now that with wonderment his followers spy The English cavalier so make his way, O'er every wall, o'er every turret high, Some swiftly to the king the news convey. Who calls to mind that ancient prophecy, And heedless of the staff, his wonted stay, Through joy, with outstretched arms and tottering feet, Comes forth, the flying cavalier to meet. CXIV Within the castle court Astolpho flew, And there, with spacious wheels, on earth descended; The king, conducted by his courtly crew, Before the warrior knelt, with arms extended, And cried: "Thou angel send of God, thou new Messiah, if too sore I have offended, For mercy, yet, bethink thee, 'tis our bent To sin, and thine to pardon who repent. CXV "Knowing my sin, I ask not, I, to be -- Such grace I dare not ask -- restored to light; For well I ween such power resides in thee, As Being accepted in thy Maker's sight. Let it suffice, that I no longer see, Nor let me with perpetual hunger fight. At least, expel the harpies' loathsome horde, Nor let them more pollute my ravaged board; CXVI "And I to build thee, in my royal hold, A holy temple, made of marble, swear, With all its portals and its roof of gold, And decked, within and out, with jewels rare. Here shall thy mighty miracle be told In sculpture, and thy name the dome shall bear." So spake the sightless king of Nubia's reign, And sought to kiss the stranger's feet in vain. CXVII "Nor angel" -- good Astolpho made reply -- "Nor new Messiah, I from heaven descend; No less a mortal and a sinner I, To such high grace unworthy to pretend. To slay the monsters I all means will try, Or drive them from the realm which they offend. If I shall prosper, be thy praises paid To God alone, who sent me to thine aid. CXVIII "Offer these vows to God, to him well due; To him thy churches build, thine altars rear." Discoursing so, together wend the two, 'Mid barons bold, that king and cavalier. The Nubian prince commands the menial crew Forthwith to bring the hospitable cheer; And hopes that now the foul, rapacious band, Will not dare snatch the victual from his hand. CXIX Forthwith a solemn banquet they prepare Within the gorgeous palace of the king. Seated alone here guest and sovereign are, And the attendant troop the viands bring. Behold! a whizzing sound is heard in air, Which echoes with the beat of savage wing. Behold! the band of harpies thither flies, Lured by the scent of victual from the skies. CXX All bear a female face of pallid dye, And seven in number are the horrid band; Emaciated with hunger, lean, and dry; Fouler than death; the pinions they expand Ragged, and huge, and shapeless to the eye; The talon crook'd; rapacious is the hand; Fetid and large the paunch; in many a fold, Like snake's, their long and knotted tails are rolled. CXXI The fowls are heard in air; then swoops amain The covey well nigh in that instant, rends The food, o'erturns the vessels, and a rain Of noisome ordure on the board descends. To stop their nostrils king and duke are fain; Such an insufferable stench offends. Against the greedy birds, as wrath excites, Astolpho with his brandished faulchion smites. CXXII At croup or collar now he aims his blow, Now strikes at neck or pinion; but on all, As if he smote upon a bag of tow, The strokes without effect and languid fall. This while nor dish nor goblet they forego; Nor void those ravening fowls the regal hall, Till they have feasted full, and left the food Waste or polluted by their rapine rude. CXXIII That king had firmly hoped the cavalier Would from his royal seat the harpies scare. He now, that hope foregone, with nought to cheer, Laments, and sighs, and groans in his despair. Of his good horn remembers him the peer, Whose clangours helpful aye in peril are, And deems his bugle were the fittest mean To free the monarch from those birds unclean; CXXIV And first to fill their ears, to king and train, With melted wax, Astolpho gives command; That every one who hears the deafening strain May not in panic terror fly the land. He takes the reins, his courser backs again, Grasps the enchanted bugle in his hand; And to the sewer next signs to have the board Anew with hospitable victual stored. CXXV The meats he to an open galley bears, And other banquet spreads on other ground. Behold, as wont, the harpy-squad appears; Astolpho quickly lifts the bugle's round; And (for unguarded are their harassed ears) The harpies are not proof against the sound; In terror form the royal dome they speed, Nor meat nor aught beside the monsters heed. CXXVI After them spurs in haste the valiant peer: And on the winged courser forth is flown, Leaving beneath him, in his swift career, The royal castle and the crowded town; The bugle ever pealing, far and near. The harpies fly toward the torrid zone; Nor light until they reach that loftiest mountain Where springs, if anywhere, Nile's secret fountain. CXXVII Almost at that aerial mountain's feet, Deep under earth, extends a gloomy cell. The surest pass for him, as they repeat, That would at any time descend to hell. Hither the predatory troop retreat, As a safe refuge from the deafening yell. As far, and farther than Cocytus' shore Descending, till that horn is heard no more. CXXVIII At that dark hellish inlet, which a way Opens to him who would abandon light, The terrifying bugle ceased to bray; -- The courser furled his wings and stopt his flight. But, ere Astolpho further I convey, -- Not to depart from my accustomed rite -- Since on all sides the paper overflows, I shall conclude my canto and repose. CANTO 34 ARGUMENT In the infernal pit Astolpho hears Of Lydia's woe, by smoke well-nigh opprest. He mounts anew, and him his courser bears To the terrestrial paradise addrest. By John advised in all, to heaven he steers; Of some of his lost sense here repossest, Orlando's wasted wit as well he takes, Sees the Fates spin their threads, and earthward makes. I O fierce and hungry harpies, that on blind And erring Italy so full have fed! Whom, for the scourge of ancient sins designed, Haply just Heaven to every board has sped. Innocent children, pious mothers, pined With hunger, die, and see their daily bread, -- The orphan's and the widow's scanty food -- Feed for a single feast that filthy brood. II Too foul a fault was his, who did unclose That cave long shut, and made the passage free, From whence that greediness, that filth arose, Our Italy's infection doomed to be. Then was good life extinguished, and repose So banished, that with strife and poverty, With fear and trouble, is she still perplext, And shall for many a future year be vext: III Till she her sons has shaken by the hair, And from Lethaean sloth to life restored; Exclaiming, "Will none imitate that pair, Zethes and Calais, with avenging sword Rescue from claws and stench our goodly fare, And cleanse and glad anew the genial board. As they king Phineus from those fowls released, And England's peer restored the Nubian's feast?" IV Hunting those hideous birds, that cavalier Aye scared them with the bugle's horrid sound; Till at the mountain-cave his long career He closed, and ran the monstrous troop to ground: Attentive to the vent he held his ear, And in that troubled cavern heard rebound, Weeping and wailing, and eternal yell; Proof certain that its entrance led to hell. V Astolpho doubts if he within shall wend, And see those wretched ones expelled from day; Into the central pit of earth descend, And the infernal gulfs around survey. "Why should I fear, that on my horn depend For certain succour?" (did the warrior say) "Satan and Pluto so will I confound, And drive before me their three-headed hound." VI He speedily his winged horse forsook; (Him to a sapling near at hand he ties) The cavern entered next; but first he took His horn, whereon the knight in all relies. Not far has he advanced before a smoke, Obscure and foul, offends his nose and eyes. Ranker than pitch and sulphur is the stench, Yet not thereat does good Astolpho blench. VII But as he more descends into that lair, So much he finds the smoke and vapour worse; And it appears he can no further fare; Nay, backward must retrace his way parforce. Lo! something (what he knows not) he in air Espies, that seems in motion, like a corse, Upon whose wasted form long time had beat The winter's rain and summers scorching heat. VIII In that dim cavern was so little light, -- Yea, well-nigh might be said that light was none -- Nought sees or comprehends the English knight What wavers so, above that vapour dun: For surer proof, a stroke or two would smite With his good faulchion Otho's valiant son: Then deemed that duke it was a spirit, whom He seemed to strike amid the misty gloom. IX When him a melancholy voice addressed; "Ah! without harming other, downward wend. Me but too sore the sable fumes molest, Which hither form the hellish fires ascend." Thereat the duke, amazed, his steps represt, And to the spirit cried: "So may Heaven send A respite from the vapours that exhale, As thou shalt deign to tell thy mournful tale! X "And to be known on earth shouldst thou be fain, Thee will I satisfy." To him the sprite: So sweet it seems to me, in fame again Thus to return into the glorious light, My huge desire such favour to obtain, Forces my words from me in my despite, Constraining me to tell the things ye seek; Though 'tis annoyance and fatigue to speak. XI "Lydia, the child of Lydia's king, am I, To proud estate and princely honours born, Condemned by righteous doom of God on high In murky smoke eternally to mourn: Because a kindly lover's constancy I, while I lived, repaid with spite and scorn. With countless others swarm these grots below, For the same sin, condemned to the same woe. XII "Yet lower down, harsh Anaxarete Suffers worse pain where thicker fumes arise; Heaven changed her flesh to stone, and here to be Tormented, her afflicted spirit sties: In that unmoved she, hung in air, could see A lover vest by her barbarities. Here Daphne learns how rashly she had done In having given Apollo such a run." XIII "Of hosts of ingrate women in this cell Confined, it would be tedious to recite, If, one by one, I upon these should dwell; So many, their amount is infinite. 'Twould be more tedious of the men to tell, Whose base ingratitude due pains requite; And whom, in a more dismal prison pent, Smoke blinds, and everlasting fires torment. XIV "Since to belief soft woman is more prone, He that deceives her, merits heavier pain; To Theseus and to Jason this is known, And him that vexed of old the Latian reign, And him that of his brother Absalon Erewhile provoked the pestilent disdain, Because of Thamar; countless is the horde Of those who left a wife or wedded lord. XV "But, rather of my state than theirs to shew, And sin which brought me hither: -- I was fair, But so much haughtier was than fair of hue, I know not if I ever equalled were: Nor which was most excessive of the two, My pride of beauty, could to thee declare. Though it is certain, Pride but took its rise In that rare loveliness which pleased all eyes. XVI "There lived a Thracian knight, for warlike skill And prowess, upon earth without a peer; Who, voiced by many a worthy witness still, The praises of my matchless charms did hear. So that, of forethought and his own free will, Fixed all his love on me that cavalier; Weening this wife that I, upon my part, Should for his valour duly prize his heart. XVII "He came to Lydia, and by faster tie Was fettered at my sight; and there enrolled Amid my royal father's chivalry, In mickle fame increased that baron bold. His feats of many a sort, and valour high Would make a tale too tedious to be told; With what his boundless merit had deserved, If a more grateful master he had served. XVIII "Pamphylia, Caria, and Cilicia's reign, Through him, my father brought beneath his sway, Who never moved a-field his martial train, But when that warrior pointed out the way: He, when he deemed he had deserved such gain, Pressed close the Lydian king, upon a day, And craved me from the monarch as his wife, As meed of all that booty made in strife. XIX "Rejected of the monarch was the peer, Who was resolved his child should highly wed; Not him who was a simple cavalier; Who, saving valour, was with nought bested. For on my father, bent on gain and gear And avarice, of all vice the fountain-head, Manners and merit for as little pass, As the lute's music on the lumpish ass. XX "Alcestes, he of whom I speak (so hight That warrior), when he sees his suit denied, Repulsed by one, by whom he had most right To think that he should most be gratified, Craves his discharge, and threatens he this slight Will make the Lydian monarch dear abide. The Armenian, an old rival of my sire, And mortal for, he sought with this desire; XXI "And so the monarch urged, he made him rear His banner, and attack my sire; and, through His famous feats, that Thracian cavalier Was named the captain of the invading crew. For the Armenian sovereign, far and near, All things (so said the knight) he would subdue; But claiming as his share, when all was won, My sovereign beauties for the service done. XXII "I ill to you the mischief could express Alcestes did us in that war; o'erthrown By him four armies were, and he in less Than one short twelvemonth left us neither town, Not tower, save one, where cliffs forbade access: 'Twas here my sire, amid those of his own Whom most he loved, took refuge, in his need, With all the wealth he could collect with speed. XXIII "Us in this fortilage the knight attacked, And shortly to such desperation drave, That gladly would the king have made a pact, To yield me for his consort, yea his slave, With half our realm, if certain by that act Himself from every other loss to save; Right sure he otherwise should forfeit all, And, after, die in bonds, a captive thrall. XXIV "Before this happened, to try every way Of remedy the Lydian king was bent; And thither, where Alcestes' army lay, Me, the first cause of all the mischief, sent. To yield my person to him as a prey I with intention to Alcestes went; To bid him take what portion of our reign He pleased, and pacify his fierce disdain. XXV "When of my coming that good knight does know, Me he encounters pale and trembling sore: 'Twould seem a vanquished man's a prisoner's brow, He, rather than a victor's semblance, bore. I who perceive he loves, address not now The warrior as I was resolved before. My vantage I descry, and shift my ground, To fit the state wherein that knight was found. XXVI "To curse the warrior's passion I begun, And of his crying cruelty complained, Since foully by my father had he done, And me would have by violence constrained; Who with more grace my person would have won, Nor waited many days, had he maintained His course of courtship, as begun whilere. To king and all of us so passing dear; XXVII "And if the honest suit he hoped to gain Had been at first rejected by my sire, 'Twas, he was somedeal of a churlish vein, Nor ever yielded to a first desire; He should not therefore, restive to the rein, Have left his goodly task, so prompt to ire; Sure, passing aye from good to better deed, In little time to win the wished-for meed; XXVIII "And if my father would not have been won, To him I would so earnestly have prayed, That he my lover should have made his son; Nay, had my royal sire my suit gainsayed, For him in secret that I would have done, Wherewith he should have deemed himself appaid: But since, it seemed, he other means designed, Never to love him had I fixed my mind; XXIX "And, though I sought him, at my father's hest, And pious love for him had been my guide, He might be sure, not long should be possest The bliss that I, in my despite, supplied; For the red blood should issue from my breast As soon as his ill will was satisfied On this my wretched person, which alone He so by brutal force should make his own. XXX "With these, and words like these, I moved the peer, When I such puissance in myself espied; And him so contrite made, in desert drear, Was never seen a saint more mortified. Before my feet the doleful cavalier Fell down, and snatched a poniard from his side; Which, he protested, I parforce should take, And for so foul a sin my vengeance slake. XXXI "To push my mighty victory to an end I scheme, when him I see in such distress, And give him hopes he may even yet pretend That I deservedly his love should bless, If he his ancient error will amend, Will of his realm my father repossess, And will in future time deserve my charms By love and service, not by force of arms. XXXII "So promised he to do; and set me free, And let me, as I came, untouched, depart; Nor even to kiss my lips he ventured; see If he is yoked securely, if his heart Love has well touched with the desire of me, If he for him need feather other dart! He seeks the Armenian, why by pact should take Whatever spoil the conquering armies make; XXXIII "And him, as best he might, would fain persuade To leave to Lydia's monarch his domain, Upon whose wasted lands his host had preyed, And rest content with his Armenian reign. -- He would not hear of this (the monarch said, With cheers with fury swolen) nor would refrain From pressing Lydia's king with armed band, So long as he possessed a palm of land; XXXIV "And if the knight, when a vile woman sues, His purpose shift, let him the evil bear: He will not, for the warrior's asking, lose What he has hardly conquered in a year. Alcestes to the king his suit renews, And next complains, that he rejects his prayer. At length the Thracian fires, and threatens high, By love or force the monarch shall comply. XXXV "So kindling anger waxed between the two, It urged them from ill words to worser deed: Upon the king his sword Alcestes drew; Though thousands aid the monarch in his need, And, in despite of all, their sovereign slew; And made that day as well the Armenian bleed, Backed by the Thracians' and Cilicians' aid And other followers, by the warrior paid. XXXVI "His conquest he pursued, and, at his cost, Without expense to us, in less than one Short month, the kingdom by my father lost Restored; and, to repair the mischief done, (Beside spoil given) he conquered with his host, -- Taxing or taking what his arms had won -- Armenia and Cappadocia which confine; And scowered Hyrcania to the distant brine. XXXVII "Him not to greet with triumphs, but to slay, Returning from that warfare, we intend; But, fearing failure, our design delay In that we find too many him befriend. Feeding him aye with hope from day to day, I for the Thracian warrior love pretend: But first declare my will that he oppose And prove his valour on our other foes; XXXVIII "And him, now sole, now ill accompanied, On strange and perilous emprize I speed; Wherein a thousand knights might well have died; But all things happily with him succeed: For Victory was ever on his side; And oft with horrid foes of monstrous breed, With Giants and with Lestrigons, who brought Damage in our domains, the warrior fought. XXXIX Nor Juno, nor Eurystheus, in such chase Ever renowned Alcides vext so sore, In Erymanth, Nemaea, Lerna, Thrace, Aetolia, Africa, by Tyber's shore, By Ebro's sunny bank, or other place, As (hiding murderous hate, while I implore) I exercise my lover still in strife, With the same fell design upon his life. XL "Unable to achieve my first intent, I on a scheme of no less mischief fall: Through me, all deemed his friends by him are shent, Who thus bring down on him the hate of all. The Thracian leader never more content Than to obey, whatever be the call, Is at my bidding ever prompt to smite, Without regarding who or what the wight. XLI "When I perceive that, through the warrior's mean, Extinguished is my father's every foe; And, conquered by himself, that knight is seen -- Friendless, through us -- I now the masque forego; What I, from him, beneath a flattering mien, Had hitherto concealed, I plainly show; -- What deep and deadly hate by bosom fired, And that I but to work his death desired. XLII "Then, thinking if such course I should pursue, That public shame would still the deed attend, (For men too well my obligations knew, And would be prompt my cruelty to shend.) Meseemed enough to drive him from my view, So that he should no more my eyes offend: Nor would I more address or see the peer, Nor letter would receive or message hear. XLIII "This my ingratitude in him such pain At length produced, that mastered by his woe, After entreating mercy long in vain, He sickened sore and sank beneath the blow. For pain which fits my sin, dark fumes now stain My cheek, and with salt rheum mine eyes o'erflow. Thus in eternal torment shall I dwell; For saving mercy helpeth not in hell." XLIV Since wretched Lydia spake no more, the peer Would fain discern if more in torment lay; But, those false ingrates' curse, the darkness drear So waxed before him, and obscured the way, That not one inch advanced the cavalier; Nay, back parforce returns that warrior; nay, Himself from that increasing smoke to save, Makes for the mouth of the disastrous cave. XLV The motion of his quickly shifting feet More savours of a run than walk or trot. Thus mounting the ascent in swift retreat, Astolpho sees the outlet of the grot; Where, through the darkness of that dismal seat And those foul fumes, a dawn of daylight shot; He from the cavern, sorely pained and pined, Issues at last, and leaves the smoke behind; XLVI And next to bar the way against that band, Whose greedy bellies so for victual crave, Picks stones, and trees lays level with his brand, Which charged with pepper or amomum wave; And what might seem a hedge, with busy hand, As best he can, constructs before the cave; And so succeeds in blocking that repair, The harpies shall no more revisit air. XLVII While in that cave Astolpho did remain, The fumes that from the sable pitch arose, Not only what appeared to sight did stain; But even so searched the flesh beneath his clothes, He sought some cleansing stream, long sought in vain; But found at length a limpid till, which rose Out of a living rock, within that wood, And bathed himself all over in the flood. XLVIII Then backed the griffin-horse, and soared a flight Whereby to reach that mountain's top he schemes, Which little distant, with its haughty height, From the moon's circle good Astolpho deems; And, such desire to see it warms the knight, That he aspires to heaven, nor earth esteems. Through air so more and more the warrior strains, That he at last the mountain-summit gains. XLIX Here sapphire, ruby, gold, and topaz glow, Pearl, jacinth, chrysolite and diamond lie, Which well might pass for natural flowers which blow, Catching their colour from that kindly sky. So green the grass! could we have such below, We should prefer it to our emerald's dye. As fair the foliage of those pleasant bowers! Whose trees are ever filled with fruit and flowers. L Warble the wanton birds in verdant brake, Azure, and red, and yellow, green and white. The quavering rivulet and quiet lake In limpid hue surpass the crystal bright. A breeze, which with one breath appears to shake, Aye, without fill or fall, the foliage light, To the quick air such lively motion lends, That Day's oppressive noon in nought offends; LI And this, mid fruit and flower and verdure there, Evermore stealing divers odours, went; And made of those mixt sweets a medley rare, Which filled the spirit with a calm content. In the mid plain arose a palace fair, Which seemed as if with living flames it brent. Such passing splendour and such glorious light Shot from those walls, beyond all usage bright. LII Thither where those transparent walls appear, Which cover more than thirty miles in measure, At ease and slowly moved the cavalier, And viewed the lovely region at his leisure; And deemed -- compared with this -- that sad and drear, And seen by heaven and nature with displeasure, Was the foul world, wherein we dwell below: So jocund this, so sweet and fair in show! LIII Astound with wonder, paused the adventurous knight, When to that shining palace he was nigh, For, than the carbuncle more crimson bright, It seemed one polished stone of sanguine dye. O mighty wonder! O Daedalian sleight! What fabric upon earth with this can vie? Let them henceforth be silent, that in story Exalt the world's seven wonders to such glory! LIV An elder, in the shining entrance-hall Of that glad house, towards Astolpho prest; Crimson his waistcoat was, and white his pall; Vermillion seemed the mantle, milk the vest: White was that ancient's hair, and white withal The bushy beard descending to his breast; And from his reverend face such glory beamed, Of the elect of Paradise he seemed. LV He, with glad visage, to the paladin, Who humbly, from his sell had lighted, cries: "O gentle baron, that by will divine Have soared to this terrestrial paradise! Albeit nor you the cause of your design, Nor you the scope of your desire surmise, Believe, you not without high mystery steer Hitherward, from your arctic hemisphere. LVI "You for instruction, how to furnish aid To Charles and to the Church in utmost need, With me to counsel, hither are conveyed, Who without counsel from such distance speed. But, son, ascribe not you the journey made To wit or worth; nor through your winged steed, Nor through your virtuous bugle had ye thriven, But that such helping grace from God was given. LVII "We will discourse at better leisure more, And you what must be done shall after hear; But you that, through long fast, must hunger sore, First brace your strength with us, with genial cheer." Continuing his discourse, that elder hoar Raised mighty wonder in the cavalier, When he avouched, as he his name disclosed, That he THE HOLY GOSPEL, had composed; LVIII He of our Lord so loved, the blessed John; Of whom a speech among the brethren went, He never should see death, and hence the Son Of God with this rebuke St. Peter shent; In saying, "What is it to thee, if one Tarry on earth, till I anew be sent?" Albeit he said not that he should not die, That so he meant to say we plain descry. LIX Translated thither, he found company, The patriarch Enoch, and the mighty seer Elias; nor as yet those sainted three Have seen corruption, but in garden, clear Of earth's foul air, will joy eternity Of spring, till they angelic trumpets hear, Sounding through heaven and earth, proclaim aloud Christ's second advent on the silvery cloud. LX The holy ancients to a chamber lead, With welcome kind, the adventurous cavalier; And in another then his flying steed Sufficiently with goodly forage cheer. Astolpho they with fruits of Eden feed, So rich, that in his judgment 'twould appear, In some sort might our parents be excused If, for such fruits, obedience they refused. LXI When with that daily payment which man owes, Nature had been contented by the peer, As well of due refreshment as repose, (For all and every comfort found he here) And now Aurora left her ancient spouse, Not for his many years to her less dear, Rising from bed, Astolpho at his side The apostle, so beloved of God, espied. LXII Much that not lawfully could here be shown, Taking him by the hand, to him he read. "To you, though come from France, may be unknown What there hath happened," next the apostle said; "Learn, your Orlando, for he hath foregone The way wherein he was enjoined to tread, Is visited of God, that ever shends Him whom he loveth best, when he offends: LXIII "He, your Orlando, at his birth endowed With sovereign daring and with sovereign might, On whom, beyond all usage, God bestowed The grace, that weapon him should vainly smite, Because he was selected from the crowd To be defender of his Church's right. As he elected Sampson, called whilere The Jew against the Philistine to cheer; LXIV "He, your Orlando, for such gifts has made Unto his heavenly Lord an ill return: Who left his people, when most needing aid, Then most abandoned to the heathens' scorn. Incestuous love for a fair paynim maid Had blinded so that knight, of grace forlorn, That twice and more in fell and impious strife The count has sought his faithful cousin's life. LXV "Hence God hath made him mad, and, in this vein, Belly, and breast, and naked flesh expose; And so diseased and troubled is his brain, That none, and least himself, the champion knows, Nebuchadnezzar whilom to such pain God in his vengeance doomed, as story shows; Sent, for seven years, of savage fury full, To feed on grass and hay, like slavering bull. LXVI "But yet, because the Christian paladine Has sinned against his heavenly Maker less, He only for three months, by will divine, Is doomed to cleanse himself of his excess. Nor yet with other scope did your design Of wending hither the Redeemer bless, But that through us the mode you should explore, Orlando's missing senses to restore. LXVII " `Tis true to journey further ye will need, And wholly must you leave this nether sphere; To the moon's circle you I have to lead, Of all the planets to our world most near, Because the medicine, that is fit to speed Insane Orlando's cure, is treasured here. This night will we away, when over head Her downward rays the silver moon shall shed." LXVIII In talk the blest apostle is diffuse On this and that, until the day is worn: But when the sun is sunk i' the salt sea ooze, And overhead the moon uplifts her horn, A chariot is prepared, erewhile in use To scower the heavens, wherein of old was borne From Jewry's misty mountains to the sky, Sainted Elias, rapt from mortal eye. LXIX Four goodly coursers next, and redder far Than flame, to that fair chariot yokes the sire; Who, when the knight and he well seated are, Collects the reins; and heavenward they aspire. In airy circles swiftly rose the car, And reached the region of eternal fire; Whose heat the saint by miracle suspends, While through the parted air the pair ascends. LXX The chariot, towering, threads the fiery sphere, And rises thence into the lunar reign. This, in its larger part they find as clear As polished steel, when undefiled by stain; And such it seems, or little less, when near, As what the limits of our earth contain: Such as our earth, the last of globes below, Including seas, which round about it flow. LXXI Here doubly waxed the paladin's surprize, To see that place so large, when viewed at hand; Resembling that a little hoop in size, When from the globe surveyed whereon we stand, And that he both his eyes behoved to strain, If he would view Earth's circling seas and land; In that, by reason of the lack of light, Their images attained to little height. LXXII Here other river, lake, and rich champaign Are seen, than those which are below descried; Here other valley, other hill and plain, With towns and cities of their own supplied; Which mansions of such mighty size contain, Such never he before of after spied. Here spacious hold and lonely forest lay, Where nymphs for ever chased the panting prey. LXXIII He, that with other scope had thither soared, Pauses not all these wonder to peruse: But led by the disciple of our Lord, His way towards a spacious vale pursues; A place wherein is wonderfully stored Whatever on our earth below we lose. Collected there are all things whatsoe'er, Lost through time, chance, or our own folly, here. LXXIV Nor here alone of realm and wealthy dower, O'er which aye turns the restless wheel, I say: I speak of what it is not in the power Of Fortune to bestow, or take away. Much fame is here, whereon Time and the Hour, Like wasting moth, in this our planet prey. Here countless vows, here prayers unnumbered lie, Made by us sinful men to God on high: LXXV The lover's tears and sighs; what time in pleasure And play we here unprofitably spend; To this, of ignorant men the eternal leisure, And vain designs, aye frustrate of their end. Empty desires so far exceed all measure, They o'er that valley's better part extend. There wilt thou find, if thou wilt thither post, Whatever thou on earth beneath hast lost. LXXVI He, passing by those heaps, on either hand, Of this and now of that the meaning sought; Formed of swollen bladders here a hill did stand, Whence he heard cries and tumults, as he thought. These were old crowns of the Assyrian land And Lydian -- as that paladin was taught -- Grecian and Persian, all of ancient fame; And now, alas! well-nigh without a name. LXXVII Golden and silver hooks to sight succeed, Heaped in a mass, the gifts which courtiers bear, -- Hoping thereby to purchase future meed -- To greedy prince and patron; many a snare, Concealed in garlands, did the warrior heed, Who heard, these signs of adulation were; And in cicalas, which their lungs had burst, Saw fulsome lays by venal poets versed. LXXVIII Loves of unhappy end in imagery Of gold or jewelled bands he saw exprest; Then eagles' talons, the authority With which great lords their delegates invest: Bellows filled every nook, the fume and fee Wherein the favourites of kings are blest: Given to those Ganymedes that have their hour, And reft, when faded is their vernal flower. LXXIX O'erturned, here ruined town and castle lies, With all their wealth: "The symbols" (said his guide) "Of treaties and of those conspiracies, Which their conductors seemed so ill to hide." Serpents with female faces, felonies Of coiners and of robbers, he descried; Next broken bottles saw of many sorts, The types of servitude in sorry courts. LXXX He marks mighty pool of porridge spilled, And asks what in that symbol should be read, And hears 'twas charity, by sick men willed For distribution, after they were dead. He passed a heap of flowers, that erst distilled Sweet savours, and now noisome odours shed; The gift (if it may lawfully be said) Which Constantine to good Sylvester made. LXXXI A large provision, next, of twigs and lime -- Your witcheries, O women! -- he explored. The things he witnessed, to recount in rhyme Too tedious were; were myriads on record, To sum the remnant ill should I have time. 'Tis here that all infirmities are stored, Save only Madness, seen not here at all, Which dwells below, nor leaves this earthly ball. LXXXII He turns him back, upon some days and deeds To look again, which he had lost of yore; But, save the interpreter the lesson reads, Would know them not, such different form they wore. He next saw that which man so little needs, -- As it appears -- none pray to Heaven for more; I speak of sense, whereof a lofty mount Alone surpast all else which I recount. LXXXIII It was as 'twere a liquor soft and thin, Which, save well corked, would from the vase have drained; Laid up, and treasured various flasks within, Larger or lesser, to that use ordained. That largest was which of the paladin, Anglantes' lord, the mighty sense contained; And from those others was discerned, since writ Upon the vessel was ORLANDO'S WIT. LXXXIV The names of those whose wits therein were pent He thus on all those other flasks espied. Much of his own, but with more wonderment, The sense of many others he descried, Who, he believed, no dram of theirs had spent; But here, by tokens clear was satisfied, That scantily therewith were they purveyed; So large the quantity he here surveyed. LXXXV Some waste on love, some seeking honour, lose Their wits, some, scowering seas, for merchandise, Some, that on wealthy lords their hope repose, And some, befooled by silly sorceries; These upon pictures, upon jewels those; These on whatever else they highest prize. Astrologers' and sophists' wits mid these, And many a poet's too, Astolpho sees. LXXXVI Since his consent the apostle signified Who wrote the obscure Apocalypse, his own He took, and only to his nose applied, When (it appeared) it to its place was gone; And henceforth, has Sir Turpin certified, That long time sagely lived king Otho's son; Till other error (as he says) again Deprived the gentle baron of his brain. LXXXVII The fullest vessel and of amplest round Which held the wit Orlando erst possessed, Astolpho took; nor this so light he found, As it appeared, when piled among the rest. Before, from those bright spheres, now earthward bound, His course is to our lower orb addressed, Him to a spacious palace, by whose side A river ran, conducts his holy guide. LXXXVIII Filled full of fleeces all its chambers were, Of wool, silk, linen, cotton, in their hue, Of diverse dyes and colours, foul and fair. Yarns to her reel from all those fleeces drew, In the outer porch, a dame of hoary hair. On summer-day thus village wife we view, When the new silk is reeled, its filmy twine Wind from the worm, and soak the slender line. LXXXIX A second dame replaced the work when done With other; and one bore it off elsewhere; A third selected from the fleeces spun, And mingled by that second, foul from fair. "What is this labour?" said the peer to John; And the disciple answered Otho's heir, "Know that the Parcae are those ancient wives, That in this fashion spin your feeble lives. XC "As long as one fleece lasts, life in such wise Endureth, nor outlasts it by a thought. For Death and Nature have their watchful eyes On the hour when each should to his end be brought. The choicest threads are culled for Paradise, And, after, for its ornaments are wrought; And fashioned from the strands of foulest show Are galling fetters for the damned below." XCI On all the fleeces that erewhile were laid Upon the reel, and culled for other care, The names were graved on little plates, which made Of silver, or of gold, or iron, were, These piled in many heaps he next surveyed; Whence an old man some skins was seen to bear, Who, seemingly unwearied, hurried sore, His restless way retracing evermore. XCII That elder is so nimble and so prest, That he seems born to run; he bears away Out of those heaps by lapfulls in his vest The tickets that the different names display. Wherefore and whither he his steps addrest, To you I shall in other canto say, If you, in sign of pleasure, will attend, With that kind audience ye are wont to lend. CANTO 35 ARGUMENT The apostle praises authors to the peer. Duke Aymon's martial daughter in affray, Conquers the giant monarch of Argier, And of the good Frontino makes a prey. She next from Arles defies her cavalier, And, while he marvels who would him assay, Grandonio and Ferrau she with her hand And Serpentine unhorses on the strand. I Madonna, who will scale the high ascent Of heaven, to me my judgment to restore, Which, since from your bright eyes the weapon went, That pierced my heart, is wasting evermore? Yet will not I such mighty loss lament, So that it drain no faster than before; But -- ebbing further -- I should fear to be Such as Orlando is described by me. II To have anew that judgment, through the skies, I deem there is no need for me to fly To the moon's circle, or to Paradise; For, I believe, mine is not lodged so high. On your bright visage, on your beauteous eyes, Alabastrine neck, and paps of ivory, Wander my wits, and I with busy lip, If I may have them back, these fain would sip. III Astolpho wandered through that palace wide, Observing al the future lives around: When those already woven he had spied Upon the fatal wheel for finish wound, He a fair fleece discerned that far outvied Fine gold, whose wondrous lustre jewels ground, Could these into a thread be drawn by art, Would never equal by the thousandth part. IV The beauteous fleece he saw with wondrous glee Equalled by none amid that countless store; And when and whose such glorious life should be, Longed sore to know. "This," (said the apostle hoar, Concealing nothing of its history,) "Shall have existence twenty years before, Dating from THE INCARNATE WORD, the year Shall marked my men with M and D appear; V "And, as for splendor and for substance fair, This fleece shall have no like or equal, so Shall the blest age wherein it shall appear Be singular in this our world below; Because all graces, excellent and rare, Which Nature or which Study can bestow, Or bounteous Fortune upon men can shower, Shall be its certain and eternal dower. VI "Between the king of rivers' horns," (he cries,) "Stands what is now a small and humble town. Before it runs the Po, behind it lies A misty pool of marsh; this -- looking down The stream of future years -- I recognize First of Italian cities of renown; Not only famed for wall and palace rare, But noble ways of life and studies fair. VII "Such exaltation, reached so suddenly, Is not fortuitous nor wrought in vain; But that is may his worthy cradle be, Whereof I speak, shall so the heaven ordain. For where men look for fruit they graff the tree, And study still the rising plant to train; And artist uses to refine the gold Designed by him the precious gem to hold. VIII "Nor ever, in terrestrial realm, so fine And fair a raiment spirit did invest, And rarely soul so great from realms divine Has been, or will be, thitherward addrest, As that whereof THE ETERNAL had design To fashion good Hippolytus of Este: Hippolytus of Este shall he be hight, On whom so rich a gift of God shall light. IX "All those fair graces, that, on many spent, Would have served many wholly to array, Are all united for his ornament, Of whom thou hast entreated me to say. To prop the arts, the virtues is he sent; And should I seek his merits to display, So long a time would last my tedious strain, Orlando might expect his wits in vain." X 'Twas so Christ's servant with the cavalier Discoursed; they having satisfied their view With sight of that fair mansion, far and near, That whence conveyed were human lives, the two Issued upon the stream, whose waves appear Turbid with sand and of discoloured hue; And found that ancient man upon the shore, Who names, engraved on metal, thither bore. XI I know not if you recollect; of him I speak, whose story I erewhile suspended, Ancient of visage, and so swift of limb, That faster far than forest stag he wended. With names he filled his mantle to the brim, Aye thinned the pile, but ne'er his labour ended; And in that stream, hight Lethe, next bestowed, Yea, rather cast away, his costly load. XII I say, that when upon the river side Arrives that ancient, of his store profuse, He all those names into the turbid tide Discharges, as he shakes his mantle loose. A countless shoal, they in the stream subside; Nor henceforth are they fit for any use; And, out of mighty myriads, hardly one Is saved of those which waves and sand o'errun. XIII Along that river and around it fly Vile crows and ravening vultures, and a crew Of choughs, and more, that with discordant cry And deafening din their airy flight pursue; And to the prey all hurry, when from high Those ample riches they so scattered view; And with their beak or talon seize the prey: Yet little distance they their prize convey. XIV When they would raise themselves in upward flight, They have not strength the burden to sustain; So that parforce in Lethe's water light The worthy names, which lasting praise should gain. Two swans there are amid those birds, as white, My lord, as is your banner's snowy grain; Who catch what names they can, and evermore With these return securely to the shore. XV Thus, counter to that ancient's will malign, Who them to the devouring river dooms, Some names are rescued by the birds benign; Wasteful Oblivion all the rest consumes. Now swim about the stream those swans divine, Now beat the buxom air with nimble plumes, Till, near that impious river's bank, they gain A hill, and on that hill a hallowed fane. XVI To Immortality 'tis sacred; there A lovely nymph, that from the hill descends, To the Lethean river makes repair; Takes from those swans their burden, and suspends The names about an image, raised in air Upon a shaft, which in mid fane ascends; There consecrates and fixes them so fast, That all throughout eternity shall last. XVII Of that old sire, and why he would dispense Idly, all those fair names, as 'twould appear, And of the birds and holy place, from whence The nymph was to the river seen to steer, The solemn mystery, and the secret sense, Astolpho, marvelling, desired to hear; And prayed the man of God would these unfold, Who to the warrior thus their meaning told. XVIII "There moves no leaf beneath, thou hast to know, But here above some sign thereof we trace; Since all, in Heaven above or Earth below, Must correspond, though with a different face. That ancient, with his sweeping beard of snow, By nought impeded and so swift of pace, Works the same end and purpose in our clime, As are on earth below performed by Time. XIX "The life of man its final close attains, When on the wheel is wound the fatal twine; There fame, and here above the mark remains; For both would be immortal and divine, But for that bearded sire's unwearied pains, And his below, that for their wreck combine. One drowns them, as thou seest, mid sand and surges. And one in long forgetfulness immerges. XX "And even, as here above, the raven, daw, Vulture, and divers other birds of air, All from the turbid water seek to draw The names, which in their sight appear most fair; Even thus below, pimps, flatterers, men of straw, Buffoons, informers, minions, all who there Flourish in courts, and in far better guise And better odour, than the good and wise; XXI "And by the crowd are gentle courtiers hight, Because they imitate the ass and swine: When the just Parcae or (to speak aright) Venus and Bacchus cut their master's twine, -- These base and sluggish dullards, whom I cite -- Born but to blow themselves with bread and wine, In their vile mouths awhile such names convey, Then drop the load, which is Oblivion's prey. XXII "But as the joyful swans, that, singing sweet, Convey the medals safely to the fane, So they whose praises poets well repeat, Are rescued from oblivion, direr pain Than death. O Princes, wary and discreet, That wisely tread in Caesar's steps, and gain Authors for friends! They, doubt it not, shall save Your noble names from Lethe's laxy wave. XXIII "Rare as those gentle swans are poets too, That well the poet's name have merited, As well because it is Heaven's will, that few Great rulers should the paths of glory tread, As through foul fault of sordid lordlings, who Let sacred Genius beg his daily bread; Who putting down the Virtues, raise the tribe Of Vices, and the liberal arts proscribe. XXIV "Believe it, that these ignorant men should be Blind and deprived of judgment, is God's doom; Who makes them loathe the light of poetry, That envious Death may wholly them consume. Besides that Song can quicken and set free Him that is prisoned in the darkness tomb, Though foul his name, if Cirrha him befriend. Its savour myrrh and spikenard shall transcend. XXV "Aeneas not so pious, nor of arm So strong Achilles, Hector not so bold, Was, as 'tis famed; and mid the nameless swarm, Thousands and thousands higher rank might hold: But gift of palace and of plenteous farm, Bestowed by heirs of them, whose deeds they told, Have moved the poet with his honoured hand, To place them upon Glory's highest stand. XXVI "Augustus not so holy and benign Was as great Virgil's trumpet sounds his name, Because he savoured the harmonious line. His foul proscription passes without blame. That Nero was unjust would none divine, Nor haply would he suffer in his fame, Though Heaven and Earth were hostile, had he known The means to make the tuneful tribe his own. XXVII "Homer a conqueror Agamemnon shows, And makes the Trojan seem of coward vein, And from the suitors, faithful to her vows, Penelope a thousand wrongs sustain: Yet -- would'st thou I the secret should expose? -- By contraries throughout the tale explain: That from the Trojan bands the Grecian ran; And deem Penelope a courtezan. XXVIII "What fame Eliza, she so chaste of sprite, On the other hand, has left behind her, hear! Who widely is a wanton baggage hight, Solely that she to Maro was not dear, Marvel not this should cause me sore despite, And if my speech diffusive should appear. Authors I love, and pay the debt I owe, Speaking their praise; an author I below! XXIX "There earned I, above all men, what no more Time nor yet Death from me shall take away; And it behoved our Lord, of whom I bore Such testimony, so my paints to pay. It grieves me much for them, on whom her door Courtesy closes on a stormy day; Who meagre, pale, and worn with hopeless suit, Knock night and day, and ever without fruit. XXX Henceforth with that apostle let the peer Remain; for I have now to make a spring As far as 'tis from heaven to earth; for here I cannot hang for ever on the wing. I to the dame return, who was whilere Wounded by jealousy with cruel sting. I left her where, successively o'erthrown, Three kings she quickly upon earth had strown; XXXII And afterwards arriving in a town, At eve, which on the road to Paris lay, Heard tidings of Rinaldo's victory blown; And how in Arles the vanquished paynim lay. -- Sure, her Rogero with the king is gone -- As soon as reappears the dawning day, Towards fair Provence, whither (as she hears) King Charlemagne pursues, her way she steers. XXXIII She towards Provence, by the nearest road, So journeying, met a maid of mournful air; Who, though her cheeks with tears were overflowed, Was yet of visage and of manners fair. She was it, so transfixed with Love's keen goad, Who sighed for Monodante's valiant heir, Who at the bridge had left her lord a thrall, When with King Rodomont he tried a fall. XXXIV She sought one of an otter's nimbleness, By water and by land, a cavalier So fierce, that she that champion -- to redress Her wrongs -- might match against the paynim peer. When good Rogero's lady, comfortless, To that fair dame, as comfortless, drew near, Her she saluted courteously, and next Demanded by what sorrow she was vext. XXXV Flordelice marked the maid, that, in her sight, Appeared a warrior fitted for her needs; And of the bridge and river 'gan recite, Where Argier's mighty king the road impedes; And how he had gone nigh to slay her knight; Not that more doughty were the monarch's deeds; But that the wily paynim vantage-ground In that streight bridge and foaming river found. XXXVI "Are you (she said) so daring and so kind, As kind and daring you appear in show, Venge me of him that has my lord confined, And makes me wander thus, opprest with woe, For love of Heaven; or teach me where to find At least a knight who can resist the foe, And of such skill that little boot shall bring His bridge and river to the pagan king. XXXVII "Besides that so you shall achieve an end, Befitting courteous man and cavalier, You will employ your valour to befriend The faithfullest of lovers far and near. His other virtues I should ill commend, So many and so many, that whoe'er Knoweth not these, may well be said to be One without ears to hear or eyes to see." XXXVIII The high-minded maid, to whom aye welcome are All noble quests, by which she worthily May hope a great and glorious name to bear, Straight to the paynim's bridge resolves to hie; And now so much the more -- as in despair -- Wends willingly, although it were to die: In that she, ever with herself at strife, Deeming Rogero lost, detested life. XXXIX "O loving damsel (she made answer), I Offer mine aid, for such as 'tis, to do The hard and dread adventure, passing by Causes beside that move me, most that you A matter of your lover testify, Which I, in sooth, hear warranted of few; That he is constant; for i'faith I swear, I well believed all lovers perjured were." XL With these last words a sigh that damsel drew, A sigh which issued from her heart; then said: "Go we"; and, with the following sun, those two At the deep stream arrived and bridge of dread: -- Seen of the guard, that on his bugle blew A warning blast, when strangers thither sped -- The pagan arms him, girds his goodly brand, And takes upon the bridge his wonted stand; XLI And as the maid appears in martial scale, The moody monarch threatens her to slay, Unless her goodly courser and her mail, As an oblation to the tomb she pay. Fair Bradamant who knew the piteous tale, How murdered by him Isabella lay, The story gentle Flordelice had taught; Replied in answer to that paynim haught. XLII "Wherefore, O brutish man, for your misdeed Should penance by the innocent be done? 'Tis fitting to appease her you should bleed; You killed her, and to all the deed is known. So that, of trophied armour or of weed Of those so many, by your lance o'erthrown, Your armour should the blest oblation be, And you the choicest victim, slain by me; XLIII "And dearer shall the gift be from my hand; Since I a woman am, as she whilere; Nor save to venge her have I sought this strand; In this desire alone I hither steer: But first, 'tis good some pact we understand, Before we prove our prowess with the spear: You shall do by me, if o'erthrown, what you By other prisoners have been wont to do. XLIV "But if, as I believe and trust, you fall, I will your horse and armour have (she cried), And taking down all others from the wall, Hang on the tomb alone those arms of pride; And will that you release each warlike thrall." -- "The pact is just (King Rodomont replied), But those, my prisoners, are not here confined, And therefore cannot be to you consigned. XLV "These have I sent into mine Africk reign; But this I promise thee, and pledge my fay; If, by strange fortune, thou thy seat maintain, And I shall be dismounted in the fray; Delivered, all, shall be the captive train, Within what time suffices to convey An order thither, that they our of hand 'Should do what thou, if conqueror, may'st command. XLVI "But art thou undermost, as fitter were, And, as thou surely wilt be, I from thee Not therefore will thy forfeit armour tear, Nor shall thy name inscribed, as vanquished, be. To thy bright face, bright eyes, and beauteous hair, All breathing love and grace, the victory Will I resign; let it suffice that thou Then stoop to love me, as thou hatest now. XLVII "To fall by me thou needest not disdain; I with such strength, such nerve am fortified." Somedeal she smiled; but smiled in bitter vein; Savouring of anger more than aught beside. She spake not to that haughty man again, To the bridge-end returned the damsel, plied Her courser with the rowels, couched her spear, And rode to meet the furious cavalier. XLVIII King Rodomont prepares his course to run; Comes on at speed; and with such mighty sound Echoes that bridge, the thundering noise might stun The ears of many distant from the ground. The golden lance its wonted work has done; For that fierce Moor, in tourney so renowned, This from the saddle lifts, in air suspends, Then headlong on the narrow bridge extends. XLIX Scarce for her horse the martial damsel can Find space to pass, when she has thrown her foe; And little lacked, and mighty risque she ran Of falling into that deep stream below: But, born of wind and flame, good Rabican So dextrous was, and could so lightly go, He picked a path along the outer ledge, And could have paced upon a faulchion's edge. L The damsel wheeled, towards the cavalier Returned, and him bespoke in sportive way; "Who is the loser now to thee is clear, And who is undermost in this assay." Silent remained the monarch of Argier, Amazed, that woman him on earth should lay. He cannot, or he will not speak; and lies On earth, like one astound, in idiot guise. LI Silent and sad, he raised himself from ground, And when he some few paces thence had gone, His shield unbraced and helm and mail unbound, He flung against the tomb; and thence, alone, Afoot the moody monarch left that ground: Yet not till he had given command to one (Of his four squires was he) to do his hest Relating to those captives, as exprest. LII He parts; and save that in a caverned cell He dwelt, no further news of him were known: Meanwhile the harness of that infidel Bradamant hung upon the lofty stone; And having thence removed all plate and shell Wherewith (as by the writing it was shown) The cavaliers of Charles their limbs had drest, She moved not, nor let other move, the rest. LIII Besides the arms of Monodantes' heir Were those of Sansonet and Olivier, Who, bound in search of good Orlando, were Thither conducted by the road most near. The day before here taken was the pair, And sent by that proud paynim to Argier: These warriors' arms the martial maid bade lower From that fair tomb, and stored them in the tower. LIV All others, taken from the paynim train, Bradamant left suspended from the stone; Mid these a king's, that idly and in vain, Had thither, seeking Frontalatte, gone: I say his arms, that ruled Circassia's reign; Who, after wandering long, by date and down, Here to his grief another courser left, And lightly went his way, of arms bereft. LV Stript of his armour and afoot, did part That paynim monarch from the bridge of dread; As Rodomont permitted to depart Those other knights that in his faith were bred: But to his camp to wend he had no heart, For there he was ashamed to show his head: Since, in such fashion, thither to return After his boasts, had been too foul a scorn. LVI Yet still with new desire the warrior burned To seek her, fixed alone in his heart's core; And such the monarch's chance, he quickly learned (I cannot tell you who the tidings bore) She was towards her native land returned. Hence, as Love spurs and goads him evermore, He bowns him straight her footsteps to pursue: But I to Bradamant return anew. LVII When she in other writing had displaid How she had freed that passage from the foe, To mournful Flordelice the martial maid, She that still held her weeping visage low, Turned her, and courteously that lady prayed To tell her whither she designed to go. To her afflicted Flordelice replied: "To Arles, where camp the paynims, would I ride. LVIII "Which bark (I hope) and fitting company, To carry me to Africk may afford; Nor will I halt upon my way, till I Once more rejoin my husband and my lord; All means and measures there resolved to try, That may release him from his jailer's ward; And should the Saracen deceitful prove, Others, and others yet, I mean to move." LIX "My company (replied the martial fair) For some part of the road, I offer thee, Till we have sight of Arles; then to repair Thither, will pray you, for the love of me, To find King Agramant's Rogero there, Whose glorious name is spread o'er land and sea, And render to that knight this goodly horse, Whence the proud Moor was flung in martial course. LX "Say thus, from point to point, `A cavalier That would in combat prove his chivalry, And to the world at large would fain make clear Thy breach of faith with him, that thou may'st be Ready and well prepared for the career, Gave me this horse, that I might give it thee. He bids thee promptly mail and corslet dight, And wait him, who with thee will wage the fight.' LXI "Say this and nought beside, and would he hear My name, declare that 'tis to thee unknown." With wonted kindness cried that dame, "I ne'er In spending life itself, not words alone, Should weary in your service; since whilere You would in my behalf as much have done." Her Aymon's daughter thanked in courteous strain, And to her hand consigned Frontino's rein. LXII Through long days' journey, by that river-shore, Together go the lovely pilgrim pair, Till they see Arles, and hear the hollow roar. Of billows breaking on the sea-beach bare. Almost without the suburbs, and before The furthest barrier, stops the martial fair; To furnish Flordelice what time might need For the conveyance of Rogero's steed. LXIII She forward rode, within the enclosure sped, And o'er the bridge and through the gateway wended, And (furnished with a guide, who thither led) To young Rogero's inn; and there descended. She to the Child, as bid, her message said, And gave the courser, to her care commended: Then (for she waits not for an answer) speeds In haste to execute her proper needs. LXIV Rogero stands confused; he finds no end To his perplexing thoughts, and cannot see Who should defy him, who that message send, To speak him ill, and do him courtesy. Who thus as faithless him should reprehend, Or any reprehend, whoe'er it be, Nor knows he nor imagines; least of all On Bradamant the knight's suspicions fall. LXV To think 'twas Rodomont the youthful peer Was more inclined than any other wight; And wherefore even from him he this should hear, Muses, nor can the cause divine aright; Save him, in all the world the cavalier Knows not of one, that has him at despite. Meanwhile Dordona's lady craved the field; And loud that martial damsel's bugle pealed. LXVI To Agramant and King Marsilius flew The news, that one craved battle on the plain. Serpentine stood by chance before the two, And gained their leave to don his plate and chain, And vowed to take that haughty man; the crew Of people over wall and rampart strain; Nor child nor elder was there, but he pressed To see which champion should bestir him best. LXVII In beauteous arms and costly surcoat drest, Serpentine of the star to combat sped; The ground he at the first encounter prest; As if equipt with wings, his courser fled. The damsel flew his charger to arrest, And by the bride to that paynim led, Exclaiming: "Mount, and bid your monarch send A knight that better can with me contend." LXVIII The Moorish king, that on the rampart's height Stood, with a mighty following, next the plain, Marking the joust, much marvelled at the sight Of the foe's courtesy to him of Spain. "He takes him not, although he may of right," He cries i' the hearing of the paynim train. Serpentine comes, and, as the maid commands, A better warrior of that king demands. LXIX Grandonio de Volterna, fierce of mood, And in all Spain the proudest cavalier, The second for that fell encounter stood, Such favour had his suit obtained whilere. "To thee thy courtesy shall do no good," He threats, "for if unhorsed in the career A prisoner to my lord shalt thou be led: But, if I fight as wonted, thou art dead." LXX She cries, "I would not thy discourtesy Should make me so forget my courteous vein, But that aforehand I should caution thee Back to thy fortress to return again, Ere on hard earth thy bones shall battered be. Go tell thy king no champion of thy grain I seek, but hither come to crave the fight With warrior that is worthy of my might." LXXI Bradamant's sharp and stinging answer stirred The paynim's fury to a mighty flame; So that, without the power to speak a word, He wheeled his courser, filled with rage and shame; Wheeling as well, at that proud paynim spurred Her horse with levelled lance the warlike dame. As the charmed weapon smites Grandonio's shield, With heels in air, he tumbles on the field. LXXII To him the high-minded damsel gave his horse, And said, "Yet was this fate to thee foreshown, Instead of craving thus the knightly course, Better mine embassy wouldst thou have done. Some other knight, that equals me in force, I pray thee bid the Moorish king send down, Nor weary me, by forcing me to meet Champions like thee, untried in martial feat." LXXIII They on the walls, that know not who the peer That in the joust so well maintains his seat, Name many a warrior, famous in career, That often make them shake in fiercest heat. Brandimart many deem the cavalier; More guesses in renowned Rinaldo meet; Many would deem Orlando was the knight, But that they knew his pitiable plight. LXXIV The third encounter craved Lanfusa's son, And cried, "Not that I better hope to fare, But that to warriors who this course have run, My fall may furnish an excuse more fair." Next, with all arms that martial jousters don, Clothed him, and of a hundred steeds that were Ready for service, kept in lordly stall, For speed and action chose the best of all. LXXV He bowned him for the tournay, on his side But first saluted her and she the knight. "If 'tis allowed to ask," (the lady cried,) "Tell me in courtesy how ye are hight." In this Ferrau the damsel satisfied, Who rarely hid himself form living wight. "Ye will I not refuse," (subjoined the dame) "Albeit I to meet another came." LXXVI -- "And who?" the Spaniard said; -- the maid replied, "Rogero"; and pronounced the word with pain. And, in so saying, her fair face was dyed All over with the rose's crimson grain. She after added, "Hither have I hied, To prove how justly famed his might and main. No other care have I, no other call, But with that gentle youth to try a fall." LXXVII She spoke the word in all simplicity, Which some already may in malice wrest. Ferrau replied, "Assured I first must be Which of us two is schooled in warfare best, If what has chanced to many, falls on me, Hither, when I return, shall be addrest, To mend my fault, that gentle cavalier, With whom you so desire to break a spear." LXXVIII Discoursing all this while, the martial maid Spake with her beavor up, without disguise: Ferrau, as that fair visage he surveyed, Perceived he was half vanquished by its eyes. And to himself, in under tone, he said, "He seems an angel sent from Paradise; And, though he should not harm me with his lance, I am already quelled by that sweet glance." LXXIX They take their ground, and to the encounter ride, And, like those others, Ferrau goes to ground; His courser Bradamant retained, and cried, "Return, and keep thy word with me as bound." Shamed, he returned, and by his monarch's side, Among his peers, the young Rogero found; And let the stripling know the stranger knight, Without the walls, defied him to the fight. LXXX Rogero (for not yet that warrior knows What champion him in duel would assail) Nigh sure of victory, with transport glows, And bids his followers bring his plate and mail; Nor having seen beneath those heavy blows The rest dismounted, makes his spirit quail. But how he armed, how sallied, what befell That knight, in other canto will I tell. CANTO 36 ARGUMENT While with the fierce Marphisa at despite Duke Aymon's daughter wages fierce affray, One and the other host engage in fight. With Bradamant Rogero wends his way. With other war disturbs their great delight Marphisa bold; but when that martial may Has for her brother recognized the peer, They end their every strife with joyous cheer. I Where'er they be, all hearts of gentle strain Still cannot choose but courtesy pursue; For they from nature and from habit gain What they henceforth can never more undo. Alike the heart that is of churlish vein, Where'er it be, its evil kind will shew. Nature inclines to ill, through all her range, And use is second nature, hard to change. II Among the warriors of antiquity Much gentleness and courtesy appear, Virtues but seldom seen with us; while we Of evil ways, on all sides, see and hear. Hippolytus, when you, with ensignry Won from the foe, and with his captive gear Adorned our temples; and his galleys bore, Laden with prey, to your paternal shore; III All the inhuman deeds which wrought by hand Of Moor, or Turk, or Tartar ever were, (Yet not by the Venetians' ill command, That evermore the praise of justice bear,) Were practised by that foul and evil band Of soldiers, who their mercenaries are. Of those so many fires not now I tell Which on our farms and pleasant places fell. IV Though a foul vengeance in that blow was meant Mainly at you, who being at Caesar's side, When Padua by his leaguering host was pent, 'Twas known, that oft, through you, was turned aside More than one ravening flame, and oft was spent The fire, in fane and village blazing wide: What time the destined mischief ye withstood, As to your inborn courtesy seemed good. V This will I pass, nor their so many more Discourteous and despiteous doings tell, Save one alone, whereat from rock-stone hoar Whene'er the tale is told warm tears might well. That day you sent your family before, Thither, my lord, where, under omens fell, Your foes into a well protected seat, Abandoning their barks, had made retreat. VI As Hector and Aeneas, mid the flood, Fire to the banded fleet of Greece applied, I Hercules and Alexander viewed, Urged by too sovereign ardour, side by side, Spurring before all others in their mood, Even within the hostile ramparts ride; And prick so far, the second 'scaped with pain, And on the foremost closed the opposing train. VII Feruffine 'scaped, the good Cantelmo left, What counsel, Sora's duke, was thine, what heart, When thy bold son thou saw'st, of helm bereft, Amid a thousand swords, when -- dragged apart -- Thou saw'st his young head from his shoulders cleft, A shipboard, on a plank? I, on my part, Marvel, that seeing but the murder done, Slew thee not, as the faulchion slew thy son. VIII Cruel Sclavonian! say, whence hast thou brought Thy ways of warfare? By what Scythian rite To slay the helpless prisoner is it taught, Who yields his arms, nor fends himself in fight? Was it a crime he for his country fought? Ill upon thee the sun bestows his light. Remorseless aera, which hast filled the page With Atreus', Tantalus', Thyestes' rage! IX Barbarian! thou madest shorter by the head The boldest of his age, on whom did beam The sun 'twixt pole and pole, 'twixt Indus' bed And where he sinks in Ocean's western stream; Whose years and beauty might have pity bred In Anthropophagus, in Polypheme; Not thee; that art in wickedness outdone By any Cyclops, any Lestrigon. X I ween, mid warriors in the days of yore, No such example was; they all, in field, Were full of gentleness and courteous lore, Nor against conquered foe their bosom steeled. Not only gentle Bradamant forbore To harm the knights whom, smitten on the shield, Her lance unhorsed; but for the vanquished crew Detained their steeds, that they might mount anew. XI I of that lady fair, of mickle might, Told you above, how she had overthrown Serpentine of the Star in single fight, Grandonio and Ferrau, and then upon Their coursers had replaced each baffled knight. I told moreover how the third was gone Rogero to defy to the career, Upon her call, who seemed a cavalier. XII Rogero heard the call in joyous vein, And bade his arms be brought; now while in view Of Agramant he donned the plate and chain, Those lords the former question moved anew; Who was the knight, that on the martial plain The manage of the lance so quaintly knew? And of Ferrau, who spake with him whilere, Craved, if to him was known that cavalier. XIII "Be ye assured," to them Ferrau replied, "He is not one of those I hear you cite To me (for I his open face descried). Rinaldo's youthful brother seemed the knight. But since his doughty valour I have tried, And wot not such is Richardetto's might, I ween it is his sister, who, I hear, Resembles much in mien that martial peer. XIV "The damsel equals well, so Rumour tells, Rinaldo, and every paladin in fray. But brother she and cousin both excels, Measured by that which I have seen to-day." Hearing him, while upon her praise he dwells, As the sky reddens with the morning ray, Rogero's face is flushed with crimson hue, And his heart throbs, nor knows he what to do. XV Stung, at these tidings, by the amorous dart -- Within, new fire inflames the cavalier; And strait, together with the burning smart, Shoots through his bones a chill, produced by fear; Fear, that new wrath had stifled in her heart That mighty love, wherewith she burned whilere. Confused he stands, irresolute and slow, And undecided if to stay or go. XVI Now fierce Marphisa, who was there, and prest By huge desire to meet the stranger wight, And armed withal (for, save in iron vest, Her seldom would you find by day or night). Hearing Rogero is in armour drest, Fearing to lose the honour of the fight, If first that champion with the stranger vies; Thinks to prevent the youth and win the prize. XVII She leapt upon her horse, and thither hied Where Aymon's daughter on the listed plain, With palpitating heart, upon her side, Waited Rogero; whom the damsel fain Would make her prisoner, and but schemed to guide Her lance in mode the stripling least to pain. Marphisa from the city portal fares, And on her gallant helm a phoenix wears. XVIII Whether the maid would publish, in her pride, That she was single in the world, for might; Or whether by that symbol signified, That she would live, exempt from bridal rite. Her closely Aymon's martial daughter eyed; When seeing not those features, her delight, She craves the damsel's name before they move, And hears that it is she who joys her love: XIX Or rather she, that gentle lady thought, Had joyed her love; and whom she hated so, Her to Death's door her anger would have brought, Unless she venged her sorrow on the foe. She wheeled her courser round, with fury fraught, Less with desire to lay her rival low, Than with the lance to pierce her in mid breast, And put her every jealousy at rest. XX Parforce to ground must go the royal maid, To prove it hard or soft the listed plain, And be with such unwonted scorn appaid, That she is nearly maddened by disdain. Scarce was she thrown, before her trenchant blade She bared, and hurried to avenge the stain. Cried Aymon's daughter, no less proud of heart, "What art thou doing? Thou my prisoner art." XXI "Though I have courtesy for others, none" (She said) "from me, Marphisa, shalt thou find. Since evermore I hear of thee, as one To pride and every churlishness inclined." Marphisa, at these words, was heard to groan, As roars in some sea-rock the prisoned wind. She screamed an answer; but its sense was drowned (Such rage confused that damsel) in the sound. XXII She whirls this while her faulchion, and would fain Wound horse or rider in the paunch or breast; But Aymon's watchful daughter turns the rein; And on one side her courser leaps; possest With furious anger and with fierce disdain, She at her opposite her lance addrest; And hardly touched the damsel, ere, astound, Marphisa fell, reversed upon the ground. XXIII Scarce down, Marphisa started from the plain, Intent fell mischief with her sword to do, Bradamant couched her golden spear again, And yet again the damsel overthrew. Yet Bradamant, though blest with might and main, Was not so much the stronger of the two As to have flung the maid in every just, But that such power was in the lance's thrust. XXIV This while some knights (some knights upon our side, I say) forth issuing from the city, go Towards the field of strife, which did divide The squadrons, here and there, of either foe -- Not half a league of one another wide -- Seeing their knight such mighty prowess show; Their knight, but whom no otherwise they knew Than as a warrior of the Christian crew. XXV Troyano's generous son, who had espied This band approaching to the city-wall, For due defence would every means provide, And every peril, every case forestall: And orders many to take arms, who ride Forth from the ramparts, at the monarch's call. With them Rogero goes, in armour cased, Balked of the battle by Marphisa's haste. XXVI The enamoured youth, with beating heart, intent, Stood by, the issue of the just to view. For his dear cousin fearing the event, In that he well Marphisa's valour knew; -- At the beginning I would say -- when, bent On mischief, fiercely closed the furious two: But when that duel's turn the stripling eyes, He stands amazed and stupid with surprize; XXVII And when he saw unfinished was the fight, At the first onset, like the justs whilere, Misdoubting some strange accident, in sprite, Sore vexed, this while remained the cavalier. To either maid wished well that youthful knight; For both were loved, but not alike were dear. For this the stripling's love was fury, fire; For that 'twas rather fondness than desire. XXVIII If so Rogero could with honour do, He willingly the warriors would divide; But his companions, in the fear to view Victory with King Charles's knight abide, Esteeming him the better of the two, Break in between and turn their arms aside; Upon the other part, the Christian foes Advance, and both divisions come to blows. XXIX On this side and that other, rings the alarm, Which in those camps is sounded every day, Bidding the unmounted mount, the unarmed arm, And all their standards seek, without delay, Where, under separate flags, the squadrons swarm, More than one shrilling trump is heard to bray; And as their rattling notes the riders call, Rousing the foot, beat drum and ataball. XXX As fierce as thought could think, 'twixt either host Kindled the fell and sanguinary fray. The daring damsel, fair Dordona's boast, Sore vexed and troubled, that in the affray She cannot compass what she covets most, -- Marphisa with avenging steel to slay, -- Now here, not there, amid the medley flies, Hoping to see the youth for whom she sighs. XXXI By the eagle argent on the shield of blue She recognized Rogero, mid the rest. With eyes and thought intent, she stops to view The warrior's manly shoulders and his breast, Fair face and movements full of graceful shew; And then the maid, with mickle spite possest, Thinking another joys the stripling's love, Thus speaks, as sovereign rage and fury move. XXXII "Shall then another kiss those lips so bright And sweet, if those fair lips are lost to me? Ah! never other shall in thee delight; For it not mine, no other's shalt thou be. Rather than die alone and of despite, I with this hand will slay myself and thee, That if I lose thee here, at least in hell With thee I to eternity may dwell. XXXIII "If thou slay'st me, there is good reason, I The comfort too of vengeance should obtain; In that all edicts and all equity The death of him that causes death ordain; Nor, since you justly, I unjustly, die, Deem I that thine is equal to my pain. I him who seeks my life, alas! shall spill, Thou her that loves and worships thee wouldst kill. XXXIV "My hand, why hast thou not the hardiment To rive with steel the bosom of my foe, That me so many times to death has shent, Under the faith of love, in peaceful show; Him, who to take my life can now consent, Nor even have pity of my cruel woe? Dare, valiant heart, this impious man to slay, And let his death my thousand deaths appay!" XXXV So said, she spurred at him amid the throng; But, first -- "Defend thee, false Rogero!" -- cried. "No more, if I have power, in spoil and wrong, Done to a virgin heart, shalt thou take pride." Hearing that voice the hostile ranks among, He deems -- and truly deems -- he hears his bride; Whose voice the youth remembers in such wise, That mid a thousand would he recognize. XXXVI Her further meaning well did he divine, Weening that him she in that speech would blame, For having broke their pact; and -- with design, The occasion of his failure to proclaim, -- Of his desire for parley made a sign: But she, with vizor closed, already came, Raging and grieved, intent, with vengeful hand, To fling the youth; nor haply upon sand. XXXVII Rogero, when he saw her so offended, Fixed himself firmly in his arms and seat, He rests his lance, but holds the stave suspended, So that it shall not harm her when they meet, She that to smite and pierce the Child intended, Pitiless, and inflamed with furious heat, Has not the courage, when she sees him near, To fling, or do him outrage with the spear. XXXVIII Void of effect, 'tis thus their lances go; And it is well; since Love with burning dart, Tilting this while at one and the other foe, Has lanced the enamoured warriors in mid-heart. Unable at the Child to aim her blow, The lady spent her rage in other part, And mighty deeds achieved, which fame will earn, While overhead the circling heavens shall turn. XXXIX Above three hundred men in that affray In little space by her dismounted lie, Alone that warlike damsel wins the day; From her alone the Moorish people fly. To her Rogero, circling, threads his way, And says: "Unless I speak with you I die. Hear me, for love of heaven! -- what done I done, Alas! that ever mine approach ye shun?" XL As when soft southern breezes are unpent, Which with a tepid breath from seaward blow, The snows dissolve, and torrents find a vent, And ice, so hard erewhile, is seen to flow; At those entreaties, at that brief lament, Rinaldo's sister's heart is softened so; Forthwith compassionate and pious grown; Which anger fain had made more hard than stone. XLI Would she not, could she not, she nought replied, But spurred aslant the ready Rabicane, And, signing to Rogero, rode as wide As she could wend from that embattled train; Then to a sheltered valley turned aside, Wherein embosomed was a little plain. In the mid lawn a wood of cypress grew, Whose saplings of one stamp appeared to view. XLII Within that thicket, of white marble wrought, Is a proud monument, and newly made; And he that makes enquiry, here is taught In few brief verses who therein is laid. But of those lines, methinks, took little thought, Fair Bradamant, arriving in that glade. Rogero spurred his courser, and pursued And overtook that damsel in the wood. XLIII But turn we to Marphisa, that anew During this space was seated on her steed, And sought again the valiant champion, who At the first onset cast her on the mead; And saw, how from the mingling host withdrew Rogero, after that strange knight to speed; Nor deemed the youth pursued in love; she thought He but to end their strife and quarrel sought. XLIV She pricks her horse behind the two, and gains, Well nigh as soon as they, that valley; how Her coming thither either lover pains, Who lives and loves, untaught by me, may know: But sorest vext sad Bradamant remains; Beholding her whence all her sorrows flow. Who shall persuade the damsel but that love For young Rogero brings her to that grove? XLV And him perfidious she anew did name. -- "Perfidious, was it not enough (she said) That I should know thy perfidy from fame, But must the witness of thy guilt be made? I wot, to drive me from thee is thine aim; And I, that thy desires may be appaid, Will die; but strive, in yielding up my breath, She too shall die, the occasion of my death." XLVI Angrier than venomed viper, with a bound, So saying, she upon Marphisa flies; And plants so well the spear, that she, astound, Fell backward on the champaigne in such guise, Nigh half her helm was buried in the ground: Nor was the damsel taken by surprise: Nay, did her best the encounter to withstand; Yet with her helmed head she smote the sand. XLVII Bradamant who will die, or in that just Will put to death Marphisa, rages so, She has no mind again with lance to thrust, Again that martial maid to overthrow: But thinks her head to sever from the bust, Where it half buried lies, with murderous blow: Away the enchanted lance that damsel flings, Unsheathes the sword, and from her courser springs. XLVIII But is too slow withal; for on her feet She finds Marphisa, with such fierce disdain Inflamed, at being in that second heat So easily reversed upon the plain, She hears in vain exclaim, in vain entreat, Rogero, who beholds their strife with pain. So blinded are the pair with spite and rage, That they with desperate fury battle wage. XLIX At half-sword's engage the struggling foes; And -- such their stubborn mood -- with shortened brand They still approach, and now so fiercely close, They cannot choose but grapple, hand to hand. Her sword, no longer needful, each foregoes; And either now new means of mischief planned. Rogero both implores with earnest suit: But supplicates the twain with little fruit. L When he entreaties unavailing found, The youth prepared by force to part the two; Their poniards snatched away, and on the ground, Beneath a cypress-tree, the daggers threw. When they no weapons have wherewith to wound, With prayer and threat, he interferes anew: But vainly; for, since better weapons lack, Each other they with fists and feet attack. LI Rogero ceased not from his task; he caught, By hand or arm, the fiercely struggling pair, Till to the utmost pitch of fury wrought The fell Marphisa's angry passions were. She, that this ample world esteemed at nought, Of the Child's friendship had no further care. Plucked from the foe, she ran to seize her sword, And fastened next upon that youthful lord. LII "Like a discourteous man and churl ye do, Rogero, to disturb another's fight; A deed (she cried) this hand shall make ye rue, Which I intend, shall vanquished both." The knight Sought fierce Marphisa's fury to subdue With gentle speech; but full of such despite He found her, and inflamed with such disdain, All parley was a waste of time and pain. LIII At last his faulchion young Rogero drew; For ire as well had flushed that cavalier: Nor is it my belief, that ever shew Athens or Rome, or city whatsoe'er Witnessed, which ever so rejoiced the view, As this rejoices, as this sight is dear To Bradamant, when, through their strife displaced, Every suspicion from her breast is chased. LIV Bradamant took her sword, and to descry The duel of those champions stood apart. The god of war, descended from the sky, She deemed Rogero, for his strength and art: If he seemed Mars, Marphisa to the eye Seemed an infernal Fury, on her part. 'Tis true, that for a while the youthful knight Against that damsel put not forth his might. LV He knew the virtues of that weapon well, Such proof thereof the knight erewhile had made. Where'er it falls parforce is every spell Annulled, or by its stronger virtue stayed. Hence so Rogero smote, it never fell Upon its edge or point, but still the blade Descended flat: he long this rule observes; Yet once he from his patient purpose swerves. LVI In that, a mighty stroke Marphisa sped, Meaning to cleave the brainpan of her foe: He raised the buckler to defend his head, And the sword smote upon its bird of snow, Nor broke nor bruised the shield, by spell bested; But his arm rang astounded by the blow; Nor aught but Hector's mail the sword had stopt, Whose furious blow would his left arm have lopt; LVII And had upon his head descended shear, Whereat designed to strike the savage fair. Scarce his left arm can good Rogero rear; Can scarce the shield and blazoned bird upbear. All pity he casts off, and 'twould appear As in his eyes a lighted torch did glare. As hard as he can smite, he smites; and woe To thee, Marphisa, if he plants the blow! LVIII I cannot tell you truly in what wise, That faulchion swerves against a cypress-stock, In such close-serried ranks the saplings rise, Buried above a palm within the block. As this the mountain and the plain that lies Beneath it, with a furious earthquake rock; And from that marble monument proceeds A voice, that every mortal voice exceeds. LIX The horrid voice exclaims, "Your quarrel leave; For 'twere a deed unjust and inhumane, That brother should of life his sister reave, Or sister by her brother's hand be slain. Rogero and Marphisa mine, believe! The tale which I deliver is not vain. Seed of one father, on one womb ye lay; And first together saw the light of day. LX "Galaciella's children are ye, whom She to Rogero, hight the second, bare. Whose brothers, having, by unrighteous doom, Of your unhappy sire deprived that fair, Not heeding that she carried in her womb Ye, who yet suckers of their lineage are, Her in a rotten carcase of a boat, To founder in mid ocean, set afloat. LXI "But Fortune, that had destined you whilere, And yet unborn, to many a fair emprize, Your mother to that lonely shore did steer, Which overright the sandy Syrtes lies. Where, having given you birth, that spirit dear Forthwith ascended into Paradise. A witness of the piteous case was I, So Heaven had willed, and such your destiny! LXII "I to the dame as descent burial gave As could be given upon that desert sand. Ye, well enveloped in my vest, I save, And bear to Mount Carena from the strand; And make a lioness leave whelps and cave, And issue from the wood, with semblance bland. Ye, twice ten months, with mickle fondness bred, And from her paps the milky mother fed. LXIII "Needing to quit my home upon a day, And journey through the country, (as you can Haply remember ye) we are on our way, Were overtaken by an Arab clan. Those robbers thee, Marphisa, bore away: While young Rogero 'scaped, who better ran. Bereaved of thee, they woful loss I wept, And with more watchful care thy brother kept. LXIV "Rogero, if Atlantes watched thee well, While yet he was alive, thou best dost know. I the fixed stars had heard of thee foretell, That thou shouldst perish by a treacherous foe In Christian land; and still their influence fell Was ended, laboured to avert the blow; Nor having power in fine thy will to guide, I sickened sore, and of my sorrow died. LXV "But here, before my death, for in this glade I knew thou should'st with bold Marphisa fight, I with huge stones, amassed by hellish aid, Had this fair monument of marble dight; And I to Charon with loud outcries said; I would not he should hence convey my sprite, Till here, prepared in deadly fray to strive, Rogero and his sister should arrive. LXVI "Thus has my spirit for this many a day Waited thy coming in these beauteous groves; So be no more to jealous fears a prey, O Bradamant, because Rogero loves. But me to quit the cheerful realms of day, And seek the darksome cloisters it behoves." Here ceased the voice; which in the Child amazed And those two damsels mighty marvel raised. LXVII Gladly a sister in the martial queen Rogero, she in him a brother knows; Who now embrace, nor move her jealous spleen, That with the love of young Rogero glows; And citing what, and when, and where had been Their childish deeds, as they to memory rose, In summing up past times, more sure they hold The things whereof the wizard's spirit told. LXVIII Rogero from Marphisa does not hide, How Bradamant to him at heart is dear; And by what obligations he is tied In moving words relates the cavalier; Nor ceases till he has, on either side, Turned to firm love the hate they bore whilere. When, as a sign of peace, and discord chased, They, at his bidding, tenderly embraced. LXIX Marphisa to Rogero makes request To say what sire was theirs, and what their strain; And how he died; by banded foes opprest, Or at close barriers, was the warrior slain? And who it was had issued the behest To drown their mother in the stormy main? For of the tale, if ever heard before, Little or nothing she in memory bore. LXX "Of Trojan ancestors are we the seed, Through famous Hector's line," (Rogero said,) "For after young Astyanax was freed, From fierce Ulysses and the toils he spread, Leaving another stripling in his stead, Of his own age, he out of Phrygia fled. Who, after long and wide sea-wandering, gained Sicily's shore, and in Messina reigned. LXXI "Part of Calabria within Faro held The warrior's heirs, who after a long run Of successors, departed thence and dwelled In Mars' imperial city: more than one Famed king and emperor, who that list have swelled, In Rome and other part has filled the throne; And from Constantius and good Constantine, Stretched to the son of Pepin, is their line. LXXII "Rogero, Gambaron, Buovo hence succeed; And that Rogero, second of the name, Who filled our fruitful mother with his seed; As thou Atlantes may'st have heard proclaim. Of our fair lineage many a noble deed Shalt thou hear blazed abroad by sounding Fame." Of Agolant's inroad next the stripling told, With Agramant and with Almontes bold; LXXIII And how a lovely daughter, who excelled In feats of arms, that king accompanied; So stout she many paladins had quelled; And how, in fine, she for Rogero sighed; And for his love against her sire rebelled; And was baptized, and was Rogero's bride; And how a traitor loved (him Bertram name) His brother's wife with an incestuous flame; LXXIV And country, sire, and brethren two betrayed, Hoping he so the lady should have won; How Risa open to the foe he laid, By whom all scathe was on those kinsmen done; How Agolant's two furious sons conveyed Their mother, great with child, and six months gone, Aboard a helmless boat, and with its charge, In wildest winter, turned adrift the barge. LXXV Valiant Marphisa, with a tranquil face, Heard young Rogero thus his tale pursue, And joyed to be descended of a race Which from so fair a font its waters drew: Whence Clermont, whence renowned Mongrana trace Their noble line, the martial damsel knew; Blazoned through years and centuries by Fame, Unrivalled, both, in arms of mighty name. LXXVI When afterwards she from her brother knew Agramant's uncle, sire, and grandsire fell, In treacherous wise, the first Rogero slew And brought to cruel pass Galacielle, Marphisa could not hear the story through: To him she cries, "With pardon, what you tell, Brother, convicts you of too foul a wrong, In leaving thus our sire unvenged so long. LXXVII "Could'st thou not in Almontes and Troyane, As dead whilere, your thirsty faulchion plant, By you those monarch's children might be slain. Are you alive, and lives King Agramant? Never will you efface the shameful stain, That ye, so often wronged, not only grant Life to that king, but as your lord obey; Lodge in his court, and serve him for his pay? LXXVIII "Here heartily in face of Heaven I vow, That Christ my father worshipped, to adore; And till I venge my parents on the foe To wear this armour, and I will deplore Your deed, Rogero, and deplore even now, That you should swell the squadrons of the Moor, Or other follower of the Moslem faith, Save sword in hand, and to the paynim's scathe." LXXIX Ah! how fair Bradamant uplifts again Her visage at that speech, rejoiced in sprite! Rogero she exhorts in earnest vein To do as his Marphisa counsels right; And bids him seek the camp of Charlemagne, And have himself acknowledged in his sight, Who so reveres and lauds his father's worth, He even deems him one unmatched on earth. LXXX In the beginning so he should have done, (Warily young Rogero answer made,) But, for the tale was not so fully known, As since, the deed had been too long delaid. Now, seeing it was fierce Troyano's son That had begirt him with the knightly blade, He, as a traitor, well might be abhorred, If he slew one, accepted as his lord. LXXXI But, as to Bradamant whilere, he cries, He will all measures and all means assay, Whereby some fair occasion may arise To leave the king; and had there been delay, And he whilere had done in otherwise, She on the Tartar king the fault must lay: How sorely handled that redoubted foe Had left him in their battle, she must know; LXXXII And she, that every day had sought his bed, Must of this truth the fittest witness be. Much upon this was answered, much was said, Between those damsels, who at last agree; And as their last resolve, last counsel read, He should rejoin the paynim's ensignry, Till he found fair occasion to resort From Agramant's to Charles's royal court. LXXXIII To Bradamant the bold Marphisa cries: "Let him begone, nor doubt am I, before Many days pass, will manage in such wise, That Agramant shall be his lord no more." So says the martial damsel, nor implies The secret purpose which she has in store. Making his congees to the friendly twain, To join his king Rogero turns the rein. LXXXIV When a complaint is heard from valley near: All now stand listening, to the noise attent; And to that plaintive voice incline their ear, A woman's (as 'twould seem) that makes lament. But I this strain would gladly finish here, And, that I finish it, be ye content: For better things I promise to report, If ye to hear another strain resort. CANTO 37 ARGUMENT Lament and outcry loud of some that mourn, Attract Rogero and the damsels two. They find Ulania, with her mantle shorn By Marganor, amid her moaning crew. Upon that felon knight, for his foul scorn, A fierce revenge Marphisa takes: a new Statute that maid does in the town obtain, And Marganor is by Ulania slain. I If, as in seeking other gift to gain, (For Nature, without study, yieldeth nought) With mighty diligence, and mickle pain, Illustrious women day and night have wrought; And if with good success the female train To a fair end no homely task have brought, So -- did they for such other studies wake -- As mortal attributes immortal make; II And, if they of themselves sufficient were Their praises to posterity to show, Nor borrowed authors' aid, whose bosoms are With envy and with hate corroded so, That oft they hide the good they might declare, And tell in every place what ill they know, To such a pitch would mount the female name, As haply ne'er was reached by manly fame. III To furnish mutual aid is not enow, For many who would lend each other light. Men do their best, that womankind should show Whatever faults they have in open sight; Would hinder them of rising from below, And sink them to the bottom, if they might; I say the ancients; as if glory, won By woman, dimmed their own, as mist the sun. IV But hands or tongue ne'er had, nor has, the skill, Does voice or lettered page the thought impart, Though each, with all its power, increase the ill, Diminishing the good with all its art, So female fame to stifle, but that still The honour of the sex survives in part: Yet reacheth not its pitch, nor such its flight, But that 'tis far below its natural height. V Not only Thomyris and Harpalice, And who brought Hector, who brought Turnus aid, And who, to build in Lybia crost the sea, By Tyrian and Sidonian band obeyed; Not only famed Zenobia, only she Who Persian, Indian, and Assyrian frayed; Not only these and some few others merit Their glory, that eternal fame inherit: VI Faithful, chaste, and bold, the world hath seen In Greece and Rome not only, but where'er The Sun unfolds his flowing locks, between The Hesperides and Indian hemisphere; Whose gifts and praise have so extinguished been, We scarce of one amid a thousand hear; And this because they in their days have had For chroniclers, men envious, false, and bad. VII But ye that prosper in the exercise Of goodly labours, aye your way pursue; Nor halt, O women, in your high emprise, For fear of not receiving honour due: For, as nought good endures beneath the skies, So ill endures no more; if hitherto Unfriendly by the poet's pen and page, They now befriend you in our better age. VIII Erewhile Marullo and Pontante for you Declared, and -- sire and son -- the Strozzi twain; Capello, Bembo, and that writer, who Has fashioned like himself the courtier train; With Lewis Alamanni, and those two, Beloved of Mars and Muses, of their strain Descended, who the mighty city rule, Which Mincius parts, and moats with marshy pool. IX One of this pair (besides that, of his will, He honours you, and does you courtesies; And makes Parnassus and high Cynthus' hill Resound your praise, and lift it to the skies) The love, the faith, and mind, unconquered still, Mid threats of ruin, which in stedfast wise To him his constant Isabel hath shown, Render yet more your champion than his own. X So that he never more will wearied be With quickening in his verse your high renown; And, if another censures you, than he Prompter to arm in your defence is none; Nor knight, in this wide world, more willingly Life in the cause of virtue would lay down: Matter as well for other's pen he gives, As in his own another's glory lives; XI And well he merits, that a dame so blest, (Blest with all worth, which in this earthly round Is seen in them who don the female vest,) To him hath evermore been faithful found; Of a sure pillar of pure truth possest In her, despising Fortune's every wound. Worthy of one another are the twain; Nor better ere were paired in wedlock's chain. XII New trophies he on Oglio's bank has shown; For he, mid bark and car, amid the gleam Of fire and sword, such goodly rhymes hath strown, As may with envy swell the neighbouring stream. By Hercules Bentivoglio next is blown The noble strain, your honour's noble theme; Reynet Trivulzio and Guidetti mine, And Molza, called of Phoebus and the Nine. XIII There's Hercules of the Carnuti, son Of my own duke, who spreads his every plume Soaring and singing, like harmonious swan, And even to heaven uplifts your name; with whom There is my lord of Guasto, not alone A theme for many an Athens, many a Rome; In his high strain he promises as well, Your praise to all posterity to tell. XIV And beside these and others of our day, Who gave you once, or give you now renown, This for yourselves ye may yourselves purvey: For many, laying silk and sampler down, With the melodious Muses, to allay Their thirst at Aganippe's well, have gone, And still are going; who so fairly speed, That we more theirs than they our labour need. XV If I of these would separately tell, And render good account and honour due, More than one page I with their praise should swell, Nor ought beside would this day's canto shew; And if on five or six alone I dwell, I may offend and anger all the crew. What then shall I resolve? to pass all by? Or choose but one from such a company? XVI One will I choose, and such will choose, that she All envy shall so well have overthrown, No other woman can offend be, If, passing others, her I praise alone: Nor joys this one but immortality, Through her sweet style (and better know I none): But who is honoured in her speech and page, Shall burst the tomb, and live through every age. XVII As Phoebus to his silvery sister shows His visage more, and lends her brighter fires, Than Venus, Maja, or to star that glows Alone, or circles with the heavenly quires; So he with sweeter eloquence than flows From other lips, that gentle dame inspires; And gives her word such force, a second sun Seems in our days its glorious course to run. XVIII Mid victories born, Victoria is her name, Well named; and whom (does she advance or stay) Triumphs and trophies evermore proclaim, While Victory heads or follows her array. Another Artemisia is the dame, Renowned for love of her Mausolus, yea By so much greater, as it is more brave To raise the dead, than lay them in the grave. XIX If chaste Laodamia, Portia true, Evadne, Argia, Arria, and many more Merited praise, because that glorious crew Coveted burial with their lords of yore, How much more fame is to Victoria due? That from dull Lethe, and the river's shore, Which nine times hems the ghosts, to upper light Has dragged her lord, in death and fate's despite. XX If that loud-voiced Maeonian trump whilere The Macedonian grudged Achilles, how, Francis Pescara, O unconquered peer, Would he begrudge thee, were he living now, That wife, so virtuous and to thee so dear, Thy well-earned glory through the world should blow; And that thy name through her should so rebound, Thou needst not crave a clearer trumpet's sound! XXI If all that is to tell, and all I fain Would of that lady tell, I wished to unfold, Though long, yet not so long, would be the stain, But that large portion would be left untold, While at a stand the story would remain Of fierce Marphisa and her comrades bold; To follow whom I promised erst, if you Would but return to hear my song anew. XXII Now, being here to listen to my say, Because I would not break my promise, I Until my better leisure, will delay Her every praise at length to certify. Not that I think she needs my humble lay, Who with such treasure can herself supply: But simply to appay my single end, That gentle dame to honour and commend. XXIII Ladies, in fine I say, that every age Worthy of story, many a dame supplies; But that, through jealous authors' envious rage, Unchronicled by fame, each matron dies; But will no more; since in the historic page Your virtues ye, yourselves, immortalize. Had those two damsels in this art been read, Their every warlike deed had wider spread. XXIV Bradamant and Marphisa would I say, Whose bold, victorious deeds, in battle done, I strive to bring into the light of day; But nine in ten remain to me unknown. I what I know right willingly display; As well, that all fair actions should be shown, As well that, gentle ladies, I am bent Ye whom I love and honour, to content. XXV As said, in act to go Rogero stood; And, having taken leave, the cavalier Withdraws his trenchant faulchion from the wood, Which holds no more the weapon, as whilere. When, sounding loud amid that solitude, A cry, not distant far, arrests the peer. Then thitherward he with those damsels made, Prompt, if 'twere needed, to bestow his aid. XXVI They rode an-end; and louder waxed the sound, And plainer were the plaintive words they heard: When in a valley they three women found Making that plaint, who in strange garb appeared: For to the navel were those three ungowned, -- Their coats by some uncourteous varlet sheared -- And knowing not how better to disguise Their shame, they sate on earth, and dared not rise. XXVII As Vulcan's son, that sprang (as it is versed) Out of the dust, without a mother made, Whom -- so Minerva bade -- Aglauros nursed With sovereign care, too bold and curious maid, Seated in car, by him constructed first To hide his hideous feet, was erst conveyed; So that which never is to sight revealed, Sitting, those mournful damsels kept concealed. XXVIII At that dishonest sight and shameful, glows Each martial damsel's visage, overspread With the rich dyes of Paestum's crimson rose, When vernal airs their gentle influence shed. Bradamant marked them; and that one of those Was Ulany, the damsel quickly read; Ulany, that was sent with solemn train From the LOST ISLE to royal Charlemagne; XXIX And recognised the other two no less; From them she saw, when she saw Ulany; But now to her directed her address. As the most honoured of those ladies three, Demanding, who so full of wickedness, So lawless was and so unmannerly, That he those secrets to the sight revealed, Which Nature, as she could, 'twould seem, concealed. XXX Ulany, that in Bradamant descried, -- Known both by voice and ensignry -- the maid, Who some few days before those knights of pride With her victorious lance on earth had laid, How, in a town not far remote -- replied -- An evil race, by pity never swayed, Besides that they their raiment thus had shorn, Had beat them, and had done them other scorn. XXXI What of the shield became, she cannot say, Nor knows she those three monarchs' destiny, Who guided her so long upon her way; If killed, or led into captivity; And says that she herself has ta'en her way, Albeit to fare a-foot sore irksome be, To appeal to royal Charlemagne, assured By him such outrage will not be endured. XXXII To hear, yet more to see, so foul a wrong, Disturbed the Child and damsels' placid air And beauteous visage, whose bold hearts and strong No less compassionate than valiant were. They now, all else forgetting, ere the tongue Of Ulany prefers demand, or prayer, That they would venge them on their cruel foe, In haste towards the felon's castle go. XXXIII With one constant, the maids and cavalier, By their great goodness moved, from plate and mail Had stript their upper vests, well fitting gear Those miserable ladies' shame to veil. Bradamant suffers not, that, as whilere, Sad Ulany shall tramp by hill and dale; But seats her on her horse's croup; so do Her comrades by those other damsels two. XXXIV To gentle Bradamant Ulania showed The nearest way to reach the castle height; While comfort Bradamant on her bestowed, Promising vengeance for that foul despite. They leave the vale, and by a crooked road And long ascend, now wheeling left, now right: Nor till the sun is hidden in the sea, Upon their weary way repose the three. XXXV They to a hamlet on the summit wound, Scaling the mountain's steep and rugged side; And such good shelter and good supper found, As could by such rude quarters be supplied. Arriving there, they turned their eyes around, And full of women every place espied, Some old, some young; nor, mid so large a clan, Appeared the visage of a single man. XXXVI Not more bold Jason wondered, and the train Which sailed with him, that Argonautic crew, Seeing those dames that had their husbands slain, Fathers and sons and brethren, -- so that through All Lemnos' pleasant isle, by hill or plain, Of manly visage they beheld not two -- Than here Rogero, and the rest who go With good Rogero, wonder at this show. XXXVII The martial damsels bid for Ulany, And those who came with her, provide attire; And gowns that eve are furnished for the three, If meaner than their own, at least entire. To him a woman of that villagery Valiant Rogero summons, to inquire Where are the men; in that he none descries; And thus to him that village wife replies: XXXVIII "What haply is to you a wonderment, This crowd of womankind, where man is none, To us is grave and grievous punishment, Who, banished here, live wofully alone; And, that such exile us may more torment, From those so loved, as brother, father, son, A long divorce and cruel we sustain, As our fell tyrant pleases to ordain. XXXIX "Sent to these confines from his land, which lies But two leagues distant thence, where we were born, Us in this place the fell barbarian sties, Having first done us many a brutal scorn; And has with death and all extremities Threatened our kinsmen and ourselves forlorn, If they come hither, or he hears report We harbour them, when hither they resort. XL "He to our name is such a deadly foe, He will not have us nearer than I shewed, Now have us of our kin approached, as though Infection from the female sex ensued. Already have the greenwood trees laid low Their leafy honours twice, and twice renewed, Since our lord's fury to such pitch arose, Now is there one his phrensy to oppose. XLI "For he has spread such passing fear among The people, death can cause no worse affright; In that, beside his natural love of wrong, He is endowed with more than human might. He than a hundred other men more strong, In body is of a gigantic height: Nor us his vassals he molests alone; But worse by him to stranger dame is done. XLII "If your own honour, sir, and of those three, Beneath your charge, to you in aught is dear, 'Twill safer, usefuller, and better be To leave this road, and by another steer. This leads you to his tower, described by me, To prove the savage use that cruel peer Has there established, to the shame and woe Of dame or cavalier, who thither go. XLIII "This castellain or tyrant, Marganor (So name the felon knight) than whom more fell Nero was not, nor other heretofore, If other be, whose actions Fame doth swell, Thirsts for man's blood, but thirsts for woman's more Than wolf for blood of lambs; and bids expel With shame all females, that, in evil hour, Their fortune has conducted to his tower." XLIV How in that impious man such fury grew, Asked young Rogero and those damsels twain, And prayed she would in courtesy pursue, Yea, rather from the first her tale explain. "That castle's lord, fierce, and inhumane, Yet for a while his wicked heart concealed, Nor what he was so suddenly revealed. XLV "For in the lifetime of his sons, a pair That differed much from the paternal style, (Since they the stranger loved; and loathers were Of cruelty and other actions vile) Flourished the courtesies and good customs there, And there were gentle deeds performed this while: For. albeit avaricious was the sire, He never crossed the youths in their desire. XLVI "The cavaliers and dames who journeyed by That castle, there so well were entertained, That they departed, by the courtesy Of those two kindly brothers wholly gained. In the holy orders of fair chivalry Alike the youthful pair had been ordained. Cylander one, Tanacro hight the other; Bold, and of royal mien each martial brother; XLVII "And truly were, and would have been alway Worthy of every praise and fame, withal Had they not yielded up themselves a prey To that uncurbed desire, which Love we call; By which they were seduced from the right way Into foul Error's crooked maze; and all The good that by those brethren had been wrought, Waxed, in a moment, rank, corrupt and naught. XLVIII "It chanced, that in their father's fortilage, A knight of the Greek emperor's court did lie; With him his lady was; of manners sage; Nor fairer could be craved by wishful eye: For her Cylander felt such amorous rage, He deemed, save he enjoyed her, he should die; He deemed that, when the lady should depart, His soul as well would from his body part: XLIX "And, for he knew 'twas useless to entreat, Devised to make her his by force of hand; Armed, and in silence, near his father's seat, Where must pass knight and lady, took his stand. Through natural daring and through amorous heat, He with too little thought the matter planned; So that, when he beheld the knight advance, He issued, to assail him, lance to lance. L "To overthrow him, at first shock he thought, And to win dame and palm in the career; But that Greek knight, in warlike strife well-taught, Shivered, like glass, his breastplate with the spear. The bitter tidings to the sire were brought, Who bade bear home the stripling on a bier: He, finding he was dead, loud mourning made, And him in earth, beside his fathers, layed. LI "Yet harbourage and welcome as before Had he who sought it; neither more nor less: Because Tanacro in his courteous lore Equalled his brother as in gentleness. Thither that very year, from foreign shore, A baron and his wife their steps address: A marvel he of valour, and as fair As could be said, is she, and debonnair. LII "No fairer was the dame than chaste and right, And well deserving every praise; the peer Derived of generous stock, and bold in fight, As ever champion, of whose fame we hear; And 'tis well fitting, that such valiant wight Should joy a thing so excellent and dear, Olindro he, the lord of Lungavilla, And she, his lady wife, yclept Drusilla. LIII "No less for her the young Tanacro glows, Than for that other burned Cylander sore; Who brought erewhile to sad and bitter close The wicked love he to that lady bore. The holy, hospitable laws he chose To violate no less than he, before He would endure, that him, with venomed sting, His new desire to cruel death should bring. LIV "But he, because he has before his eyes The example of his elder brother slain, Thinks to bear off the lady in such wise, That bold Olindro cannot venge the stain. Straight spent in him, not simply weakened, lies The virtue, wont Tancaro to sustain Above that flood of vice, in whose profound And miry waters Marganor lay drowned. LV "That night, he in deep silence bade array A score of armed men; and next conveyed Into some caverns, bordering on the way, And distant from the tower, his ambuscade. The roads were broken, and the following day Olindro from all sides was overlaid; And, though he made a brave defence and long, Of wife and life was plundered by that throng. LVI "Olindro slain, they led his lady fair A captive thence, o'erwhelmed with sorrow so, That she refused to live, and made her prayer, Tanacro, as a grace, would death bestow: Resolved to die, she leapt, in her despair, From a high bank into a vale below; But death was to the wretched dame refused; Who lay with shattered head and sorely bruised. LVII "She could not to the castle be conveyed In other guise than borne upon a bier: Her (so Tanacro bids) prompt leeches aid; Because he will not lose a prey so dear; And while to cure Drusilla they essayed, Busied about their spousals was the peer: In that so chaste a lady and so fair, A wife's and not a leman's name should wear. LVIII "He had no other thought, no other aim, No other care, nor spake beside of ought; Saw he had wronged her, and took all the blame, And, as he could, to amend his error wrought: But all was vain; the more he loved the dame, The more be to appease her anger sought, So much more was her hate; so much more will, So much more thirst had she that youth to kill. LIX "Yet hatred blinded not her judgment so, But what the dame could clearly comprehend, That she, if she would strike the purposed blow, Must feign, and secret snares for him extend. And her desire beneath another show (Which is but how Tanacro to offend) Must mask; and make him think, that overblown Is her first love, and turned to him alone. LX "Her face speaks peace; while vengeance inwardly Her heart demands, and but to this attends: She many things revolves, accepts, puts by; Or, as of doubtful issue, some suspends. Deeming she can, if she resolves to die, Compass her scheme, with this resolve she ends; And better how can she expend her breath Than in avenging dear Olindro's death? LXI "She showed herself all joyful, on her part, And feigned that she desired those nuptials sore; Nor only showed an unreluctant heart; But all delay and hindrance overbore. Painted and tired above the rest with art, 'Twould seem, she of her husband thinks no more: But 'tis her will, that in her country's wise Tanacro shall their wedding solemnize. LXII "The custom howsoever was not true, Which as her country's use she certified; But, because never thought within her grew Which she could spend on any thing beside, A falsehood she devised, whence hope she drew Of killing him by whom her husband died; And told Tanacro -- and the manner said -- How in her country's fashion she would wed. LXIII " `The widow that a husband's bed ascends, Ere she approach the bridegroom (said that fair) The spirit of the dead, whom she offends, Must soothe with solemn office, mass and prayer; In the holy temple making her amends, Where her first husband's bones entombed are. -- That sacrifice performed -- to bind their vows The nuptial ring the bridegroom gives the spouse. LXIV " `But the holy priest, while this shall be about, Upon wine, thither for that purpose sped, His orisons, appropriate and devout, Blessing withal the liquor, shall have said; Then from the flask into a cup pour out, And give the blessed wine to them that wed. But 'tis the spouse's part to take the cup; And first that vessel's cordial beverage sup.' LXV "The unsuspecting youth, who takes no heed What nuptials, ordered in her wise, import, At her own pleasure bids the dame proceed, So that she cut his terms of waiting short; Nor does the miserable stripling read She would avenge Olindro in that sort; And on one object is so sore intent, He sees but that, on that alone is bent. LXVI "An ancient woman, seized with her whilere, And left, withal, obeyed Drusilla, who That beldam called and whispered in her ear, So as that none beside could hear the two -- A poison of quick power for me prepare, Such as, I know, thou knowest how to brew; And bottle it; for I have found a way The traitorous son of Marganor to slay; LXVII " `And me and thee no less can save,' (she said,) `And this at better leisure will explain.' The woman went her ways, the potion made, And to the palace bent her steps again: A flask of Candian sweet wine she purveyed, Wherewith Drusilla sheathed that deadly bane; And kept the beverage for the nuptial day; For now had ceased all hindrance and delay. LXVIII "On the fixt day she seeks the temple, dight With precious jewels and with goodly gear; Where her lord's tomb, befitting such a knight, Built by her order, two fair pillars rear. The holy office there, with solemn rite, Is sung, which men and women troop to hear; And -- gay, beyond his usage -- with his heir, Begirt by friends, Sir Marganor is there. LXIX "When the holy obsequies at last were o'er, And by the priest was blest the poisoned draught, He into a fair golden cup did pour The wine, as by Drusilla had been taught, She drank what sorted with her sex; nor more Than would effect the purpose which she sought: Then to the bridegroom, with a jocund eye, Handed the draught, who drained the goblet dry. LXX "The cup returned -- Tanacro, blithe and gay, Opened his arms Drusilla to embrace. Then altered was her sweet and winning way, And to a tempest that long calm gave place. She thrust him back, she motioned him away; She seemed to kindle in her eyes and face; And to the youth, with broken voice and dread, -- `Traitor, stand off,' -- the furious lady said; -- LXXI " `Shalt thou then joy and solace have from me, I tears from thee, and punishment and woe? Now these mine hands shall make an end of thee. This, if thou know'st it not, for poison know. Much grieve I that thou should'st too honoured be By the executioner who deals the blow; Should'st die a death too easy: since I wot, For thee too shameful hand or pain is not. LXXII " `In seeing this thy death, it gives me pain, My sacrifice should be completed ill; For could I do by thee as I were fain, Nothing should lack that purpose to fulfill. May my sweet consort not the work disdain, And for the imperfect deed accept the will! That, without power to compass what I would, I have been fain to slay thee as I could! LXXIII " `And that deserved punishment, which I Cannot, as I desire, on thee bestow, I hope thy soul shall have; hope to be nigh, To see thee suffer, in the realms of woe.' Her turbid eyes then raising to the sky, With joyous face all over in a glow, (She cried) `Olindro, take this victim's life, With the good will of thine avenging wife; LXXIV " `And of our lord for me the grace obtain, To be this day in paradise with thee, If he reply, none cometh to your reign, Without desert; say such I bring with me, Who this fell impious monster, in his fane, Offer, as my first-fruits; and what can be A greater merit than to have supprest Such loathsome and abominable pest?' LXXV "Her life, together with her speech, was spent; And, even dead, her face appeared to glow With joy, at having dealt such punishment To him, that laid her cherished husband low. If fierce Tanacro's spirit did prevent, Of follow hers, I wiss not; but, I trow, Prevented, for on him that venom rank Yet faster wrought, because he deeper drank. LXXVI "Marganor, who beheld his only son Fall and expire, his outstretched arms between, Well nigh had with Tanacro died, o'erthrown By that so sudden grief and unforeseen. Two sons he had, and now was left alone; Brought to that pass he by two wives had been; This was the cause one spent his vital breath With her own hand, that dealt the other death. LXXVII "Love, pity, sorrow, anger, and desire Of death and vengeance, all together rend And rack the childless and unhappy sire, Who groans like sea, when wind and waves contend: Towards the dame, with vengeful thoughts afire, He goes, but sees that life is at an end; And, goaded by his rage and hatred hot, Seeks to offend her corse that feels it not. LXXVIII "As serpent, by the pointed spear pinned down, Fixes his teeth in it, with fruitless spire; Or as the mastiff runs towards a stone, Which has been flung by some wayfaring wight, And gnaws it in his rage, nor will be gone Until he venge himself; 'tis so the knight, Than any mastiff, any serpent, worse Offends Drusilla's cold and lifeless corse. LXXIX "And, for he venteth not, nor slakes his mood, By foul abuse upon the carcase done, Among the women, a large multitude, He springs, and there shows mercy unto none. Mown are we with his impious sword, as strewed Is grass with scythe, when dried by summer sun. There is no 'scape; for straightways of our train Are full a hundred maimed, and thirty slain. LXXX "He of his vassals is so held in dread, There is no man who dares to lift his eyes: The women with the meaner sort are fled, And whosoever can, the temple flies. His friends against the furious fit make head, At last, with kind constraint and suppliant cries; And, leaving every thing in tears below, Him in his castle on the rock bestow. LXXXI "His wrath enduring still, to send away The wretch determines all the female band: In that, his will us utterly to slay His people and his friends, with prayer, withstand; And he bids punish, on that very day, An order for us all to leave his land; Placed such his pleasures on these confines: woe To them that nearer to his castle go! LXXXII "Thus husbands from their wives divided are, Mothers from sons: if hither to resort, Despite that order, any one should dare, Let none know this, who might the deed report! For sorely mulcted for the transgression were Many, and many slain in cruel sort. A statute for his town next made the peer: Of fouler law we neither read nor hear. LXXXIII "It wills, all women found within the vale, (For thither even yet will some descend,) His men with rods shall on the shoulders whale, And into exile from those countries send; But first their gowns shall clip, and parts unveil That decency and natural shame offend; And if with escort of an armed knight Any wend thither, they are slain outright. LXXXIV "Those that an armed warrior's escort have, By this ill man, to piety a foe, Are dragged as victims to his children's grave, Where his own hand inflicts the murderous blow. Stript ignominiously of armour, glaive, And steed, their champions to his prisons go; And this can he compel; for, night and day, A thousand men the tyrant's hest obey. LXXXV "And I will add, moreover, 'tis his will, Does he free any one, he first shall swear Upon the holy wafer, that he still To woman, while he lives, will hatred bear. If then these ladies and yourself to spill Seem good to you, to yonder walls repair; And put to proof withal, if prowess more Or cruelty prevails in Marganor." LXXXVI So saying, in those maids of martial might First she such pity moved and then disdain, That they (had it been day instead of night) Would then have gone against that castellain. There rest the troop; and when Aurora's light Serves as a signal to the starry train, That they should all before the sun recede, They don the cuirass and remount the steed: LXXXVII And now, in act to go, that company Behind them hear the stony road resound With a long trample, when those warlike three Look down the vale and roll their eyes around; And they from thence, a stone's-throw distant, see A troop, which through a narrow pathway wound: A score they are perhaps in number, who On horseback, or on foot, their way pursue. LXXXVIII They with them on a horse a woman haul, (Whom stricken sore in years her visage shows,) In guise wherein some doleful criminal Condemned to gallows, fire, or prison goes; Who, notwithstanding that wide interval, Is by her features known, as well as clothes: They of the village, mid the cavalcade, Know her for fair Drusilla's chamber maid. LXXXIX The chamber wench, made prisoner with his prize, By the rapacious stripling, as I shewed, Who being trusted with that ill emprize, The poisoned draught of foul effect had brewed. From the others she and those solemnites Had kept away, suspecting what ensued: Yea, this while, from that lordship had she fled, Where she in safety hoped to hide her head. XC News being after to her foeman brought, That she retired in Ostericche lay, He, with intent to burn the woman, sought To have her in his power by every way; And finally unhappy Avarice, bought By costly presents, and by proffered pay, Wrought on a lord, assured upon whose lands The beldam lived, to put her in his hands. XCI He on a sumpter horse the prisoner sent To Constance-town, like merchandise addrest; Fastened and bound in manner to prevent The use of speech, and prisoned in a chest. From whence that rabble, his ill instrument, Who has all pity banished from his breast, Had hither brought her, that his impious rage That cruel man might on the hag assuage. XCII As the flood, swoln with Vesulo's thick snows, The farther that it foams upon its way, And, with Ticino and Lambra, seaward goes, Ada, and other streams that tribute pay, So much more haughty and impetuous flows; Rogero so, the more he hears display Marganor's guilt, and so that gentle pair Of damsels filled with fiercer choler are. XCIII Them with such hatred, them with such disdain Against the wretch so many crimes incense, That they will punish him, despite the train Or armed men arraid in his defence: But speedy death appears too kind a pain, And insufficient for such foul offence. Better they deem, mid pangs prolonged and slow, He all the bitterness of death should know. XCIV But first 'tis right that woman to unchain, She whom the hangman-crew to death escort; And the quick rowel and the loosened rein Made the quick coursers make that labour short. Never had those assaulted to sustain Encounter of so fell and fierce a sort; Who held it for a grace, with loss of shield, Harness and captive dame, to quit the field; XCV Even as the wolf, who, laden with his prey, Is homeward to his secret cavern bound, And, when he deems that safest is the way, Beholds it crost by hunter and by hound, Flings down his load, and swiftly darts away, Where most o'ergrown with brushwood is the ground. Nor quicker are that band to void the vale, Than those bold three are quicker to assail. XCVI Not only they the dame and martial gear, But many horses they as well forsook; And, as the surest refuge in their fear, Cast themselves down from bank and caverned nook: Which pleased the damsels and the youthful peer; Who three of those forsaken horses took, To mount those three, whom, through the day before, Upon their croups the three good coursers bore. XCVII Thence, lightened thus, their way they thither bend, Where that despiteous, shameful, lordship lies; Resolved the beldam in their band shall wend, To see Drusilla venged; in vain denies That woman, who misdoubts the adventure's end, And grieves, and shrieks, and weeps in piteous wise: For flinging her upon Frontino's croup, Rogero bears her off amid the troop. XCVIII They reached a summit, and from thence espied A town with many houses, large and rich; With nought to stop the way on any side, As neither compassed round by wall or ditch. A rock was in the middle, fortified With a tall tower, upon its topmost pitch. Fearlessly thither pricked the warriors, who Marganor's mansion in that fortress knew. XCIX As soon as in the town that cavalcade Arrived, some footmen, who kept watch and ward, Behind those warriors closed a barricade; While that, before, they found already barred. And lo! Sir Marganor, with men arraid, Some foot, some horsemen! armed was all the guard; Who to the strangers, in few words, but bold, The wicked custom of his lordship told. C Marphisa, who had planned the thing whilere With Aymon's daughter and the youthful knight, For answer, spurred against the cavalier; And, valiant as she was and full of might, Not putting in the rest her puissant spear, Or baring that good sword, so famed in fight, So smote him with her fist upon the head, That on his horse's neck he fell half dead. CI The maid of France is with Marphisa gone, Nor in the rear it seen Rogero's crest; Who with those two his course so bravely run, That, though his lance he raised not from the rest, Six men he slew; transfixed the paunch of one, Another's head, of four the neck or breast; I' the sixth he broke it, whom in flight he speared: It pierced his spine and at his paps appeared. CII As many as are touched, so many lie On earth, by Bradamant's gold lance o'erthrown; She seems a bolt, dismist form burning sky, Which, in its fury, shivers and beats down Whatever it encounters, far and nigh. Some fly to plain, or castle from the town, Others to sheltering church and house repair; And none, save dead, are seen in street or square. CIII Meanwhile the hands of Marganor, behind His back, the fierce Marphisa had made fast, And to Drusilla's maid the wretch consigned, Well pleased that such a care on her was cast. To burn the town 'twas afterwards designed, Save it repented of its errors past, Repealed the statute Marganor had made, And a new law, imposed by her, obeyed. CIV Such end to compass is no hard assay; For, besides fearing lest Marphisa yearn To execute more vengeance, -- lest she say, -- She one and all will slaughter and will burn, -- The townsmen all were advised to the sway And cruel statute of that tyrant stern; But did, as others mostly do, that best Obey the master whom they most detest. CV Since none dares trust another, nor his will, -- Out of suspicion -- to his comrades break, They let him banish one, another kill, From this his substance, that his honour take. But the heart cries to Heaven, that here is still, Till God and saints at length to vengeance wake: Who, albeit they due punishment suspend, By mighty pain the long delay amend. CVI The rabble, full of rage and enmity, Now seeks the wretch with word and deed to grieve; As, it is said, all strip the fallen tree, Which from its roots and wintry winds upheave: Let rulers in his sad example see, Ill doers in the end shall ill receive. To view fell Marganor's disastrous fall, Fit penance for his sins, pleased great and small. CVII Many, of whom the sister had been slain, The mother, or the daughter, or the wife, Seeking no more their rebel wrath to rein, Hurry, with their own hands to take his life; And young Rogero and the damsels twain Can scarce defend the felon in that strife; Whom those illustrious three had doomed to die, Mid trouble, fear, and lengthened agony. CVIII To the hag, who bore such hatred to that wight, As woman to an enemy can bear, They give their prisoner naked, bound so tight, He will not at one shake the cordage tear; And she, her pains and sorrow to requite, Crimsons the wretch's body, here and there, With a sharp goad, which, mid that village band, A peasant churl had put into her hand. CIX Nor she the courier maid, nor they that ride With her, aye mindful how they had been shent, Now let their hands hang idle by their side; No less than that old crone on vengeance bent: Such was their fierce desire, it nullified The power to harm; but rage must have its vent., Him one with stones, another with her nails, This with her teeth, with needles that, assails. CX As torrent one while foams in haughty tide, When fed with mighty rain or melted snow; And, rending form the mountain's rugged side Tree, rock, and crop and field, the waters go: Then comes a season when its crested pride Is vanished, and its vigour wasted so, A child, a woman, everywhere may tread, And often dry-shod cross, its rugged bed. CXI So Marganor whilere each bound and bourn Made tremble, whereso'er his name was heard: Now one is come to bruise the tyrant's horn; And now his prowess is so little feared, That even the little children work him scorn: Some pluck his hair and others pluck his beard. Thence young Rogero and the damsels twain Towards his rock-built castle turn the rein. CXII This without contest its possessors yield, And the rich goods preserved in that repair. These the friends partly spoiled, and partly dealed To Ulany and that attendant pair. With them, recovered was the golden shield, And those three monarchs that were prisoned there; Who, without arms, afoot, towards that hold Had wended, as meseems whilere was told. CXIII For from the day that they were overthrown By Bradamant, afoot, they evermore, Unarmed, in company with her had gone, That hither came from her so distant shore. I know not, I, if it was better done Or worse, by her, that they their arms forbore; Worse, touching her defence; but better far, If they were losers in the doubtful war. CXIV For she would have been dragged, -- like others, whom Armed men had thither brought beneath their guide, (Unhappy women) to the brothers' tomb, -- And by the sacrifice knife have died. Death, sure, is worse, and more disastrous doom Than showing that which modesty would hide; And they who can to force ascribe the blame, Extinguish this and every other shame. CXV Before they hence depart, the martial twain Assemble the inhabitants, to swear, They to their wives the rule of that domain Will leave, as well as every other care; And that they will chastise, with heavy pain, Whoever to oppose this law shall dare. -- In fine, man's privileges, whatsoe'er, They swear, shall be conferred on woman here: CXVI Then make them promise never to bestow Harbourage on whosoever thither sped, Footman or cavalier, nor even allow Any beneath a roof to hide his head, Unless he swore by God and saints, or vow Yet stronger made -- if stronger could be said -- That he the sex's cause would aye defend, Foe to their foes, and woman's faithful friend; CXVII And, if he then were wived, or ever were -- Sooner or later -- linked in nuptial noose, Still to his wife he would allegiance bear, Nor e'er compliance with her will refuse. Marphisa says, within the year, she there Will be, and ere the trees their foliage lose; And, save she find her statute in effect, That borough fire and ruin may expect. CXVIII Nor hence they part ill from the filthy place, Wherein it lay, Drusilla's corse is borne; Her with her lord they in a tomb encase, And, with what means the town supplies, adorn. Drusilla's ancient woman, in this space, Marganor's body with her goad has torn. Who only grieves she has not wind enow, No respite to his torture to allow. CXIX Beside a church, the martial damsels twain Behold a pillar, standing in the square; Whereon the wicked lord of the domain Had graved that mad and cruel law; the pair, In imitation, his helm, plate, and chain, And shield, in guise of trophy fasten there; And afterwards upon the pillar trace That law they had enacted for the place. CXX Within the town the troop set up their rest, Until the law is graved, of different frame From that before upon the stone imprest, Which every woman doom'd to death and shame. With the intention to replace her vest, Here from that band divides the Islandick dame; Who deems, at court 'twere shameful to appear, Unless adorned and mantled as whilere. CXXI Here Ulany remained, and in her power Remained the wicked tyrant Marganor: She, lest he any how, in evil hour, Should break his bonds and injure damsel more, Made him, one day, leap headlong from a tower, Who never took so still a leap before. No more of her and hers! I of the crew That journey toward Arles, the tale pursue. CXXII Throughout all that and the succeeding day, Till the forenoon, proceed those banded friends; And, where the main-road branches, and one way Towards the camp, to Arles the other tends, Again embrace the lovers, and oft say A last farewell, which evermore offends. The damsels seek the camp; to Arles is gone Rogero; and my canto I have done. CANTO 38 ARGUMENT To Arles the Child, to Charles Marphisa wends, To be baptized, with Bradamant for guide. Astolpho from the holy realm descends; Through whom with sight the Nubian is supplied: Agramant's land he with his troop offends; But he is of his Africk realm so wide, With Charles he bargains, that, on either side, Two knights by strife their quarrel should decide. I Ye courteous ladies, who unto my strain Kind audience lend -- I read it in your cheer -- That good Rogero should depart again So suddenly, from her that held him dear, Displeases ye, and scarce inflicts less pain Than that which Bradamant endured whilere: I read you also argue, to his shame, That feebly burned in him the amorous flame. II If from her side for other cause had gone, Against that lady's will, the youthful lord; Though in the hope more treasure to have won Than swelled rich Croesus' or rich Crassus' hoard, I too should deem the dart, by Cupid thrown, Had not the heart-core of Rogero gored. For such a sovereign joy, a prize so high No silver and no gold could ever buy. III Yet to preserve our honour not alone Deserves excuse, it also merits praise: This to preserve, I say, when to have done In other wise, might shame and scandal raise; And had fair Bradamant reluctance shown, And obstinately interposed delays, This, as a certain sign, had served to prove That lady's little wit or little love. IV For if his life, whom gentle woman loves, As her own life she values, or before; (I speak of one at whom young Cupid roves With arrows which beneath the mantle gore) His honour to his pleasure it behoves That woman to prefer, by so much more, As man beyond his life his honour treasures, Esteemed by him above all other pleasures. V His duty good Rogero satisfied, Following the royal lord with whom he came; For having no fair cause to quit his side, He could not leave the Paynim without shame; And, if his sire had by Almontes died, In this, King Agramant was not to blame; Who for his parents' every past offence Had made Rogero mighty recompense. VI He will perform his duty to repair To his liege-lord; so did that martial maid; Who had not with reiterated prayer (As so she might have done) Rogero stayed. The stripling may appay the warlike fair In other season, if not now appaid; But twice two hundred years will not atone The crying sin of honour once foregone. VII To Arles-town whither had his king conveyed His remnant of a host, he pricked anew; While they that, since their kindred was displayed, Had a close friendship formed -- the damsels two -- Thither together go where Charles had made His mightiest effort, with the Christian crew; Hoping by siege or fight to break the foe, And free his kingdom form so long a woe. VIII Bradamant, when she in the camp appeared, Was greeted with a welcome warm and kind. On all sides was she hailed, by all was cheered; And she in this or that her head inclined. Rinaldo, when he of her coming heard, Met her; nor young Richardo stayed behind; Nor Richardet; nor others of her race; And all received the maid with joyful face. IX When next 'tis known, the second of the twain Is that Marphisa, so in arms renowned, Who from Catay unto the bounds of Spain Had journeyed, with a thousand laurels crowned, Nor rich nor poor within their tents remain: The curious crowd, encompassing them round, Press, harm, and heave each other here and there, In the sole wish to see so bright a pair. X By them was Charles saluted reverently, And the first day was this (has Turpin shown) Marphisa had been seen to bend her knee: For Pepin's royal son to her, alone, Deserving of such duty seemed to be, Mid emperors or kings that filled a throne, Baptized or infidel, of all those named For mighty riches, or for valour famed. XI Her kindly Charlemagne received, and wide Of the pavilions met, in open view; And, above king, and prince, and peer, beside Himself the monarch placed that damsel true. Who go not, are dismist; so none abide In little time, except the good and few. The Paladins and lords remain; without, Is left the unrespected rabble-rout. XII Marphisa first began in grateful strain: "Unconquered Caesar, glorious and august, Who, to Alcides' strait from Indian main, Mak'st Scythian's pale and Aethiop's race adust Revere thy Christian cross of snowy grain, -- Of earthly monarchs thou most sage and just -- Hither thy glory, which no limits bound, Has brought me from the world's extremest ground; XIII "And (to avow the truth) in jealous mood Alone I came, alone with thee to fight; Because I grudged that king so puissant shou'd Exist on earth, save he observed my rite. Hence reek they ravaged fields with Christian blood; And yet with greater rancour and despite, Like cruel foe, I purposed to offend, But that it chanced, one changed me to a friend. XIV "When to worst harm and scaith thy bands I doom, I find (as at my leisure I will show) Rogero of Risa was my father, whom An evil brother traitorously laid low. Me my sad mother carried in her womb Beyond the sea, and bore in want and woe. Till my seventh year by wizard nourished, I Was stolen from him by thieves of Araby. XV "They to a king in Persia vended me, That after died beneath my faulchion, who Would fain have taken my virginity. When grown, that king and all his court I slew; Chased his ill race, and seized his royalty; And -- such my fortune -- by a month or two, I eithteen years had not o'erpast, before I added to my realm six kingdoms more; XVI "And, moved by envy of thy glorious fame I in my heart resolved (as thou hast heard) To abate the grandeur of they mighty name: I haply so had done; I haply erred. But now a chance has served that will to tame, And clip my fury's wings; the having heard Since I arrived in Christendom, how we Are bound by ties of consanguinity; XVII "And, for my father thee, as kinsman, served, So thou a kin and servant hast in me; And I that envy, that fierce hate, which nerved Mine arm whilere, now blot from memory. Nay, these for evil Agramant reserved, And for his sire's and uncle's kin shall be; They who were whilom guilty of the death Of that unhappy pair, who gave me breath." XVIII She adds, the Christian faith she will receive, And, after having spent king Agramant, Will home return, with royal Charles's leave, Her kingdom to baptize in the Levant, And war upon whatever nation cleave To cheating Mahound or to Termagant; Promising that whate'er her arms obtain Shall be the Christian faith's and empire's gain. XIX Charles, no less eloquent upon his side, Than bold in deed and prudent in design, Much that illustrious lady magnified, And much her father, much her noble line: He courteously to every point replied; And of his heart his open front was sign. As his last words, that he received the maid As kinswoman and child, the monarch said. XX Then rose and locked her in a new embrace, And kissed her, like a daughter, on the brow. Morgana and Clermont's kin, with joyful face, All thither troop; 'twere tedious to tell how Rinaldo did the gentle damsel grace; For he had oftentimes espied ere now Her martial prowess, tried by goodly test, When they with girding siege Albracca pressed. XXI 'Twere long to tell how, with those worthies met, Guido rejoiced to see Marphisa there; Gryphon and Aquilant, and Sansonet, That with her in the cruel city were; Vivian, and Malagigi, and Richardet; Who, when Maganza's traitors made repair, With those ill purchasers of Spain to trade, Found such a faithful comrade in the maid. XXII They deck the ground for the ensuing day; And Charlemagne takes care himself to see That they the place shall sumptuously array, Wherein Marphisa's baptism is to be. Bishops are gathered, learned clerks, and they Who ken the laws of Christianity; That taught in all its doctrine by their care And holy skill may be that martial fair. XXIII In sacred stole, pontifical, arraid, Her the archbishop Turpin did baptize; Charlemagne from the healthful font the maid Uplifted with befitting ceremonies. But it is time the witless head to aid With that, which treasured in the phial lies, Wherewith Astolpho, from the lowest star, Descended in Elias' fiery car. XXIV The duke descended from the lucid round, On this our earthly planet's loftiest height. Wither he with that blessed vase was bound, Which was the mighty champion's brain to right. A herb of sovereign virtue on that ground The apostle shows, and with it bids the knight The Nubian's eyeballs touch, when him anew He visits, and restore that sovereign's view. XXV That he, for this and for his first desert, May give him bands, Biserta to assail; And shows him how that people inexpert He may to battle train, in plate and mail; And how to pass the deserts, without hurt, Where men are dazzled by the sandy gale. The order that throughout should be maintained From point to point, the sainted sire explained; XXVI Then made him that plumed beast again bestride, Rogero's and Atlantes' steed whilere. By sainted John dismist, his reverend guide, Those holy regions left the cavalier; And coasting Nile, on one or the other side, Saw Nubia's realm before him soon appear; And there, in its chief city, to the ground Descended, and anew Senapus found. XXVII Great was the joy, and great was the delight, Wherewith that king received the English lord; Who well remembered how the gentle knight Had from the loathsome harpies freed his board. But when the humour, that obscured his sight, Valiant Astolpho scaled, and now restored Was the blind sovereign's eyesight as before, He would that warrior as a god adore. XXVIII So that not only those whom he demands For the Bisertine war, he gives in aid; But adds a hundred thousand from his bands, And offer of his royal person made. Scarce on the open plain embattled stands, -- All foot -- the Nubian host, for war arraid. For few the horses which that region bore; Of elephants and camels a large store. XXIX The night before the day, when on its road The Nubian force should march, Astolpho rose, And his winged hippogryph again bestrode: Then, hurrying ever south, in fury goes To a high hill, the southern wind's abode; Whence he towards the Bears in fury blows: There finds a cave, through whose strait entrance breaks The fell and furious Auster, when he wakes. XXX He, as his master erst instruction gave, With him an empty bladder had conveyed; Which, at the vent of that dim Alpine cave, Wherein reposed the wearied wind, was laid Quaintly and softly by the baron brave; And so unlooked for was the ambuscade, That, issuing forth at morn, to sweep the plains, Auster imprisoned in the skin remains. XXXI To Nubia he, rejoicing in his prey, Returns; and with that very light the peer, With the black host, sets out upon his way, And lets the victual follow in his rear. Towards Mount Atlas with his whole array In safety goes the glorious cavalier. Through shifting plains of powdery sand he past, Nor dreaded danger from the sultry blast; XXXII And having gained the mountain's hither side, Whence are discerned the plain, and distant brine, He chooses from the swarm he has to guide The noblest and most fit for discipline; And makes them, here and there, in troops divide, At a hill's foot, wherewith the plains confine; Then leaves his host and climbs the hill's ascent, Like one that is on lofty thoughts intent. XXXIII After he, lowly kneeling in the dust, His holy master had implored, in true Assurance he was heard, he downward thrust A heap of stones. O what things may he do That in the Saviour wholly puts his trust! The stones beyond the use of nature grew; Which rolling to the sandy plain below, Next, neck and muzzle, legs and belly show. XXXIV They, neighing shrill, down narrow paths repair, With lusty leaps; and lighting on the plain, Uplift the croup, like coursers as they are, Some bay, some roan, and some of dapple stain. The crowds that waiting in the valleys were, Layed hands on them, and seized them by the rein. Thus in a thought each soldier had his horse, Born ready reined and saddled for the course. XXXV He fourscore thousand of his Nubian power, One hundred and two footmen, in a day To horsemen changes, who wide Afric scour, And, upon every side, sack, burn, and slay. Agramant had intrusted town and tower, Till his return, to king Branzardo's sway, To Fersa's king, and him of the Algaziers; And these against Astolpho lead their spears. XXXVI Erewhile a nimble bark, with sail and oar, They had dispatched, which, stirring feet and wings, News of the Nubian monarch's outrage bore To Agramant from his vicegerent kings, That rests not, night nor day, till to the shore Of Provence she her doleful tiding brings; And finds her monarch half subdued in Arles, For camped within a mile was conquering Charles. XXXVII Agramant, hearing in what peril lies His realm, through his attack on Pepin's reign, Him in this pressing peril to advise, Calls kings and princes of the paynim train; And when he once or twice has turned his eyes On sage Sobrino and the king of Spain, -- Eldest and wisest they those lords among -- The monarch so bespeaks the assembled throng: XXXVIII "Albeit if fits not captain, as I know, To say, `on this I thought not,' this I say; Because when from a quarter comes the blow, From every human forethought far away, 'Tis for such fault a fair excuse, I trow; And here all hinges; I did ill to lay Unfurnished Africk open to attack, If there was ground to fear the Nubian sack. XXXIX "But who could think, save only God on high Prescient of all which is to be below, That, from land, beneath such distant sky, Such mighty host would come, to work us woe? 'Twixt shifting sands, which restless whirlwinds blow: Yet they their camp have round Biserta placed, And laid the better part of Africk waste. XL "I now on this, O peers! your counsel crave. If, bootless, homeward I should wend my way, Or should not such a fair adventure wave, Till Charles with me a prisoner I convey; Or how I may as well our Africk save, And ruin this redoubted empire, say. Who can advise, is prayed his lore to shew, That we may learn the best, and that pursue." XLI He said; and on Marsilius seated nigh Next turned his eyes, who in the signal read, That it belonged to him to make reply To what the king of Africa had said. The Spaniard rose, and bending reverently To Agramant the knee as well as head, Again his honoured seat in council prest, And in these words the Moorish king addrest: XLII "My liege, does Rumour good or ill report, It still increases them; hence shall I ne'er, Under despondence, lack for due support, Nor bolder course than is befitting steer, For what may chance, of good or evil sort; Weighing in even balance hope and fear, O'errated still; and which we should not mete By what I hear so many tongues repeat; XLIII "Which should so much more doubtfully be viewed, As it seems less with likelihood to stand. Now it is seen, if there be likelihood, That king who reigns in so remote a land, Followed by such a mighty multitude, Should set his foot on warlike Africk's strand; Traversing sands, to which in evil hour Cambyses trusted his ill-omened power. XLIV "I well believe, that from some neighbouring hill The Arabs have poured down, to waste the plain; Who, for the country was defended ill, Have taken, burnt, destroyed and sacked and slain; And that Branzardo, who your place doth fill, As viceroy and lieutenant of the reign, Has set down thousands, where he tens should write; The better to excuse him in your sight. XLV "The Nubian squadrons, I will even yield, Have been rained down on Africk from the skies; Or haply they have come, in clouds concealed, In that their march was hidden from all eyes: Think you, because unaided in the field, Your Africk from such host in peril lies? Your garrisons were sure of coward vein, If they were scared by such a craven train. XLVI "But will you send some frigates, albeit few, (Provided that unfurled your standards be) No sooner shall they loose from hence, that crew Of spoilers shall within their confines flee; -- Nubians are they, or idle Arabs -- who, Knowing that you are severed by the sea From your own realm, and warring with our band, Have taken courage to assail your land. XLVII "Now take your time for vengeance, when the son Of Pepin is without his nephew's aid. Since bold Orlando is away, by none Of the hostile sect resistance can be made. If, through neglect or blindness, be foregone The glorious Fortune, which for you has stayed, She her bald front, as now her hair, will show, To our long infamy and mighty woe." XLVIII Thus warily the Spanish king replied, Proving by this and other argument, The Moorish squadrons should in France abide, Till Charlemagne was into exile sent. But King Sobrino, he that plainly spied The scope whereon Marsilius was intent, To public good preferring private gain, So spake in answer to the king of Spain: XLIX "My liege, when I to peace exhorted you, Would that my prophecy had proved less just! Of, if I was to prove a prophet true, Ye in Sobrino had reposed more trust, Than in King Rodomont and in that crew, Alzirdo, Martasine and Marbalust! Whom I would here see gladly, front to front; But see most gladly boastful Rodomont. L "To twit that warrior with his threat to do By France, what by the brittle glass is done; And throughout heaven and hell your course pursue, Yea (as the monarch said) your course outrun. Yet lapt in foul and loathsome ease, while you So need his help, lies Ulien's lazy son; And I, that as a coward was decried For my true prophecy, am at your side; LI "And ever will be while this life I bear; Which, albeit 'tis with yours sore laden, still Daily for you is risked with them that are The best of France; and -- be he who he will -- There is not mortal living, who will dare To say Sobrino's deeds were ever ill: Yea, many who vaunt more, amid your host, Have not so much, nay lighter, cause for boast. LII "I speak, these words to show that what whilere I said and say again, has neither sprung From evil heart, nor is the fruit of fear; But that true love and duty move my tongue. You homeward with what haste you may to steer, I counsel, your assembled bands among; For little is the wisdom of that wight, Who risks his own to gain another's right. LIII "If there be gain, ye know, Late thirty-two, Your vassal kings, with you our sails we spread; Now, if we pause to sum the account anew, Hardly a third survives; the rest are dead. May it please Heaven no further loss ensue! But if you will pursue your quest, I dread Lest not a fourth nor fifth will soon remain; And wholly spent will be your wretched train. LIV "Orlando's absence so far aids, that where Our troops are few, there haply none would be; But not through this removed our perils are, Though it prolongs our evil destiny. Behold Rinaldo! whom his deeds declare No less than bold Orlando; of his tree There are the shoots; with paladin and peer, Our baffled Saracens' eternal fear; LV "And the other Mars (albeit against my heart It goes to waste my praise upon a foe); I speak of the redoubted Brandimart, Whose feats no less than fierce Orlando's show; Whose mighty prowess I have proved in part, In part, at others' cost I see and know. Then many days Orlando has been gone; Yet we have lost more fields than we have won. LVI "I fear, if heretofore our band has lost, A heavier forfeit will henceforth be paid. Blotted is Mandricardo from our host; Martial Gradasso hath withdrawn his aid; Marphisa, at our worst, has left her post; So Argier's lord; of whom it may be said, Where he as true as strong, we should not need Gradasso and the Tartar king, to speed. LVII "While aids like these are lost to our array, While on our side such slaughtered thousands lie, Those looked-for are arrived, nor on her way Is any vessel fraught with new supply -- Charles has been joined by four, that, as they say, Might with Orlando or Rinaldo vie; With reasons, for from hence to Bactrian shore, Ill would you hope to find such other four. LVIII "I know not if you know who Guido are, Sansonet, and the sons of Olivier. For these I more respect, more fear I bear, Than any warlike duke or cavalier, Of Almayn's or of other lineage fair, Who for the Roman empire rests the spear, Though I misrate not those of newer stamp, That, to our scathe, are gathered in their camp. LIX "As often as ye issue on the plain, Worsted so oft, or broken, shall you be. If oft united Africa and Spain Were losers, when sixteen to eight were we, What will ensue, when banded with Almayn Are England, Scotland, France, and Italy? When with our six twice six their weapons cross, What else can we expect but shame and loss? LX "You lose your people here, and there your reign, If you in this emprize are obstinate; -- Returning -- us, the remnant of your train, You save, together with your royal state. It were ill done to leave the king of Spain, Since all for this would hold you sore ingrate; Yet there's a remedy in peace; which, so It pleases but yourself, will please the foe. LXI "But, if, as first defeated, on your part It seems a shame to offer peace, and ye Have war and wasteful battle more at heart, Waged hitherto with what success you see, At least to gain the victory use art, Which may be yours, if you are ruled by me. Lay all our quarrel's trial on one peer, And let Rogero be that cavalier. LXII "Such our Rogero is, ye know and I, That -- pitted one to one in listed fight -- Not Roland, not Rinaldo stands more high, Nor whatsoever other Christian knight. But would ye kindle warfare far and nigh, Though superhuman be that champion's might, The warrior is but one mid many spears, Matched singly with a host of martial peers. LXIII "Meseemeth, if to you it seemeth good, Ye should propose to Charles the war to end; And that, to spare the constant waste of blood, Which his, and countless of your warriors spend, He -- by a knight of yours to be withstood -- A champion, chosen from his best should send; And those two all the warfare wage alone, Till one prevails, and one is overthrown; LXIV "On pact the king, whose champion in the just Is loser, tribute to that other pay. Nor will this pact displease King Charles, I trust, Though his was the advantage in the fray. Then of his arms Rogero so robust I deem, that he will surely win the day; Who would prevail (so certain is our right) Though Mars himself should be his opposite." LXV With these and other sayings yet more sound, So wrought Sobrino, he his end obtained; And on that day interpreters were found, And they that day to Charles their charge explained. Charles, whom such matchless cavaliers surround. Believes the battle is already gained; And chooses good Rinaldo for the just, Next to Orlando in his sovereign's trust. LXVI In this accord like cause for pleasure find, As well the Christian as the paynim foe: For, harassed sore in body and in mind, Those warriors all were weary, all were woe. Each in repose and quietude designed To pass what time remained to him below: Each cursed the senseless anger and the hate Which stirred their hearts to discord and debate. LXVII Rinaldo felt himself much magnified, That Charles, for what in him so strong weighed, More trusted him than all his court beside, And glad the honoured enterprise assayed: Rogero he esteemed not in his pride, And thought he ill could keep him from his blade. Nor deemed the Child could equal him in fight, Albeit he slew in strife the Tartar knight. LXVIII Rogero, though much honoured, on his part, That him his king has chosen from the rest, To whom a trust so weighty to impart, As of his many martial lords the best, Yet shows a troubled face; not that the heart Of that good knight unworthy fears molest; Not only none Rinaldo would have bred; Him, with Orlando leagued, he would not dread -- LXIX But because sister of the Christian knight (He knows) is she, his consort true and dear; That to the stripling evermore did write, As one sore injured by that cavalier. Now, if to ancient sins he should unite A mortal combat with Montalban's peer, Her, although loving, will he anger so, Not lightly she her hatred will forego. LXX If silently Rogero made lament That he in his despite must battle do; In sobs his consort dear to hers gave vent, When shortly to her ears the tidings flew. She beat her breast, her golden tresses rent: Fast, scalding tears her innocent cheeks bedew: She taxes young Rogero as ingrate, And aye cries out upon her cruel fate. LXXI Nought can result to Bradamant but pain, Whatever is the doubtful combat's end. She will not think Rogero can be slain; For this, 'twould seem, her very heart would rend; And should our Lord the fall of France ordain, That kingdom for more sins than one to amend, The gentle maid, beside a brother's loss, Would have to weep a worse and bitterer cross. LXXII For, without shame and scorn, she never may, Not without hatred of her kin combined, To her loved lord return in such a way As that it may be known of all mankind; As, thinking upon this by night and day, She oftentimes had purposed in her mind; And so by promise both were tied withal, Room for repentance and retreat was small. LXXIII But she, that ever, when things adverse were, With faithful succour Bradamant had stayed, I say the weird Melissa, could not bear To hear the wailings of the woeful maid; She hurried to console her in her care, And proffered succour in due time and said, She would disturb that duel 'twixt the twain, The occasion of such grief and cruel pain. LXXIV Meanwhile their weapons for the future fray Rogero and Duke Aymon's son prepared; The choice whereof with that good warrior lay, The Roman empire's knight by Charles declared; And he, like one that ever from the day He lost his goodly steed afoot had fared, Made choice, afoot and fenced with plate and mail, His foe with axe and dagger to assail. LXXV Whether Chance moved Mountalban's martial lord, Or Malagigi, provident and sage, That knew how young Rogero's charmed sword Cleft helm and hauberk in its greedy rage, One and the other warrior made accord, (As said) without their faulchions to engage. The place of combat chosen by that twain Was near old Arles, upon a spacious plain. LXXVI Watchful Aurora hardly from the bower Of old Tithonus hath put forth her head, To give beginning to the day and hour Prefixed and ordered for that duel dread, When deputies from either hostile power, On this side and on that forth issuing, spread Tents at each entrance of the lists; and near The two pavillions, both, an altar rear. LXXVII After short pause, was seen upon the plain The paynim host in different squadrons dight. Rich in barbarick pomp, amid that train, Rode Africk's monarch, ready armed for fight: Bay was the steed he backed, with sable mane; Two of his legs were pied, his forehead white Fast beside Agramant, Rogero came, And him to serve Marsilius thought no shame. LXXVIII The casque that he from Mandricardo wrung In single combat with such travel sore, The casque that (as in loftier strain is sung) Cased Hector's head, a thousand years before, Marsilius carried, by his side, among Princes and lords, that severally bore The other harness of Rogero bold, Enriched with precious pearls and rough with gold. LXXIX On the other part, without his camp appears Charles, with his men at arms in squadrons dight; Who in such order led his cavaliers, As they would keep, if marshalled for the fight. Fenced is the monarch with his famous peers, And with him wends, all armed, Montalban's knight, Armed, save his helmet, erst Mambrino's casque; To carry which is Danish Ogier's task; LXXX And, of two axes, hath Duke Namus one, King Salamon the other: Charlemagne Is to this side, with all his following, gone, To that wend those of Africk and of Spain. In the mid space between the hosts is none; Empty remains large portion of the plain; For he is doomed to death who thither goes, By joint proclaim, except the chosen foes. LXXXI After the second choice of arms was made By him, the champion of the paynim clan, Thither two priests of either sect conveyed Two books; that, carried by one holy man, -- Him of our law -- Christ's perfect life displayed; Those others' volume was their Alcoran. The emperor in his hands the Gospel took, The king of Africa that other book. LXXXII Charlemagne, at his altar, to the sky Lifted his hands, "O God, that for our sake" (Exclaimed the monarch) "wast content to die, Thyself a ransom for our sins to make; -- O thou that found such favour in his eye, That God from thee the flesh of man did take, Borne for nine months within thy holy womb, While aye thy virgin flower preserved its bloom, LXXXIII "Hear, and be witnesses of what I say, For me and those that after me shall reign, To Agramant and those that heir his sway, I twenty loads of gold of perfect grain Will every year deliver, if to-day My champion vanquished in the lists remain; And vow I will straightway from warfare cease, And from henceforth maintain perpetual peace; LXXXIV "And may your joint and fearful wrath descend On me forthwith, if I my word forego! And may it me and mine alone offend, And none beside, amid this numerous show! That all in briefest time may comprehend, My breach of promise has brought down the woe." So saying, in his hand the holy book Charles held, and fixed on heaven his earnest look. LXXXV This done, they seek that altar, sumptuously Decked for the purpose, by the pagan train; Where their king swears, that he will pass the sea, With all his army, to his Moorish reign, And to King Charles will tributary be; If vanquished, young Rogero shall remain; And will observe the truce for evermore Upon the pact declared by Charles before; LXXXVI And like him, nor in under tone, he swears, Calling on Mahound to attest his oath; And on the volume which his pontiff bears, To observe what he has promised plights his troth. Then to his side each hastily repairs; And mid their several powers are harboured both. Next these, to swear arrive the champions twain; And this the promise which their oaths contain. LXXXVII Rogero pledges first his knightly word, Should his king mar, or send to mar, the fray, He him no more as leader or as lord Will serve, but wholly Charlemagne obey. -- Rinaldo -- if in breach of their accord, Him from the field King Charles would bear away, Till one or the other is subdued in fight, That he will be the Moorish monarch's knight. LXXXVIII When ended are the ceremonies, here And there, to seek their camps the two divide. Nor long, therein delayed; when trumpets clear The time for their encounter signified: Now to the charge advanced each cavalier, Measuring with cautious care his every stride. Lo! the assault begins; now low, now high, That pair the sounding steel in circles ply. LXXXIX Now with the axe's blade, now with its heel Their strokes they at the head or foot address; And these so skilfully and nimbly deal, As needs must shock all credence to express. The Child, that at her brother aims the steel, Who doth his miserable soul possess, Evermore with such caution strikes his blow, That he is deemed less vigorous than his foe. XC Rather to parry then to smite intent, He know not what to wish; that low should lie Rinaldo, would Rogero ill content, Nor willingly the Child by him would die. But here I am at my full line's extent, Where I must needs defer my history. In other canto shall the rest appear, If you that other canto please to hear. CANTO 39 ARGUMENT Agramant breaks the pact, is overthrown, And forced fair France for Afric to forego. Meanwhile Astolpho in Biserta's town Having with numerous host besieged the foe, By hazard there arrives bold Milo's son, To whom the duke, instructed how to do, Restores his wits. At sea does Dudon meet King Agramant, and sore annoys his fleet. I Than that fell woe which on Rogero weighs Harder, and bitterer pain forsooth is none, Which upon flesh and more on spirit preys: For of two deaths there is no scaping one. Him, if in strife o'erlaid, Rinaldo slays, Bradamant, if Rinaldo is outdone: For if he killed her brother, well he knew Her hate, than death more hateful, would ensue. II Rinaldo, unimpeded by such thought, Strove in all ways Rogero to o'erthrow; Fierce and despiteous whirled his axe, and sought Now in the arms, now head, to wound the foe. Rogero circled here and there, and caught Upon his weapon's shaft the coming blow; And, if ever smote, aye strove to smite Where he should injure least Montalban's knight. III To most of them that led the paynim bands, But too unequal seemed the fierce assay. Too slowly young Rogero plied his hands; Too well Rinaldo kept the Child at bay. With troubled face the king of Afric stands: He sighed, and breathless gazed upon the fray; And all the blame of that ill counsel flung On King Sobrino's head, from whom it sprung. IV Meanwhile the weird Melissa, she -- the font Of all that wizards or enchanters know -- Had by her art transformed her female front, And taken Argier's mighty shape; in show And gesture she appeared as Rodomont, And seemed, like him, in dragon's hide to go: Such was her belied sword and such her shield; Nor aught was wanting which he wore afield. V She towards Troyano's mournful son did guide, In form of courser, a familiar sprite, And with a troubled visage loudly cried, "My liege, this is too foul an oversight, A stripling boy in peril yet untried, Against a Gaul, so stout and famed in fight, Your champion in so fierce a strife to make; Where Afric's realm and honour are at stake. VI "Let not this battle be pursued, my lord, In that 'twould cost our Moorish cause too dear. Let sin of broken faith and forfeit word Fall upon Rodomont! take thou no fear! Let each now show the metal of his sword, Each for a hundred stands when I am here." So upon Agramant this counsel wrought, That king pressed forward without further thought. VII He, thinking that the monarch of Algiers Is with him, of the pact has little care; And would not rate a thousand cavaliers So high, if handed in his aid they were. Hence steeds reined-in and spurred, hence levelled spears Are seen in one short instant here and there. Melissa, when the hosts are mixed in fight By her false phantoms, vanishes from sight. VIII The champions two, that, against all accord, Against all faith, disturbed their duel see, No longer strive in fight, but pledge their word -- Yea, put aside all hostile injury -- That they, on neither part, will draw the sword, Until they better certified shall be Who broke the pact, established by that twain, Young Agramant, or aged Charlemagne. IX They sweat anew, the king who had o'erthrown That truce, and broken faith, as foe to treat. The field of combat is turned upside down; Some hurry to the charge, and some retreat. Who most deserved disgrace, who most renown, Was seen, on both hands, in the selfsame feat; All ran alike: but, 'mid that wild affray, These ran to meet the foe, those ran away. X As greyhound in the slip, that the fleet hare Scowering about and circling him discerns, Nor with the other dogs a part can bear (For him the hunter holds), with anger burns; Torments himself and mourns in his despair, And whines, and strives against the leash, by turns; Such till that moment had the fury been Of Aymon's daughter and the martial queen. XI They till that hour upon the spacious plain, Had watched so rich a prize throughout the day; And, as obliged by treaty to refrain From laying hands upon the costly prey, Had sore lamented and had grieved in vain, Gazing with longing eyes on that array. Now seeing truce and treaty broke, among The Moorish squadrons they rejoicing sprung. XII Marphisa piercing her first victim's breast, (Two yards beyond his back the lance did pass) In briefer time than 'tis by me exprest, Broke with her sword four helms which flew like glass; No less did Bradamant upon the rest; But them her spear reduced to other pass. All touched by that gold lance she overthrew; Doubling Marphisa's score; yet none she slew. XIII They witness to each others' exploits are, (Those maids to one another are so near) Then, whither fury drives, the martial pair, Dividing, through the Moorish ranks career. Who could each several warrior's name declare, Stretched on the champaign by that golden spear? Or reckon every head Marphisa left Divided by her horrid sword, or cleft? XIV As when benigner winds more swiftly blow, And Apennine his shaggy back lays bare, Two turbid torrents with like fury flow, Which, in their fall, two separate channels wear, Uproot hard rocks, and mighty trees which grow On their steep banks, and field and harvest bear Into the vale, and seem as if they vied Which should do mightiest damage on its side: XV So those high-minded virgin warriors two, Scowering the field in separate courses, made Huge havock of the Moors; whom they pursue One with couched lance, and one with lifted blade. Hardly King Agramant his Africk crew From flight, beneath his royal banners stayed: In search of Rodomont, he vainly turned; Nor tidings of the missing warrior learned. XVI He at his exhortation (so he trowed) Had broke the treaty made in solemn wise, To witness which the gods were called aloud; Who then so quick vanished from his eyes: Nor sees he King Sobrino; disavowed By King Sobrino is the deed, who flies To Arles, and deems that day some vengeance dread Will fall on Agramant's devoted head. XVII Marsilius too is fled into the town: So has that monarch holy faith at heart. 'Tis hence, that feebly King Troyano's son Resists the crew, that war on Charles's part, Italians, English, Germans; of renown Are all; and, scattered upon every part, Are mixed the paladins, those barons bold, Glittering like jewels on a cloth of gold; XVIII And, with those peers, is more than one confest As perfect as is earthly cavalier, Guide the savage, that intrepid breast, And those two famous sons of Olivier. I will not now repeat what I exprest Of that fierce, daring female twain whilere; Who on the field so many Moors extend, No number is there to the slain or end. XIX But, putting this affray some while aside, Without a pinnace will I pass the sea. To them of France so fast I am not tied, But that Astolpho should remembered be: Of the grace given him by his holy guide I told erewhile, and told (it seems to me) Branzardo and the king of Algaziers Against the duke had mustered all their spears. XX Such as the monarchs could in haste engage, Raked from all Africa, that host contained; Whether of fitting or of feeble age: Scarce from impressing women they refrained, Resolved his thirst of vengeance to assuage, Agramant twice his Africa had drained. Few people in the land were left, and they A feeble and dispirited array. XXI So proved they; for the foe was scarce in view, Before that levy broke in panic dread: Like sheep, their quailing bands Astolpho slew, Charging at his more martial squadrons' head; And with the slain filled all that champaign; few Into Biserta from the carnage fled. A prisoner valiant Bucifar remained; The town in safety King Branzardo gained; XXII More grieved as Bucifaro's loss alone, Than had he lost the rest in arms arrayed. Wide and in want of ramparts is the town; And these could ill be raised without his aid. While fain to ransom him, he thinks upon The means, and stands afflicted and dismayed, He recollects him how the paladin, Dudon, has many a month his prisoner been. XXIII Him under Monaco, upon the shore, In his first passage, Sarza's monarch took. Thenceforth had been a prisoner evermore Dudon, who was derived of Danish stock. The paladin against the royal Moor Branzardo thought, in this distress, to truck; And knowing through sure spy, Astolpho led The Nubians, to that chief the offer sped. XXIV A paladin himself, Astolpho knows He gladly ought a paladin to free; And when that case the Moorish envoy shows, To King Branzardo's offer does agree. Dudon from prison loosed, his thanks bestows; And whatsoe'er pertains to land or sea, Bestirs him to accomplish, in accord With his illustrious chief, the English lord. XXV Astolpho leading such a countless band As might have well seven Africas opprest, And recollecting 'twas the saint's command, Who upon him whilere imposed the quest, That fair Provence and Aquamorta's strand He from the reaving Saracen should wrest, Made through his numerous host a second draught Of such as least inapt for sea he thought; XXVI And filling next as full as they could be His hands with many different sorts of leaves, Plucked from palm, olive, bay and cedar tree, Approached the shore, and cast them on the waves. Oh blessed souls! Oh great felicity! O grace! which rarely man from God receives; O strange and wondrous miracle, which sprung Out of those leaves upon the waters flung! XXVII They wax in number beyond all esteem; Becoming crooked and heavy, long, and wide. Into hard timber turn and solid beam, The slender veins that branch on either side: Taper the masts; and, moored in the salt stream, All in a thought transformed to vessels, ride; And of as diverse qualities appear, As are the plants, whereon they grew whilere. XXVIII It was a miracle to see them grown To galliot, galley, frigate ship, and boat; Wondrous, that they with tackling of their own, Are found as well as any barks afloat. Nor lack there men to govern them, when blown By blustering winds -- from islands not remote -- Sardinia or Corsica, of every rate, Pilot and patron, mariner and mate. XXIX Twenty-six thousand were the troop that manned Those ready barks of every sort and kind. To Dudon's government, by sea or land A leader sage, the navy was consigned; Which yet lay anchored off the Moorish strand, Expecting a more favourable wind, To put to sea; when, freighted with a load Of prisoners, lo! a vessel made the road. XXX She carried those, whom at the bridge of dread, -- On that so narrow place of battle met -- Rodomont took, as often has been said. The valiant Olivier was of the set, Orlando's kin, and, with them, prisoners led, Were faithful Brandimart and Sansonet, With more; to tell whereof there is no need; Of German, Gascon, or Italian seed. XXXI The patron, yet unweeting he should find Foes in the port, here entered to unload; Having left Argier many miles behind, Where he was minded to have made abode; Because a boisterous, overblowing, wind Had driven his bark beyond her destined road; Deeming himself as safe and welcome guest, As Progne, when she seeks her noisy nest. XXXII But when, arrived, the imperial eagle spread, And pards and golden lilies he descries, With countenance as sicklied o'er by dread, He stands, as one that in unwary guise, Has chanced on fell and poisonous snake to tread, Which, in the grass, opprest with slumber lies; And, pale and startled, hastens to retire From that ill reptile, swoln with bane and ire. XXXIII But no retreat from peril is there here, Nor can the patron keep his prisoners down: Him thither Brandimart and Olivier, Sansonet and those others drag, where known And greeted are the friends with joyful cheer, By England's duke and Danish Ogier's son; Who read that he who brought them to that shore Should for his pains be sentenced to the oar. XXXIV King Otho's son kind welcome did afford Unto those Christian cavaliers, as said: Who -- honoured at his hospitable board -- With arms and all things needful were purveyed. His going, for their sake, the Danish lord Deferred, who deemed his voyage well delayed, To parley with those peers, though at the cost Of one or two good days, in harbour lost. XXXV Of Charles, and in what state, what order are The affairs of France they gave advices true; Told where he best could disembark, and where To most advantage of the Christian crew. While so the cavaliers their news declare, A noise is heard; which ever louder grew, Followed by such a fierce alarm withal, As to more fears than one gave rise in all. XXXVI The duke Astolpho and the goodly throng, That in discourse with him were occupied, Armed in a moment, on their coursers sprung, And hurried where the Nubians loudest cried; And seeking wherefore that wide larum rung, Now here, now there -- those warlike lords espied A savage man, and one so strong of hand, Naked and sole he troubled all that band. XXXVII The naked savage whirled a sapling round, So hard, so heavy, and so strong of grain, That every time the weapon went to ground, Some warrior, more than maimed, opprest the plain. Above a hundred dead are strewed around; Nor more defence the routed hands maintain; Save that a war of distant parts they try; For there is none will wait the champion nigh. XXXVIII Astolpho, Brandimart, the Danish knight, Hastening towards that noise with Olivier, Remain astounded at the wondrous might And courage, which in that wild man appear. When, posting thither on a palfry light, Is seen a damsel, clad in sable gear. To Brandimart in haste that lady goes, And both her arms about the warrior throws. XXXIX This was fair Flordelice, whose bosom so Burned with the love of Monodantes' son, She, when she left him prisoner to his foe At that streight bridge, had nigh distracted gone. From France had she past hither -- given to know -- By that proud paynim, who the deed had done, How Brandimart, with many cavaliers, Was prisoner in the city of Algiers. XL When now she for that harbour would have weighed, An eastern vessel in Marseilles she found, Which thither had an ancient knight conveyed: Of Monodantes' household; a long round To seek his Brandimart that lord had made, By sea, and upon many a distant ground. For he, upon his way, had heard it told, How he in France should find the warrior bold. XLI She knowing old Bardino in that wight, Bardino who from Monodantes' court With little Brandimart had taken flight, And reared his nursling in THE SYLVAN FORT; Then hearing what had thither brought the knight, With her had made him loosen from the port; Relating to that elder, by what chance Brandimart had to Africk passed from France. XLII As soon as landed, that Biserta lies Besieged by good Astolpho's band, they hear; That Brandimart is with him in the emprize, They learn, but learn not as a matter clear. Now in such haste to him the damsel flies, When she beholds her faithful cavalier, As plainly shows her joy; which woes o'erblown Had made the mightiest she had ever known. XLIII The gentle baron no less gladly eyed His faithful and beloved consort's face; Her whom he prized above all things beside; And clipt and welcomed her with loving grace; Nor his warm wishes would have satisfied A first, a second, or a third embrace, But that he spied Bardino, he that came From France, together with that faithful dame. XLIV He stretched his arms, and would embrace the knight; And -- wherefore he was come -- would bid him say: But was prevented by the sudden flight Of the sacred host, which fled in disarray, Before the club of that mad, naked wight, Who with the brandished sapling cleared his way. Flordelice viewed the furious man in front; And cried to Brandimart, "Behold the count!" XLV At the same time, withal, Astolpho bold That this was good Orlando plainly knew, By signs, whereof those ancient saints had told, In the earthly paradise, as tokens true. None of those others, who the knight behold, The courteous baron in the madman view; That from long self-neglect, while wild he ran, Had in his visage more of beast than man. XLVI With breast and heart transfixed with pity, cried Valiant Astolpho -- bathed with many a tear -- Turning to Danish Dudon, at this side, And afterwards to valiant Olivier; "Behold Orlando!" Him awhile they eyed, Straining their eyes and lids; then knew the peer; And, seeing him in such a piteous plight, Were filled with grief and wonder at the sight. XLVII So grieve and so lament the greater part Of those good warriors, that their eyes o'erflow. " `Tis time" (Astolpho cried) "to find some art To heal him, not indulge in useless woe"; And from his courser sprang: bold Brandimart, Olivier, Sansonet and Dudon so All leap to ground, and all together make At Roland, whom the warriors fain would take. XLVIII Seeing the circle round about him grow, Levels his club that furious paladin, And makes fierce Dudon feel (who -- couched below His buckler -- on the madman would break in) How grievous is that staff's descending blow; And but that Olivier, Orlando's kin, Broke in some sort its force, that stake accurst Had shield and helmet, head and body burst. XLIX It only burst the shield, and in such thunder Broke on the casque, that Dudon prest the shore: With that, Sir Sansonet cut clean asunder The sapling, shorn of two cloth-yards and more, So vigorous was that warrior's stroke, while under His bosom, Brandimart girt Roland sore With sinewy arms about his body flung; And to the champion's legs Astolpho clung. L Orlando shook himself, and England's knight, Ten paces off, reversed upon the ground; Yet loosed not Brandimart, who with more might And better hold had clasped the madman round. To Olivier, too forward in that fight, He dealt so furious and so fell a wound, With his clenched fist, that pale the marquis fell; And purple streams from eyes and nostrils well; LI And save his morion had been more than good, Bold Olivier had breathed his last, who lies, So battered with his fall, it seemed he wou'd Bequeath his parting soul to paradise. Astolpho and Dudon, that again upstood (Albeit swoln were Dudon's face and eyes) And Sansonet, who plied so well his sword, All made together at Anglantes' lord. LII Dudon Orlando from behind embraced, And with his foot the furious peer would throw: Astolpho and others seize his arms; but waste Their strength in all attempts to hold the foe. He who has seen a bull, by mastiffs chased That gore his bleeding ears, in fury lowe, Dragging the dogs that bait him there and here, Yet from their tusks unable to get clear; LIII Let him imagine, so Orlando drew Astolpho and those banded knights along. Meanwhile upstarted Oliviero, who By that fell fistycuff on earth was flung; And, seeing they could ill by Roland do That sought by good Astolpho and his throng, He meditates, and compasses, a way The frantic paladin on earth to lay. LIV He many a hawser made them thither bring, And running knots in them he quickly tied; Which on the count's waist, arms, and legs, they fling; And then, among themselves, the ends divide, Conveyed to this or that amid the ring, Compassing Roland upon every side. The warriors thus Orlando flung parforce, As farrier throws the struggling ox or horse. LV As soon as down, they all upon him are, And hands and feet more tightly they constrain: He shakes himself, and plunges here and there; But all his efforts for relief are vain. Astolpho bade them hence the prisoner bear; For he would heal (he said) the warrior's brain. Shouldered by sturdy Dudon is the load, And on the beach's furthest brink bestowed. LVI Seven times Astolpho makes them wash the knight; And seven times plunged beneath the brine he goes. So that they cleanse away the scurf and blight, Which to his stupid limbs and visage grows. This done, with herbs, for that occasion dight, They stop his mouth, wherewith he puffs and blows. For, save his nostrils, would Astolpho leave No passage whence the count might air receive. LVII Valiant Astolpho had prepared the vase, Wherein Orlando's senses were contained, And to his nostrils in such mode conveys, That, drawing-in his breath, the county drained The mystic cup withal. Oh wondrous case! The unsettled mind its ancient seat regained; And, in its glorious reasonings, yet more clear And lucid waxed his wisdom than whilere. LVIII As one, that seems in troubled sleep to see Abominable shapes, a horrid crew; Monsters which are not, and which cannot be; Or seems some strange, unlawful thing to do, Yet marvels at himself, from slumber free. When his recovered senses play him true; So good Orlando, when he is made sound, Remains yet full of wonder, and astound. LIX Aldabelle's brother, Monodantes' son, And him that on his brain such cure had wrought, He wondering marked, but word he spake to none; And when and how he was brought thither, thought. He turned his restless eyes now up now down, Nor where he was withal, imagined aught, Marvelling why he there was naked cast, And wherefore tethered, neck and heels, so fast. LX Then said, as erst Silenus said -- when seen, And taken sleeping the cave of yore -- SOLVITE ME, with visage so serene, With look so much less wayward than before, That him they from his bonds delivered clean, And raiment to the naked warrior bore; All comforting their friend, with grief opprest For that delusion which had him possest. LXI When to his former self he was recovered, Of wiser and of manlier mind than e'er, From love as well was freed the enamoured lord; And she, so gentle deemed, so fair whilere, And by renowned Orlando so adored, Did but to him a worthless thing appear. What he through love had lost, to reacquire Was his whole study, was his whole desire. LXII Meanwhile Bardino told to Brandimart, How Monodantes, his good sire, was dead, And, on his brother, Gigliantes' part, To call him to his kingdom had he sped, As well as from those isles, which most apart From other lands, in eastern seas are spread, That prince's fair inheritance; than which Was none more pleasant, populous, or rich. LXIII He said, mid many reasons which he prest, That home was sweet, and -- were the warrior fain To taste that sweet -- he ever would detest A wandering life; and Brandimart again Replies, through all that war, he will not rest From serving Roland and King Charlemagne; And after, if he lives to see its end, To his own matters better will attend. LXIV Upon the following day, for Provence steer The shipping under Danish Dudon's care; When with the duke retired Anglantes' peer, And heard that lord the warfare's state declare: Then prest with siege Biserta, far and near, But let good England's knight the honour wear Of every vantage; while Astolpho still In all was guided by Orlando's will. LXV The order taken to attack the town Of huge Biserta, when, and on what side; How, at the first assault, the walls are won, And with Orlando who the palm divide, Lament not that I now shall leave unshown, Since for short time I lay my tale aside. In the meanwhile, how fierce an overthrow The Moors received in France, be pleased to know. LXVI Well nigh abandoned was their royal lord In his worst peril; for to Arles again Had gone, with many of the paynim horde, The sage Sobrino and the king of Spain; Who, for the deemed the land unsafe, aboard Their barks sought refuge, with a numerous train, Barons and cavaliers, that served the Moor; Who moved by their example put from shore. LXVII Yet royal Agramant the fight maintains; But when he can no longer make a stand, Turns from the combat, and directly strains For Arles, not far remote, upon the strand. Him Rabican pursues, with flowing reins, Whom Aymon's daughter drives with heel and hand. Him would she slay, through whom so often crost, That martial maid had her Rogero lost. LXVIII Marphisa by the same desire was stirred, Who had her thoughts on tardy vengeance placed, For her dead sire; and as she fiercely spurred, Made her hot courser feel his rider's haste. But neither martial maid, amid that herd Of flying Moors, so well the monarch chased, As to o'ertake him in his swift retreat, First into Arles, and then aboard his fleet. LXIX As two fair generous pards, that from some crag Together dart, and stretch across the plain; When they perceive that vigorous goat or stag, Their nimble quarry, is pursued in vain, As if ashamed they in that chase did lag, Return repentant and in high disdain: So, with a sigh, return those damsels two, When they the paynim king in safety view: LXX Yet therefore halt not, but in fury go Amid that crowd, which flies, possest with dread; Feeling, now here, now there, at every blow, Many that never more uprear their head. To evil pass was brought the broken foe; For safety was not even for them that fled: Since Agramant, a sure retreat to gain, Bade shut the city-gate which faced the plain; LXXI And bade on Rhone break all the bridges down. Unhappy people, ever held as cheap -- Weighed with the tyrant's want who wears a crown -- As worthless herd of goats or silly sheep! These in the sea, those in the river drown; And those with blood the thirsty fallows steep. The Franks few prisoners made, and many slew; For ransom in that battle was for few. LXXII Of the great multitude of either train, Christened or paynim, killed in that last fight, Though in unequal parts (for, of the slain, By far more Saracens were killed in flight, By hands of those redoubted damsels twain), Signs even to this day remain in sight: For, hard by Arles, where sleeps the lazy Rhone, The plain with rising sepulchres is strown. LXXIII Meanwhile his heavy ships of deepest draught King Agramant had made put forth to sea, Leaving some barks in port -- his lightest craft -- For them that would aboard his navy flee: He stays two days, while they the stragglers waft, And, for the winds are wild and contrary, On the third day, to sail he give command, In trust to make return to Africk's land. LXXIV Royal Marsilius, in that fatal hour, Fearing the costs will fall upon his Spain, And that the clouds, which big with tempest lower, In the end will burst upon his fields and grain, Makes for Valentia; where he town and tower Begins to fortify with mickle pain; And for that war prepares, which after ends In the destruction of himself and friends. LXXV King Agramant his sails for Africk bent: His barks ill-armed and almost empty go; Empty of men, but full of discontent, In that three-fourths had perished by the foe. As cruel some, as weak and proud some shent Their king, and (as still happens in like woe) All hate him privily; but, for they fear His fury, in his presence mute appear. LXXVI Yet sometimes two or three their lips unclose, -- Some knot of friends, where each on each relies -- And their pent choler and their rage expose: Yet Agramant beneath the illusion lies, That each will love and pity overflows; And this befalls, because he still espies False faces, hears but voices that applaud, And nought but adulation, lies and fraud. LXXVII Not in Biserta's port his host to land Was the sage king of Africa's intent, Who had sure news that shore by Nubia's band Was held, but he so far above it meant To steer his Moorish squadron, that the strand Should not be steep or rugged for descent: There would he disembark, and thence would aid Forthwith his people, broken and dismaid. LXXVIII But favoured not by his foul destiny Was that intention, provident and wise; Which willed the fleet, from leaves of greenwood tree, Produced upon the beach in wondrous guise, That, bound for France, now ploughed the foaming sea, Should meet the king at night; that from surprise In that dark, dismal hour, amid his crew Worse panic and disorder might ensue. LXXIX Not yet to him have tidings been conveyed, That squadrons of such force the billows plow: Nor would he have believed in him who said, A hundred barks had sprung from one small bough; And hence for Africa the king had weighed, Not fearing to encounter hostile prow; Nor has he watchmen in his tops to spy, And make report of what they hence descry. LXXX `Twas so those ships, by England's peer supplied To Dudon, manned with good and armed crew, Which see that Moorish fleet at eventide, And that strange armament forthwith pursue, Assailed them unawares, and, far, and wide, Among those barks their grappling-irons threw, And linked by chains, to their opponents clung, When known for Moors and foemen by their tongue. LXXXI In bearing down, impelled by winds that blow Propitious to the Danish chief's intent, Those weighty ships so shocked the paynim foe, That many vessels to the bottom went; Then, taxing wits and hands, to work them woe, Them with fire, sword, and stones the Christians shent; Which on their ships in such wide ruin pour, Like tempest never vext the sea before. LXXXII Bold Dudon's men, to whom unwonted might And daring was imparted from on high, (Since the hour was come the paynims to requite For more than one ill deed,) from far and nigh, The Moors so pestilently gall and smite, Agramant finds no shelter; from the sky Above, thick clouds of whistling arrows strike; Around gleam hook and hatchet, sword and pike. LXXXIII The king hears huge and heavy stones descend, From charged machine or thundering engine sent, Which, falling, poop and prow and broadside rend, Opening to ravening seas a mighty vent; And more than all the furious fires offend, Fires that are quickly kindled, slowly spent, The wretched crews would fain that danger shun, And ever into direr peril run. LXXXIV One headlong plunged, pursued by fire and sword, And perished mid the waters, one who wrought Faster with arms and feet, his passage oared To other barque, already overfraught: But she repulsed the wretch that fain would board; Whose hand, which too importunately sought To clamber, grasped the side, while his lopt arm And body stained the wave with life-blood warm. LXXXV Him, that to save his life i' the waters thought, Or, at the worst, to perish with less pain, (Since swimming profited the caitiff nought, And he perceived his strength and courage drain) To the hungry fires from which the refuge sought, The fear of drowning hurries back again: He grasps a burning plank, and in the dread Of dying either death, by both is sped. LXXXVI This vainly to the sea resorts, whom spear Or hatchet, brandished close at hand, dismay; For stone or arrow following in his rear, Permit the craven to make little way. But haply, while it yet delights your ear, 'Twere well and wisely done to end my lay, Rather than harp upon the theme so long As to annoy you with a tedious song. CANTO 40 ARGUMENT To fly the royal Agramant is fain, And sees Biserta burning far away; But landing finds the royal Sericane, Who of his faith gives goodly warrant; they Defy Orlando, backed by champions twain; Whom bold Gradasso firmly trusts to slay. For seven kings' sake, fast prisoners to their foes, Rogero and the Dane exchange rude blows. I The diverse chances of that sea-fight dread, Here to rehearse would take a weary while; And to discourse to you upon this head, Great son of Hercules, were to Samos' isle To carry earthen vessels, as 'tis said, To Athens owls, and crocodiles the Nile. In that, my lord, by what is vouched to me, Such things you saw, such things made others see. II Your faithful people gazed on a long show, That night and day, wherein they crowded stood, As in a theatre, and hemmed on Po Twixt fire and sword, the hostile navies viewed. What outcries may be heard, what sounds of woe, How rivers may run red with human blood, In suchlike combat, in how many a mode Men die, you saw, and you to many showed. III I saw not, I, who was compelled to course, Evermore changing nags, six days before, To Rome, in heat and haste, some helpful force Of him our mighty pastor to implore. But, after, need was none of foot or horse, For so the lion's beak and claws you tore, From that day unto this I hear not said That he more trouble in your land has bread. IV But Trotto, present at this victory, Afranio, Moro, Albert, Hannibal, Zerbinat, Bagno, the Ariostos three, Assured me of the mighty feat withal, Certified after by that ensignry, Suspended from the holy temple's wall, And fifteen galleys at our river-side, Which with a thousand captive barks I spied. V He that those wrecks and blazing fires discerned, And such sore slaughter, under different shows, Which -- venging us for hall and palace burned -- While bark remained, raged wide among the foes, Might also deem how Africk's people mourned, With Agramant, mid diverse deaths and woes, On that dark night, when the redouted Dane Assaulted in mid sea the Moorish train. VI 'Twas night, nor gleam was anywhere descried, When first the fleets in furious strife were blended; But when lit sulphur, pitch and tar from side And poop and prow into the sky ascended, And the destructive wild-fire, scattered wide, Fed upon ship and shallop ill defended, The things about them all descried so clear That night was changed to day, as 'twould appear. VII Hence Agramant, that by the dark deceived, Had rated not so high the foes' array, Nor to encounter such a force believed, But would, if 'twere opposed, at last give way, When that wide darkness cleared, and he perceived (What least he weened upon the first affray) That twice as many were the ships he fought, As his own Moorish barks, took other thought. VIII Into a boat he with some few descends, Brigliador and some precious things, to flee; And so, twixt ship and ship, in silence wends, Until he finds himself in safer sea, Far from his own; whom fiery Dudon shends, Reduced to sad and sore extremity; Them steel destroys, fires burn, and waters drown; While he, that mighty slaughter's cause, is flown. IX Agramant flies, and with him old Sobrine, Agramant grieving he had not believed, What time that sage foresaw with eye divine, And told the woe wherewith he is aggrieved. But turn me to the valiant paladine, Who, before other aid can be received, Counsels the duke Biserta to destroy; That it no more may Christian France annoy. X And hence in public order was it said, The camp should to its arms the third day stand; For this, it was with many barks bested; For all were placed not at the Dane's command. That fleet the worthy Sansonetto led, (As good a warrior he by sea as land) Which a mile off the port, and overight Biserta, now was anchored by the knight. XI Orlando and the duke, like Christians true, Which dare no danger without God for guide, That fast and prayer be made their army through, Ordain by proclamation to be cried; And that upon the third day, when they view The signal, all shall bown them, far and wide, Biserta's royal city to attack, Which they, when taken, doom to fire and sack. XII And so, when now devoutly have been done Vigil and vow, and holy prayer and fast, Kin, friends, and those to one another known, Together feast; who, when with glad repast Their wasted bodies were refreshed, begun To embrace and weep; and acts and speeches past, Upon the banquet's close, amid those crews Such as best friends, about to sever, use. XIII The holy priests within Biserta's wall, Pray with their grieving people, and in tears, Aye beat their bosoms, and for succour call Upon their Mahomet, who nothing hears. What vigils, offerings, and what gifts withal Were promised silently, amid their fears! What temples, statues, images were vowed, In memory of their bitter woes, aloud! XIV And, when the cadi hath his blessing said, The people arms and to the rampart hies. As yet reposing in her Tithon's bed Aurora was, and dusky were the skies; When to their posts, their several troops to head, Here Sansonetto, there Astolpho flies. And when they hear Orlando's signal blown Assault with furious force Biserta's town. XV Washed by the sea, upon two quarters, were The city walls, two stood on the dry shore, Of a construction excellent and rare, Wherein was seen the work of days of yore: Of other bulwarks was the town nigh bare; For since Branzardo there the sceptre bore; Few masons at command, and little space That monarch had to fortify the place. XVI The Nubian king is charged by England's peer, With sling and arrow so the Moors to gall, That none upon the works shall dare appear; And that, protected by the ceaseless fall Of stone and dart, in safety cavalier And footman may approach the very wall; Who loaded, some with plank, with rock-stone some, And some with beam, or weightier burden, come. XVII This and that other thing the Nubians bore, And by degrees filled-up that channel wide, Whose waters were cut off the day before, So that in many parts the ooze was spied. Filled is the ditch in haste from shore to shore, And forms a level to the further side. Cheering the footmen on the works to mount, Stand Olivier, Astolpho, and the Count. XVIII The Nubian upon hope of gain intent, Impatient of delay, nor heeding how With pressing perils they were compassed, went Protected by the sheltering boar and sow. With battering ram, and other instrument, To break the gate and make the turret bow, Speedily to the city wall they post, Nor unprovided find the paynim host. XIX For steel, and fire, and roof, and turret there, In guise of tempest on the Nubians fell, Which plank and beam from those dread engines tear, Made for annoyance of the infidel. In the ill beginning, and while dim the air, Much injury the christened host befell; But when the sun from his rich mansion breaks, Fortune the faction of the Moor forsakes. XX The assault is reinforced on every side, By Count Orlando, both by sea and land: The fleet, with Sansonetto for its guide, Entered the harbour, and approached the strand; And sorely they with various engines plied, With arrows and with slings, the paynim band; And sent the assailants scaling-ladder, spear, And naval stores, and every needful gear. XXI Orlando, Oliviero, Brandimart, And he, in air so daring heretofore, Do fierce and furious battle on that part, Which lies the furthest inland from the shore: Each leads a portion of those Aethiops swart, Ordered in equal bands beneath the four, Who at the walls, the gateways, or elsewhere, All give of prowess shining proofs and rare. XXII So better could be seen each warrior's claim, That in confused in combat there and here. Who of reward is worthy, who of shame, To a thousand and to watchful eyes is clear. Dragged upon wheels are towers of wooden frame, And others well-trained elephants uprear, Which so o'ertop the turrets of the foe, Those bulwarks stand a mighty space below. XXIII Brandimart to the walls a ladder brought, Climbed, and to climb withal to others cried: Many succeed, with bold assurance fraught, For none can fear beneath so good a guide: Nor was there one who marked, nor one who thought Of marking, if such weight it would abide. Brandimart only, on the foes intent, Clambered and fought, and grasped a battlement. XXIV Here clang with hand and foot the daring knight, Sprang on the embattled wall, and whirled his sword; And, showing mickle tokens of his might, The paynims charged, o'erthrew, hewed down and gored: But all at once, o'erburthened with that weight, The ladder breaks beneath the assailing horde; And, saving Brandimart, the Christians all Into the ditch with headlong ruin fall. XXV Not therefore blenched the valiant cavalier, Nor thought he of retreat, albeit was none Of his own band that followed in his rear; Although he was a mark for all the town. Of many prayed, the warrior would not hear The prayer to turn; but mid the foes leapt down; I say, into the city took a leap, Where the town-wall was thirty cubits deep. XXVI He, without any harm on the hard ground, As if on feathers or on straw, did light; And, like cloth shred and shorn, the paynims round In fury shreds and shears the valiant knight. Now springs on these, now those, with vigorous bound; And these and those betake themselves to flight. They that without have seen the leap he made, Too late to save him deem all human aid. XXVII Throughout the squadrons a deep rumour flew, A murmur and a whisper, there and here, From mouth to mouth, the Fame by motion grew, And told and magnified the tale of fear: For upon many quarters stormed that crew, Where good Orlando was, where Olivier, Where Otho's son, she flew on pinions light, Nor ever paused upon her nimble flight. XXVIII Those warriors, and Orlando most of all, Who love and prize the gentle Brandimart, Hearing, should they defy upon that call, They would from so renowned a comrade part, Their scaling-ladders plant, and mount the wall With rivalry, which shows the kingly heart; Who carry all such terror in their look, That, at the very sight, their foemen shook. XXIX As on loud ocean, lashed by boisterous gale The billows the rash bark assault, and still -- Now threatening poop, now threatening prow -- assail, And, in their rage and fury, fain would fill; The pilot sighs and groans, dismaid and pale, -- He that should aid, and has not heart or skill -- At length a surge the pinnace sweeps and swallows, And wave on wave in long succession follows; XXX Thus when those win the wall, they leave a space So wide, that who beneath their conduct go, Safely may follow them; for at its base, A thousand ladders have been reared below. Meanwhile the battering rams, in many a place, Have breached that wall, and with such mighty blow, The bold assailant can, from many a part, Bear succour to the gallant Brandimart. XXXI Even with that rage wherewith the stream that reigns, The king of rivers -- when he breaks his mound, And makes himself a way through Mantuan plains -- The greasy furrows and glad harvests, round, And, with the sheepcotes, flock, and dogs and swains Bears off, in his o'erwhelming waters drowned; Over the elm's high top the fishes glide, Where fowls erewhile their nimble pinions plied; XXXII Even with that rage rushed in the impetuous band, Where many breaches in the wall were wrought, To slay with burning torch and trenchant brand, That people, which to evil pass were brought. Murder and rapine there, and violent hand Dipt deep in blood and plunder, in a thought, Destroy that sumptuous and triumphant town, Which of all Africk wore the royal crown. XXXIII Filled with dead bodies of the paynim horde, Blood issued from so many a gaping wound, A fouler fosse was formed and worse to ford Than girdles the infernal city round. From house to house the fire in fury poured; Mosque, portico, and palace, went to ground; And spoiled and empty mansions with the clang, Of beaten breast, and groan and outcry rang. XXXIV The victors, laden with their mighty prey, From that unhappy city's gates are gone, One with fair vase, and one with rich array, Or silver plate from ancient altar won. The mother this, that bore the child away; Rapes and a thousand evil things were done. Of much, and what they cannot hinder, hear Renowned Orlando and fair England's peer. XXXV By Olivier, amid that slaughter wide, Fell Bucifaro of the paynim band; And -- every hope and comfort cast aside -- Branzardo slew himself with his own brand; Pierced with three wounds whereof he shortly died, Folvo was taken by Astolpho's hand; The monarchs three, intrusted to whose care Agramant's African dominions were. XXXVI Agramant, who had left without a guide His fleet this while, and with Sobrino fled, Wept over his Biserta when he spied Those fires that on the royal city fed. When nearer now the king was certified, How in that cruel strife his town had sped, He thought of dying, and himself had slain, But that Sobrino's words his arm restrain. XXXVII "What victory, my lord," (Sobrino cries) "Could better than thy death the Christian cheer, Whence he might hope to joy in quiet wise Fair Africa, from all annoyance clear? Thy being yet alive this hope denies; Hence shall he evermore have cause for fear. For well the foeman knows, save thou art gone, He for short time will fill thine Africk throne. XXXVIII "Thy subjects by thy death deprived will be Of hope, the only good they have in store, Thou, if thou liv'st, I trust, shalt set us free, Redeem from trouble, and to joy restore. Captives for ever, if thou diest, are we; Africk is tributary evermore. Although not for thyself, yet not to give My liege, annoyance to thy followers, live. XXXIX "The soldan, he thy neighbour, will be won, Surely with men and money thee to aid: By him with evil eye King Pepin's son, So strong in Africa, will be surveyed. All efforts to restore thee to thy throne By Norandine, thy kinsman, will be made. Turk, Persian and Armenian, Arab, Mede, If prayed, will all assist thee in thy need." XL In such and such like words, with wary art, With hope of quickly winning back his reign, Sobrino soothed the king, while in his heart He other thought perchance did entertain. Well knows he to what pass, what evil mart That lord is brought; how often sighs in vain, Whoe'er foregoes the sceptre which he swayed, And to barbarians hath recourse for aid. XLI Jugurtha, martial Hannibal, and more In ancient times, good proof of this afford: In our own era, Lewis, hight the Moor, Delivered into other Lewis' ward. Your brother, Duke Alphonso, wiser lore Learned from their fate; -- I speak to you, my lord -- Wont them as very madmen to decry, That more on others than themselves rely; XLII And therefore aye, throughout that warfare drear Waged by the pontiff, in his fierce disdain, Albeit upon his feeble powers the peer Could ill depend, though from Italian plain Was driven the friend that aided him whilere, And by the foe possessed was Naples' reign, He against menace, against promise steeled, Ne'er to another would his dukedom yield. XLIII Eastward King Agramant had turned his prow; And seaward steered his bark, of Africk wide; When from the land a wicked wind 'gan blow, And took the reeling vessel on one side: The master, seated at the helm, his brow Raised towards heaven, and to the monarch cried: "I see so fell and fierce a tempest form, Our pinnace cannot face the pelting storm. XLIV "If you, my lords, will listen to my lore, An isle is on our left-hand; and to me It seems that it were well to make that shore Till overblown the tempest's fury be." To his advice assents the royal Moor, And makes the larboard land, from peril free; Which, for the sailor's weal, when tempests rise, 'Twixt Vulcan's lofty forge and Africk lies. XLV With juniper and myrtle overgrown, Of habitations is that islet bare; A pleasing solitude; and where alone Harbour wild stag and roebuck, deer and hare; And, save to fishermen, is little known, That oftentimes on the shorn brambles there Hang their moist nets; meanwhile, untroubled sleep The scaly fishes in their quiet deep. XLVI Here other vessel, sheltered from the main, They found, by tempest tost upon that land, Which had conveyed the king of Sericane Erewhile from Arles; on one and the other hand, In reverent wise and worthy of the twain, Those valiant kings embraced upon the strand: For friends the monarchs were, and late before The walls of Paris, arms together bore. XLVII With much displeasure Sericana's knight Heard by King Agramant his griefs displaid; Then him consoled, and in his cause to fight, Like courteous king, the kindly offer made: But brooked nat, that to Egypt's people, light And lacking faith, he should resort for aid. "That thither it is perilous to wend, Exiles (he said) are warned by Pompey's end. XLVIII "And for Senapus' Aethiopian crew Have come beneath Astolpho, as ye show, To wrest your fruitful Africa from you, And burnt and laid her chiefest city low. And with their squadrons is Orlando, who Was wandering void of wit, short while ago, The fittest cure for all, whereby to scape Out of this trouble I, meseems, can shape. XLIX "I, for your love, will undertake the quest, The Count in single combat to appear; He vainly would, I wot, with me contest, If wholly made of copper or of steel. I rate the Christian church, were he at rest, As wolf rates lambs, when hungering for his meal. Next have I thought how of the Nubian band -- A brief and easy task -- to free your land. L "I will make other Nubians, they that hold Another faith, divided by Nile's course, And Arabs and Macrobians (rich in gold And men are these, and those in herds of horse), Chaldaean, Perse, and many more, controlled By my good sceptre, in such mighty force, Will make them war upon the Nubians' reign, Those reavers shall not in your land remain." LI Gradasso's second offer seemed to be Most opportune to King Troyano's son; And much he blest the chances of the sea, Which him upon that desert isle had thrown: Yet would not upon any pact agree, -- Nay, not to repossess Biserta's town -- Gradasso should for him in fight contend; Deeming too sore his honour 'twoud offend. LII "If Roland is to be defied, more due The battle is to me (that king replies) I am prepared for it; and let God do His will by me, in good or evil wise." " -- Follow my mode; another mode and new, Which comes into my mind" (Gradasso cries), "Let both of us together wage this fight Against Orlando and another knight." LIII "So not left out, I care not, if I be The first or last (said Agramant): I know In arms no better can I find than thee, Though I should seek a comrade, high or low, And what (Sobrino cried) becomes of me? I should be more expert if old in show; And evermore in peril it is good, Force should have Counsel in his neighbourhood." LIV Stricken in years, yet vigorous was the sage, And well had proved himself with sword and spear; And said, he found himself in gray old age, Such as in green and supple youth whilere. They own his claim, and for an embassage Forthwith a courier find, then bid him steer For Africa, where camped the Christians lie, And Count Orlando on their part defy; LV With equal number of armed knights to be, Matching his foes, on Lampedosa's shore; Where on all quarters that circumfluent sea, By which they are inisled, is heard to roar. The paynim messenger unceasingly, Like one in needful haste, used sail and oar, Till he found Roland in Biserta, where The host beneath his eye their plunder share. LVI From those three monarchs to the cavalier The invitation was in public told; So pleasing to Anglante's valiant peer, To the herald he was liberal of his gold: From his companions had he heard whilere That Durindane was in Gradasso's hold: Hence, to retrieve that faulchion from the foe, To India had the Count resolved to go: LVII Deeming he should not find that king elsewhere, Who, so he heard, had sailed from the French shore. A nearer place is offered now; and there He hopes Gradasso shall his prize restore; Moved also by Almontes' bugle rare, To accept the challenge which the herald bore; Nor less by Brigliadoro; since he knew In Agramant's possession were the two. LVIII He chose for his companions in the fight The faithful Brandimart and Olivier: Well has he proved the one and the other's might; Knows he alike to both is passing dear. Good horses and good armour seeks the knight And goodly swords and lances, far and near, For him and his; meseems to you is known How none of those three warriors had his own. LIX Orlando (as I oft have certified) In fury, his had scattered wide and far; Rodomont took the others', which beside The river, locked in that high turret are. Few throughout Africa could they provide; As well because to France, in that long war, King Agramant had born away the best, As because Africa but few possest. LX What could be had of armour, rusted o'er And brown with age, Orlando bids unite; Meanwhile with his companions on the shore, He walks, discoursing on the future fight. So wandering from their camp three miles and more, It chanced that, turning towards the sea their sight, Under full sail approaching, they descried A helmless barque, with nought her course to guide. LXI She, without pilot, without crew, alone, As wind and fortune ordered it, was bound: The vessel neared the shore, with sails full-blown, Furrowing the waves, until she took the ground. But ere of these three warriors more be shown, The love wherewith I to the Child am bound, To his story brings me back, and bids record What past 'twixt him and Clermont's warlike lord. LXII I spake of that good pair of warriors, who Had both retreated from the martial fray, Beholding pact and treaty broken through, And every troop and band in disarray. Which leader to his oath was first untrue, And was occasion of such evil, they Study to learn of all the passing train; King Agramant or the Emperor Charlemagne. LXIII Meanwhile a servant of the Child's, at hand, -- Faithful, expert and wary was the wight, Nor in the shock of either furious band, Had ever of his warlike lord lost sight -- To bold Rogero bore his horse and brand, That he might aid his comrades now in flight. Rogero backed the steed and grasped the sword; But not in battle mixed that martial lord. LXIV Thence he departed; but he first renewed His compact with Montalban's knight -- that so His Agramant convinced of perjury stood -- Him and his evil sect he would forego. That day no further feats of hardihood Rogero will perform against the foe: He but demands of all that make for Arles, Who first broke faith, King Agramant or Charles? LXV From all he hears repeated, far and near, That Agramant had broke the promise plight: He loves that king, and from his side to veer, For this, believes would be no error light. The Moors were broke and scattered (this whilere Has been rehearsed) and from the giddy height Of HER revolving wheel were downward hurled, Who at her pleasure rolls this nether world. LXVI Rogero ponders if he should remain, Or rather should his sovereign lord attend: Love for his lady fits him with a rein And bit, which lets him not to Africk wend; Wheels him, and to a counter course again Spurs him, and threats his restive mood to shend, Save he maintains the treaty, and the troth Pledged to the paladin with solemn oath. LXVII A wakeful, stinging care, on the other side Scourges and goads no less the cavalier; Lest, if he now from Agramant divide, He should be taxed with baseness or with fear. If many deem it well he should abide, To many and many it would ill appear: Many would say, that oaths unbinding are, Which 'tis unlawful and unjust to swear. LXVIII He all that day and the ensuing night Remains alone, and so the following day; Forever sifting in his doubtful sprite, If it be better to depart or stay: Lastly for Agramant decides the knight; To him in Africk will he wend his way: Moved by his love for his liege-lady sore, But moved by honour and by duty more. LXIX He made for Arles, where yet he hoped would ride The fleet which him to Africa might bear; Nor in the port nor offing ships espied, Nor Saracens save dead beheld he there. For Agramant had swept the roadstead wide, And burnt what vessels in the haven were. Rogero takes the road, when his hope fails, Along the sea-beat shore toward Marseilles. LXX Upon some boat he hoped to lay his hand, Which him for love or force should thence convey. Already Ogier's son had made the land, With the barbarians' fleet, his captive prey. You could not there have cast a grain of sand Between those vessels; moored closely lay The mighty squadrons to that harbour brought, With conquerors these, and those with prisoners fraught. LXXI The vessels of the Moor that were not made The food of fire and water on that night (Saving some few that fled) were all conveyed Safe to Marseilles by the victorious knight Seven of those kings, that Moorish sceptres swayed, Who, having seen their squadron put to flight, With their seven ships had yielded to the foe, Stood mute and weeping, overwhelmed with woe. LXXII Dudon had issued forth upon dry land, Bent to find Charlemagne that very day; And of the Moorish spoil and captive band Made in triumphal pomp a long display. The prisoners all were ranged upon the strand, And round them stood their Nubian victors gay; Who, shouting in his praise, with loud acclaim, Made all that region ring with Dudon's name. LXXIII Rogero, when from far the ships he spied, Believed they were the fleet of Agramant, And, to know further, pricked his courser's side; Then, nearer, mid those knights of mickle vaunt, Nasamon's king a prisoner he desired, Agricalt, Bambirago, Farurant, Balastro, Manilardo, and Rimedont; Who stood with weeping eyes and drooping front. LXXIV In their unhappy state to leave that crew The Child, who loved those monarchs, cannot bear; That useless is the empty hand he knew; That where force is not, little profits prayer. He couched his lance, their keeper overthrew, Then proved his wonted might with faulchion bare; And in a moment stretched upon the strand Above a hundred of the Nubian band. LXXV The noise Sir Dudon hears, the slaughter spies, But knows not who the stranger cavalier: He marks how, put to rout, his people flies; With anguish, with lament and mighty fear; Quickly for courser, shield, and helmet cries, (Bosom, and arms, and thighs, were mailed whilere) Leaps on his horse, nor -- having seized his lance -- Forgets he is a paladin of France. LXXVI He called on every one to stand aside, And with the galling spur his courser prest; Meanwhile a hundred other foes have died, And filled with hope was every prisoner's breast; And as Rogero holy Dudon spied Approach on horseback, (footmen were the rest,) Esteeming him their head, he charged the knight, Impelled by huge desire to prove his might. LXXVII Already, on his part, had moved the Dane; But when he saw the Child without a spear, He flang is own far from him, in disdain To take such vantage of the cavalier. Admiring at Sir Dudon's courteous vein, "Belie himself he cannot," said the peer, "And of those perfect warriors must be one That as the paladins of France are known. LXXVIII "If I my will can compass, he shall shew His name, to me, ere further deed be done." He made demand; and in the stranger knew Dudon, the Danish Ogier's valiant son: He from Rogero claimed an equal due, And from the Child as courteous answer won. -- Their names on either side announced -- the foes A bold defiance speak, and come to blows. LXXIX Bold Dudon had with him that iron mace, Which won him deathless fame in many a fight: Wherewith he proved him fully of the race Of that good Danish warrior, famed for might. That best of faulchions, which through iron case Of cuirass or of casque was wont to bite, Youthful Rogero from the scabbard snatched, And with the martial Dane his valour matched. LXXX But for the gentle youth was ever willed To offend his lady-love the least he could, And knew he should offend her, if he spilled, In that disastrous battle, Dudon's blood (Well in the lineage of French houses skilled He wist of Beatrice's sisterhood, -- Bradamant's mother she -- with Armelline, The mother of the Danish paladine). LXXXI He therefore never thrust in that affray, And rarely smote an edge on plate and chain. Now warding off the mace, now giving way, Before the fall of that descending bane. Turpin believes it in Rogero lay Sir Dudon in few sword-strokes to have slain. Yet never when the Dane his guard foregoes, Save on the faulchion's flat descend the blows. LXXXII The flat as featly as the edge he plies, Of that good faulchion forged of stubborn grain; And, at strange blindman's bluff, in weary wise, Hammers on Dudon with such might and main, He often dazzles so the warrior's eyes, That hardly he his saddle can maintain. But to win better audience for my rhyme, My canto I defer to other time. CANTO 41 ARGUMENT His prisoners to the Child the Danish peer Consigns, who, homeward bound, are wrecked at sea; By swimming he escapes, and a sincere And faithful servant now of Christ is he. Meanwhile bold Brandimart, and Olivier, And Roland fiercely charge the hostile three. Sobrino is left wounded in the strife; Gradasso and Agramant deprived of life. I The odour which well-fashioned bear or hair, Of that which find and dainty raiment steeps Of gentle stripling, or of damsel fair, -- Who often love awakens, as she weeps -- If it ooze forth and scent the ambient air, And which for many a day its virtue keeps, Well shows, by manifest effects and sure, How perfect was its first perfume and pure. II The drink that to his cost good Icarus drew Of yore his sun-burned sicklemen to cheer, And which ('tis said) lured Celts and Boi through Our Alpine hills, untouched by toil whilere, Well shows that cordial was the draught, when new; Since it preserves its virtue through the year. The tree to which its wintry foliage cleaves, Well shows that verdant were its spring tide leaves. III The famous lineage, for so many years Of courtesy the great and lasting light, Which ever, brightening as it burns, appears To shine and flame more clearly to the sight, Well proves the sire of Este's noble peers Must, amid mortals, have shone forth as bright In all fair gifts which raise men to the sky, As the glad sun mid glittering orbs on high. IV As in his every other feat exprest, Rogero's valiant mind and courteous lore Were showed by tokens clear and manifest, And his high mindedness shone more and more; -- So toward the Dane those virtues stood confest, With whom (as I rehearsed to you before) He had belied his mighty strength and breath; For pity loth to put that lord to death. V The Danish warrior was well certified, No wish to slay him had the youthful knight, Who spared him now, when open was his side; Now, when so wearied he no more could smite. When finally he knew, and plain descried Rogero scrupled to put forth his might, If with less vigour and less prowess steeled, At least in courtesy he would not yield. VI "Pardi, sir, make we peace;" (he said) "success In this contention cannot fall to me -- Cannot be mine; for I myself confess Conquered and captive to thy courtesy." To him Rogero answered, "And no less I covet peace, than 'tis desired by thee. But this upon condition, that those seven Are freed from bondage, and to me are given." VII With that he showed those seven whereof I spake, Bound and with drooping heads, a sad array; Adding, he must to him no hindrance make, Who would those kings to Africa convey. And Dudon thus allowed the Child to take Those seven, and him allowed to bear away A bark as well; what likes him best he chooses, Amid those vessels, and for Africk looses. VIII He looses bark and sail; and in bold wise Trusting the fickle wind, to seaward stood. At first on her due course the vessel flies, And fills the pilot full of hardihood. The beach retreats, and from the sailors' eyes So fades, the sea appears a shoreless flood. Upon the darkening of the day, the wind Displays its fickle and perfidious kind. IX It shifts from poop to beam, from beam to prow, And even there short season doth remain: The reeling ship confounds the pilot; now Struck fore, now aft, now on her beam again. Threatening the billows rise, with haughty brow, And Neptune's white herd lows above the main. As many deaths appear to daunt that rout, As waves which beat their troubled bark about. X Now blows the wind in front, and now in rear, And drives this wave an-end, that other back; Others the reeling vessel's side o'erpeer; And every billow threatens equal wrack. The pilot sighs, confused and pale with fear; Vainly he calls aloud to shift the tack, To strike or jibe the yard; and with his hand, Signs to the crew the thing he would command. XI But sound or signal little boots; the eye Sees not amid the dim and rainy night; The voice unheard ascends into the sky, -- The sky, which with a louder larum smite The troubled sailors' universal cry, And roar of waters, which together fight. Unheard is every hest, above, below, Starboard or larboard, upon poop or prow. XII In the strained tackle sounds a hollow roar, Wherein the struggling wind its fury breaks; The forked lightning flashes evermore, With fearful thunder heaven's wide concave shakes. One to the rudder runs, one grasps an oar; Each to his several office him betakes. One will make fast, another will let go; Water into the water others throw. XIII Lo! howling horribly, the sounding blast, Which Boreas in his sudden fury blows, Scourges with tattered sail the reeling mast: Almost as high as heaven the water flows: The oars are broken; and so fell and fast That tempest pelts, the prow to leeward goes; And the ungoverned vessel's battered side Is undefended from the foaming tide. XIV Fallen on her starboard side, on her beam ends, About to turn keel uppermost, she lies. Meanwhile, his soul to Heaven each recommends, Surer than sure to sink, with piteous cries. Scathe upon scathe malicious Fortune sends, And when one woe is weathered, others rise. O'erstrained, the vessel splits; and through her seams In many a part the hostile water streams. XV A fierce assault and cruel coil doth keep Upon all sides that wintry tempest fell. Now to their sight so high the billows leap, It seems that these to heaven above would swell; Now, plunging with the wave, they sink so deep, That they appear to spy the gulfs of hell. Small hope there is or none: with faultering breath They gaze upon inevitable death. XVI On a despiteous sea, that livelong night, They drifted, as the wind in fury blew. The furious wind that with the dawning light Should have abated, gathered force anew. Lo! a bare rock, ahead, appears in sight, Which vainly would the wretched band eschew; Whom towards that cliff, in their despite, impel The raging tempest and the roaring swell. XVII Three times and four the pale-faced pilot wrought The tiller with a vigorous push to sway; And for the bark a surer passage sought: But the waves snapt and bore the helm away. To lower, or ease the bellying canvas aught The sailors had no power; nor time had they To mend that ill, or counsel what was best; For them too hard the mortal peril prest. XVIII Perceiving now that nothing can defend Their bark from wreck on that rude rock and bare, All to their private aims alone attend, And only to preserve their life have care. Who quickest can, into the skiff descend; But in a thought so overcrowded are, Through those so many who invade the boat, That, gunwale-deep, she scarce remains afloat. XIX Rogero, on beholding master, mate, And men abandoning the ship with speed, In doublet, as he is, sans mail and plate, Hopes in the skiff, a refuge in that need: But finds her overcharged with such a weight, And afterwards so many more succeed, That the o'erwhelming wave the pinnace drown, And she with all her wretched freight goes down; XX Goes down, and, foundering, drags with her whoe'er Leaving the larger bark, on her relies. Then doleful shrieks are heard, 'mid sob and tear, Calling for succour on unpitying skies: But for short space that shrilling cry they rear; For, swoln with rage and scorn, the waters rise, And in a moment wholly stop the vent Whence issues that sad clamour and lament. XXI One sinks outright, no more to reappear; Some rise, and bounding with the billows go: Their course, with head uplifted, others steer; An arm, an unshod leg, those others show: Rogero, who the tempest will not fear, Springs upward to the surface from below; And little distant sees that rock, in vain Eschewed by him and his attendant train. XXII Himself with hands and feet the warrior rows, Hoping by force thereof to win the shore; Breast boldly the importunate flood, and blows With his unwearied breath the foam before. Waxing meanwhile, the troubled water rose, And from the rock the abandoned vessel bore; Quitted of those unhappy men, who die (So curst their lot) the death from which they fly. XXIII Alas! for man's deceitful thoughts and blind! The ship escaped from wreck, where hope was none; When master and when men their charge resigned, And let the vessel without guidance run. It would appear the wind has changed its mind, On seeing all that sailed in her are gone; And blows the vessel from those shallows free, Through better course, into a safer sea. XXIV She, having drifted wildly with her guide, Without him, made directly Africk's strand, Two or three miles of waste Biserta wide, Upon the quarter facing Egypt's land; And, as the sea went down and the wind died, Stood bedded in that weary waste of sand. Now thither Roland roved, who paced the shore; As I in other strain rehearsed before; XXV And willing to discover if alone, Laden, or light, the stranded vessel were, He, Olivier, and Monodantes' son, Aboard her in a shallow bark repair: Beneath the hatchways they descend, but none Of human kind they see; and only there Find good Frontino, with the trenchant sword And gallant armour of his youthful lord; XXVI Who was so hurried in his hasty flight He had not even time to take his sword; To Orlando known; which, Balisardo hight, Was his erewhile; the tale's upon record, And ye have read it all, as well I wite; How Falerina lost it to that lord, When waste as well her beauteous bowers he laid; And how from him Brunello stole the blade; XXVII And how beneath Carena, on the plain Brunello on Rogero this bestowed. How matchless was that faulchion's edge and grain, To him experience had already showed; I say, Orlando; who was therefore fain, And to heaven's king with grateful thanks o'erflowed; And deemed, and often afterwards so said, Heaven for such pressing need had sent the blade: XXVIII Such pressing need, in that he had to fight With the redoubted king of Sericane; And knew that he, besides his fearful might, Was lord of Bayard and of Durindane. Not knowing them, Anglantes' valiant knight So highly rated not the plate and chain As he that these had proved: they valour were, But valued less as good than rich and fair; XXIX And, for of harness he had little need, Charmed, and against all weapons fortified, To Olivier he left the warlike weed: Not so the sword; which to his waist he tied: To Brandimart Orlando gave the steed: Thus equally that spoil would he divide With his companions twain, in equal share, Who partners in that rich discovery were. XXX Against the day of fight, in goodly gear And new, those warriors seek their limbs to deck. Blazoned upon Orlando's shield appear The burning bold and lofty Babel's wreck. A lyme-dog argent bears Sir Olivier, Couchant, and with the leash upon his neck: The motto; TILL HE COMES: In gilded vest And worthy of himself he will be drest. XXXI Bold Brandimart designed upon the day Of battle, for his royal father's sake, And his own honour, no device more gay Than a dim surcoat to the field to take. By gentle Flordelice for that dark array, Was wrought the fairest facing she could make. With costly jewels was the border sown; Sable the vest, and of one piece alone. XXXII With her own hand the lady wrought that vest, Becoming well the finest plate and chain, Wherein the valiant warrior should be drest, And cloak his courser's croup and chest and mane: But, from that day when she herself addrest Unto this task, till ended was her pain, She showed no sign of gladness; nor this while, Nor after, was she ever seen to smile. XXXIII The heartfelt fear, the torment evermore Of losing Brandimart the dame pursued. She him whilere a hundred times and more Engaged in fierce and fearful fight had viewed; Nor ever suchlike terror heretofore Had blanched her cheek and froze her youthful blood; And this new sense of fear increased her trouble, And made the trembling lady's heart beat double. XXXIV The warriors to the wind their canvas rear, When point device the three accoutred are. Bold Sansonet is left, with England's peer, Intrusted with the faithful army's care. Flordelice, pricked at heart with cruel fear, Filling the heavens with vow, lament and prayer, As far as they by sight can followed be, Follows their sails upon the foaming sea. XXXV Scarce, with much labour, the two captains led Her, gazing on the waters, from the shore, And to the palace drew, where on her bed They left the lady, grieved and trembling sore. Meanwhile upon their quest those others sped, Whom mercy wind and weather seaward bore. Their vessel made that island on the right; The field appointed for so fell a fight. XXXVI Orlando disembarks, with his array, His kinsman Olivier and Brandimart; Who on the side which fronts the eastern ray, Encamp them, and not haply without art. King Agramant arrives that very day, And tents him on the contrary part. But for the sun is sinking fast, forborne Is their encounter till the following morn. XXXVII Until the skies the dawning light receive, Armed servants keep their watch both there and here. The valiant Brandimart resorts that eve Thitherward, where their tents the paynims rear; And parleys, by this noble leader's leave, With Agramant; for they were friends whilere; And, underneath the banner of the Moor, He into France had passed from Africk's shore. XXXVIII After salutes, and joining hand with hand, Fair reasons, as a friend, the faithful knight Pressed on the leader of the paynim band Why he should not the appointed battle fight; And every town -- restored to his command -- Laying 'twixt Nile and Calpe's rocky height, Vowed he, with Roland's license, should receive, If upon Mary's Son he would believe. XXXIX He said: "For loved you were, and are by me, This counsel give I; that I deem it sane, Since I pursue it, you assured must be: Mahound I hold but as an idol vain; In Jesus Christ, the living God I see, And to conduct you in my way were fain; I' the way of safety fain would have you move With me and all those others that I love. XL "In this consists your welfare; counsel none Save this, in your disaster, can avail; And, of all counsels least, good Milo's son To meet in combat, clad in plate and mail; In that the profit, if the field be won, Weighs not against the loss, in equal scale. If you be conqueror, little gain ensues, Yet little loss results not, if you lose. XLI "Were good Orlando and we others slain, Banded with him to conquer or to die; Wherefore, through this, ye should your lost domain Acquire anew, forsooth, I see not, I; Nor is there reason hope to entertain That, if we lifeless on the champaigne lie, Men should be wanting in King Charles's host To guard in Africa his paltriest post." XLII Thus Brandimart to Afick's cavalier; And much would have subjoined; but, on his side, That knight, with angry voice and haughty cheer, The pagan interrupted, and replied: " `Tis sure temerity and madness sheer Moves you and whatsoever wight beside, That counsels matter, be it good or ill, Uncalled a counsellor's duty to fulfil; XLIII "And how to think, from love those counsels flow Which once you bore and bear me, as you say, (To speak the very truth) I do not know, Who with Orlando see you here, this day. I ween that, knowing you are doomed to woe, And marked for the devouring dragon's prey, Ye all mankind would drag to nether hell, In your eternity of pains to dwell. XLIV "If I shall win or lose, remount my throne, Or pass my future days in exile drear, God only knows, whose purpose is unknown To me, in turn, or to Anglantes' peer. Befall what may, by me shall nought be done Unworthy of a king, through shameful fear. If death must be my certain portion, I, Rather than wrong my princely blood, will die. XLV "Ye may depart, who, save ye better play The warrior, in to-morrow's listed fight, Then ye have plaid the embassador to-day, In arms will second ill Anglantes' knight." Agramant ended so his furious say; -- His angry bosom boiling with despite. So said -- the warriors parted, to repose, Till from the neighbouring sea the day arose. XLVI When the first whitening of the dawn was seen, Armed, in a moment leapt on horseback all; Short parley past the puissant foes between. There was no stop; there was no interval; For they have laid in rest their lances keen: But I into too foul a fault should fall Meseems, my lord, if, while their deeds I tell I let Rogero perish in the swell. XLVII Cleaving the flood with nimble hands and feet He swims, amid the horrid surges' roar, On him the threatening wind and tempest beat, But him his harassed conscience vexes more. Christ's wrath he fears; and, since in waters sweet (When time and fair occasion served of yore) He, in his folly, baptism little prized, Fears in these bitter waves to be baptized. XLVIII Those many promises remembered are Whereby he to his lady-love was tied, Those oaths which sworn to good Rinaldo were, And were in nought fulfilled upon his side. To God, in hope that he would hear and spare, That he repented, oftentimes he cried, And, should he land, and scape that mortal scaith, To be a Christian, vowed in heart and faith; XLIX And ne'er, in succour of the Moorish train, With sword or lance, the faithful to offend; And into France, where he to Charlemagne Would render honour due, forthwith to wend; Nor Bradamant with idle words again To cheat, but bring his love to honest end. A miracle it is that, as he vows, He swims more lightly and his vigour grows. L His vigour grows; unwearied is his mind; And still his arms from him the billow throw, This billow followed fast by that behind; Whereof one lifts him high, one sinks him low. Rising and falling, vext by wave and wind, So gains the Child that shore with labour slow; And where the rocky hill slopes seaward most, All drenched and dropping, climbs the rugged coast. LI All the others that had plunged into the flood In the end, o'erwhelmed by those wild waters died. Rogero, as to Providence seemed good, Mounted the solitary islet's side. When safe upon the barren rock he stood, A new alarm the stripling terrified; To be within those narrow bounds confined, And die, with hardship and with hunger pined. LII Yet he with an unconquered heart, intent To suffer what the heavens for him ordained, O'er those hard stones, against that steep ascent, Towards the top with feet intrepid strained; And not a hundred yards had gone, when, bent With years, and with long fast and vigil stained, He worthy of much worship one espied, In hermit's weed, descend the mountain's side; LIII Who cries, on his approaching him, "Saul, Saul, Why persecutest thou my faithful seed?" As whilom said the Saviour to Saint Paul, When (blessed stroke!) he smote him from his steed. "Thou thought'st to pass the sea, nor pay withal; Thought'st to defraud the pilot of his meed. Thou seest that God has arms to reach and smite, When farthest off thou deem'st that God of might." LIV And he, that holiest anchoret, pursued, To whom the night foregoing God did send A vision, as he slumbered, and foreshewed How, thither by his aid the Child should wend; Wherein his past and future life, reviewed, Were seen, as well as his unhappy end; And sons, and grandsons, and his every heir, Fully revealed to that good hermit were. LV That anchoret pursues, and does upbraid Rogero first, and comforts finally: Upbraideth him, because he had delaid Beneath that easy yoke to bend the knee; And what he should have done, when whilom prayed And called of Christ -- then uncompelled and free -- Had done with little grace; nor turned to God Until he saw him threatening with the rod. LVI Then comforts him -- that Christ aye heaven allows To them, that late or early heaven desire; And all those labourers of the Gospel shows, Paid by the vineyard's lord with equal hire. With charity and warm devotion glows, And him instructs the venerable sire, As toward the rocky cell where he resides He with weak steps and slow Rogero guides. LVII Above that hallowed cell, on the hill's brow, A little church receives the rising day; Commodious is the fane and fair enow; Thence to the beach descends a thicket gray, Where fertile and fruit-bearing palm-trees blow, Myrtle, and lowly juniper, and bay, Evermore threaded by a limpid fountain, Which falls with ceaseless murmur from the mountain. LVIII 'Twas well nigh forty years, since on that stone The goodly friar had fixed his quiet seat; Which, there to live a holy life, alone, For him the Saviour chose, as harbourage meet. Pure water was his drink, and, plucked from one, Or the other plant, wild berries were his meat; And hearty and robust, of ailments clear, The holy man had reached his eightieth year. LIX That hermit lit a fire, and heaped the board With different fruits, within his small repair; Wherewith the Child somedeal his strength restored, When he had dried his clothes and dripping hair. After, at better ease, to him God's word And mysteries of our faith expounded were; And the day following, in his fountain clear, That anchoret baptized the cavalier. LX There dwells the young Rogero, well content With what the rugged sojourn does allow; In that the friar showed shortly his intent To send him where he fain would turn his prow. Meanwhile with him he many an argument Handles and often; of God's kingdom now; Now of things appertaining to his case; Now to Rogero's blood, a future race. LXI The Lord, that every thing doth see and hear, Had to that holiest anchoret bewrayed, How he should not exceed the seventh year, Dating from when he was a Christian made; Who for the death of Pinabel whilere, (His lady's deed, but on Rogero laid) As well as Bertolagi's, should be slain By false Maganza's ill and impious train; LXII And, how that treason should be smothered so, No sign thereof should outwardly appear; For where that evil people dealt the blow, They should entomb the youthful cavalier. For this should vengeance follow, albeit slow, Dealt by his consort and his sister dear; And how he by his wife should long be sought, With weary womb, with heavy burden fraught, LXIII 'Twixt Brenta and Athesis, beneath those hills (Which erst the good Antenor so contented, With their sulphureous veins and liquid rills, And mead, and field, with furrows glad indented, That he for these left pools which Xanthus fills; And Ida, and Ascanius long lamented,) Till she a child should in the forests bear, Which little distant from Ateste are; LXIV And how the Child, in might and beauty grown, That, like his sire, Rogero shall be hight, Those Trojans, as of Trojan lineage known, Shall for their lord elect with solemn rite; Who next by Charles (in succour of whose crown Against the Lombards shall the stripling fight) Of that fair land dominion shall obtain, And the honoured title of a marquis gain; LXV And because Charles shall say in Latin `Este', (That is -- be lords of the dominion round!) Entitled in a future season Este Shall with good omen be that beauteous ground; And thus its ancient title of Ateste Shall of its two first letters lose the sound. God also to his servant had foresaid The vengeance taken for Rogero's dead; LXVI Who shall, in vision, to his consort true Appear somedeal before the dawn of day; And shall relate how him the traitor slew, And where his body lies to her shall say. She and Marphisa hence, those valiant two, With fire and sword on earth shall Poictiers lay; Nor shall his son, when of befitting age, Less harm Maganza in his mighty rage. LXVII On Azos, Alberts, Obysons, did dwell That hermit hoar, and on their offspring bright; Or Borso, Nicholas, and Leonel, Alphonso, Hercules, and Hippolyte, And. last of those, the gentle Isabel; Then curbs his tongue and will no more recite. He to Rogero what is fit reveals, And what is fitting to conceal, conceals. LXVIII Meanwhile Orlando and bold Brandimart, With that good knight, the Marquis Olivier, Against the paynim Mars together start; (Name well befitting Sericana's peer) And the other two -- that from the adverse part, At more than a foot-pace their coursers steer; I say King Agramant and King Sobrine: The pebbly beach resounds, and rolling brine. LXIX When they encounter in mid field, pell-mell, And to the sky flew every shivered lance, At that loud noise, the sea was seen to swell, At that loud noise, which echoed even to France. Gradasso and Roland met as it befel; And fairly balanced might appear the chance, But for the vantage of Rinaldo's horse; Which made Gradasso seem of greater force. LXX Baiardo shocked the steed of lesser might, Backed by Orlando, with such might and main, He made that courser stagger, left and right, And measure next his length upon the plain: Vainly to raise him strove Anglantes' knight, Thrice, nay four times, with rowels and with rein; Balked of his end, he lights upon the field, Draws Balisarda, and uplifts his shield. LXXI With Agramant encounters Olivier, Who, fitly matched, their foaming coursers gall. Bold Brandimart unhorsed in the career Sobrino; but it was not plain withal If 'twas the fault of horse or cavalier; For seldom good Sobrino used to fall. Was it his courser's or his own misdeed, Sobrino found himself without a steed. LXXII Now Brandimart, that upon earth descried The king Sobrine, assailed no more his man; But at Gradasso, who Anglantes' pride Had equally unhorsed, in fury ran. On Agramant and Oliviero's side, Meanwhile the warfare stood as it began: When broken on their bucklers were the spears, With swords encountered the returning peers. LXXIII Roland who saw Gradasso in such guise, As showed that to return he little cared, -- Nor can return; so Brandimart aye plies, And presses Sericana's monarch hard, Turns round, and, like himself, afoot descries Sobrino, in the doubtful strife unpaired: At him he sprang; and, at his haughty look, Heaven, as the warrior trod, in terror shook. LXXIV Foreseeing the assault with wary eye, Prepared, and at close ward, behold the Moor! As pilot against whom, now cresting nigh, The threatening billow comes with hollow roar, Towards it turns his prow, and, when so high He views the sea, would gladly be ashore. Sobrino rears his buckler, to withstand The furious fall of Falerina's brand. LXXV Of such fine steel was Balisarda's blade, That arms against it little shelter were; And by a person of such puissance swayed, By Roland, singe in the world or rare, It splits the shield, and is in nowise stayed, Though bound about with steel the edges are: It splits the shield, and to the bottom rends, And on the shoulder underneath descends. LXXVI Upon the shoulder; nor, though twisted chain And double plates encase the paynim foe, These hinder much that sword of stubborn grain From opening wide the parted flesh below. Sobrino at Orlando smites; but vain Against the valiant count is every blow; To whom, for special grace, the King of heaven A body charmed against all arms had given. LXXVII The valorous count, redoubling still his blows, Thought from the trunk the monarch's head to smite. Sobrino, who the strength of Clermont knows, And how the shield ill boots, retired from fight, Yet not so far, but that upon his brows Fell the dread faulchion of Anglantes' knight: 'Twas on its flat, but such his might and main, It crushed the helm and stupefied the brain. LXXVIII Stunned by that furious stroke, he pressed the shore, And it was long ere he again did rise. The paladin believes the warfare o'er, And that deprived of life Sobrino lies; And, lest Gradasso to ill pass and sore Should bring Sir Brandimart, at him he flies: For him the paynim overmatched in horse, In arms and faulchion, and perhaps in force. LXXIX Bold Brandimart, who guides Frontino's rein, The goodly courser, erst Rogero's steed, So well contends with him of Sericane, The king yet little seems his foe to exceed; Who, if he had as tempered plate and chain As that bold paynim lord, would better speed; But (for he felt himself ill-armed) the knight Often gave ground, and traversed left and right. LXXX Better than good Frontino horse is none To obey upon a sign the cavalier; 'Twould seem that courser had the sense to shun Sharp Durindana's fall, now there now here. Meanwhile elsewhere is horrid battle done By royal Agramant and Olivier; Who may be deemed well matched in warlike sleight, Nor champions differing much in martial might. LXXXI Orlando had left Sobrino (as I said) On earth, and against Sericana's pride, Desirous valiant Brandimart to aid, Even as he was, afoot, in fury hied: When, prompt to assail Gradasso with the blade, He, loose and walking in mid field, espied The goodly horse, which had Sobrino thrown; And bowned him straight to make the steed his own. LXXXII He seized the horse (for none the deed gainsaid) And took a leap, and vaulted on his prize. This hand the bridle grasped, and that the blade. Orlando's motions good Gradasso spies; Nor at his coming is the king dismaid; Who by his name the paladin defies: With him, and both his partners in the fight, He hopes to make it dark before 'tis night. LXXXIII Leaving his foe, he, facing Brava's lord, Thrust at the collar of his shirt of mail, All else beside the flesh the faulchion bored; To pierce through which would every labour fail. At the same time descends Orlando's sword, (Where Balisarda bites no spells avail) Shears helmet, cuirass, shield, and all below, And cleaves whate'er it rakes with headlong blow; LXXXIV And in face, bosom, and in thigh it seamed, Beneath his mail, the king of Sericane. From whom his blood till how had never streamed Since he that armour wore; new rage and pain Thereat the warrior felt, and strange it seemed Sword cut so now, nor yet was Durindane. Had Roland struck more home, or nearer been, From head to belly he had cleft him clean. LXXXV No more in arms can trust the cavalier As heretofore; for proved those arms have been: He with more care, more caution than whilere, Prepares to parry with the faulchion keen. When entered Brandimart sees Brava's peer, Who snatched that battle from him, he between Those other conflicts placed himself, that where It most was needed, he might succour bear. LXXXVI While so the fight is balanced 'mid those foes, Sobrino, that on earth long time had lain, When to himself he was returned, uprose, In face and shoulder suffering grievous pain. He lifts his face, his eyes about him throws; And thither, where more distant on the plain He sees his leader, with long paces steers So stealthily, that none his coming hears; LXXXVII He on the Marquis came, who had but eyes For Agramant, and in the warrior's rear, Wounded upon the hocks in such fierce wise The courser of unheeding Olivier, That he falls headlong; and beneath him lies His valiant master, nor his foot can clear; His left foot, which in that unthought for woe, Was in the stirrup jammed, his steed below. LXXXVIII Sorbine pursued, and with back-handed blow Thought he his head should from his neck have shorn; But this forbids that armour, bright of show, By Vulcan hammered, and by Hector worn. Brandimart sees his risque, and at the foe Is by his steed, with flowing bridle, borne. Sobrino on the head he smote and flung; But straight from earth that fierce old man upsprung; LXXXIX And turned anew to Olivier, to speed The warrior's soul more promptly on its way; Or at the least that baron to impede. And him beneath his courser keep at bay: Bold Olivier, whose better arm was freed, And with his sword could fend him as he lay, Meanwhile so smites and longes, there and here, That at sword's length he holds the ancient peer. XC He hopes, if him but little he withstood, He shall be straight delivered from that pain: He sees him wholly strained and wet with blood, And that he spills so much from open vein, 'Twould seem he speedily must be subdued, So weak he hardly can himself sustain. Often and oft to rise the Marquis strove, Yet could not from beneath his courser move. XCI Brandimart has found out the royal Moor, And storms about that paynim cavalier; Upon Frontino, like a lathe, before, Beside, or whirling in the warrior's rear. A goodly horse the Christian champion bore; Nor worse the southern king's in the career: That Brigliador, Rogero's gift he crost, Erewhile, by haughty Mandricardo lost. XCII Great vantage has he, on another part: Of proof and perfect is his iron weed. His at a venture took Sir Brandimart, As he could have in haste in suchlike need; But hopes (his anger puts him so in heart) To change it for a better coat with speech; Albeit the Moorish king, with bitter blow, Has made the blood from his right should flow. XCIII Him in the flank Gradasso too had gored; (Nor this was laughing matter) so had scanned His vantage that redoubted paynim lord, He found a place wherein to plant his brand; He broke the warrior's shield, his left arm bored, And touched him slightly in the better hand. But this was play, was pastime (might be said), With Roland's and Gradasso's battle weighed. XCIV Gradasso has Orlando half disarmed; Atop and on both sides his helm has broke: Fallen is his shield, his cuirass split; but harmed The warrior is not by the furious stroke, Which opened plate and mail; for he is charmed; And worser vengeance on the king has wroke, In face, throat, breast has gored that cavalier, Beside the wounds whereof I spake whilere. XCV Gradasso, desperate when he descried Himself all wet, and smeared with sanguine dye, And Roland, all from head to foot espied, After such mighty strokes unstained and dry, Thinking head, breast, and belly to divide, With both his hands upheaved his sword on high; And, even as he devised, upon the front, Smote with mid blade Anglantes' haughty count. XCVI And would by any other so have done; -- Would to the saddle-tree have cleft him clean: But the good sword, as if it fell upon Its flat, rebounds again, unstained and sheen. The furious stroke astounded Milo's son By whom some scattered stars on earth were seen. He drops the bridle and would drop the brand, But that a chain secures it to his hand. XCVII So by the noise was scared the horse that bore Upon his back Anglantes' cavalier. The courser scowered about the powdery shore, Showing how good his speed in the career: The County by that stroke astounded sore, Has not the power the frightened horse to steer. Gradasso follows and will reach him, so That he but little more pursues the foe; XCVIII But turning round, beholds the royal Moor To the utmost peril in that battle brought; For by the shining helmet which he wore, With the left hand, him Brandimart had caught; Already had unlaced the casque before, And with his dagger would new ill have wrought: Nor much defence could make the Moorish lord; For Brandimart as well had reft his sword. XCIX Gradasso turned, nor more Orlando sought, But hastened where he Agramant espied: The incautious Brandimart, suspecting nought Orlando would have let him turn aside, Had not Gradasso in his eyes or thought, And to the paynim's throat his knife applied. Gradasso came, and at his helmet layed, Wielding with either hand his trenchant blade. C Father of heaven! 'mid spirits chosen by thee, To him thy martyr true, a place accord; Who, having traversed his tempestuous sea, Now furls his sails in port. Ah! ruthless sword, So cruel, Durindana, can'st thou be, To good Orlando, to thine ancient lord, That thou can'st slaughter, in the warrior's view, Of all his friends the dearest and most true? CI An iron ring that girt his helmet round, Two inches thick, was broke by that fell blow And cleft; and with the solid iron bound, Was parted the good cap of steel below, Bold Brandimart, reversed upon the ground, With haggard face beside his horse lies low; And issuing widely from the warrior's head A stream of life-blood dyes the shingle red. CII Come to himself, the County turns his eye And sees his Brandimart upon the plain, And in such act Gradasso standing by As clearly shows by whom the knight was slain. If he most raged or grieved I know not, I, But such short time is left him to complain, His hasty wrath breaks forth, his grief gives way; But now 'tis time that I suspend my lay. CANTO 42 ARGUMENT The victory with Count Orlando lies; But good Rinaldo and Bradamant at heart, (One for Angelica, the other sighs For young Rogero) suffer cruel smart. Him that in chase of the Indian damsel hies Disdain preserves; from thence does he depart Towards Italy, and is with courteous cheer And welcome guested by a cavalier. I What bit, what iron curb is to be found, Or (could it be) what adamantine rein, That can make wrath keep order and due bound, And within lawful limits him contain? When one, to whom the constant heart is bound And linked by Love with solid bolt and chain, We see, through violence or through foul deceit, With mortal damage or dishonour meet. II And is the mind sometimes, if so possest, To ill and savage action led astray, It may deserve excuse; in that the breast No more is under Reason's sovereign sway. Achilles, when, beneath his borrowed crest, He saw Patroclus crimsoning the way, Was with his murderer's slaughter ill content, Till he his mangled corse had dragged and shent. III Unconquered Duke Alphonso, anger so Inflamed thy host the day that weighty stone Wounded thy forehead with such grievous blow, That all believed it to its rest was gone; -- Inflamed them with such fury, for the foe In rampart, fosse, or wall, defence was none, Who, one and all, within their works lay dead, Nor wight was left the woeful news to spread. IV Seeing thy fall caused thine such mighty pain, They were to fury moved; hadst thou, my lord, Maintained thy footing, haply might thy train Have with less licence plied the murderous sword. Enough for thee thy Bastia to regain! In fewer hours replaced beneath thy ward, Then Cordova's and fierce Granada's band Took days erewhile, to wrest it from thy hand. V Haply Heaven's vengeance ordered what befel, And in that case thy wound so hindered thee To the end, the cruel outrage, foul and fell, Done by that band before, should punished be. For after the unhappy Vestidel, Wearied and hurt, had sought their clemency, Among them (mostly an unchristened train) He, mid a hundred swords, unarmed, was slain. VI To end; I say that other rage is none Which can be weighed with that in equal wise, Which kindles, when an injury is done To kinsman, friend or lord before our eyes. Then justly in Orlando's heart, for one So dear to him, might sudden fury rise; When him he saw, extended on the sand, Slain by the stroke of fierce Gradasso's brand. VII As nomade swain, who darting on its way In slippery line the horrid snake has seen, That his young son, amid the sands at play, Has killed with venomed tooth, enflamed with spleen, Grasps his batoon, the poisonous worm to slay; His sword, than every other sword more keen, So, in his fury grasped Anglantes' knight, And wreaked on Agramant his first despite, VIII Scaped, bleeding, with helm loosened form his head, With half a shield and swordless, through his mail, Sore wounded in more places than is said; As from the dull or envious falcon's nail, Escapes the unhappy sparrowhawk, half dead, With ruffled plumage and with loss of tail. On him Orlando came and smote him just Where with the helmed head confined the bust. IX Loosed was the helm, the neck without its band: So, like a rush, was severed by the sword. Down-fell, and shook its last upon the sand The heavy trunk of Libya's mighty lord. His spirit, which flitted to the Stygian strand, Charon with crooked boat-hook dragged aboard. On him Orlando wastes no further pain, But, sword in hand, seeks him of Sericane. X As the headless trunk of Africk's cavalier Extended on the shore Gradasso's viewed, (What never had befallen him whilere) He shook at heart, a troubled visage shewed, And, at the coming of Anglantes' peer, Presageful of his fate, appears subdued: Nor seeks he means of fence against his foe, When fierce Orlando deals the fatal blow. XI Orlando levels at his better side, Beneath the lowest rib, his faulchion bright; And crimsoned to the hilt, a hand's breadth wide Of the other flank, the sword appears in sight; And well his mighty puissance testified, And spoke him as the strongest living knight That stroke, by which a warrior was undone, Better than whom in Paynimry was none. XII Little his victory good Orlando cheers: Himself he quickly from his saddle throws; And, with a face disturbed, and wet with tears, To his Brandimart in haste the warrior goes; The field about him red with blood appears, His helmet cleft as by a hatchet's blows; And, had it been than spungy rind more frail, Would have defended him no worse than mail. XIII Orlando lifts the helmet, and descries Brandimart's head by that destructive brand Cleft even to his nose, between the eyes; Yet so the wounded knight his spirits manned, That pardon of the king of Paradise He, before death, was able to demand, And to exhort to patience Brava's peer, Whose manly cheeks were wet with many a tear; XIV And -- "Roland, in thy helping orisons, I Beseech thee to remember me," he cried, "Nor recommend to thee less warmly my --" -- Flordelice would, but could not, say -- and died; And sounds and songs of angels in the sky, As the soul parts, are heard on every side; Which from its prison freed, mid hymns of love, Ascends into the blissful realms above. XV Orlando, albeit he should joy in heart At death so holy, and is certified That called to bliss above is Brandimart; For he heaven opened to the knight described; Through human wilfulness -- which aye takes part With our weak senses -- hardly can abide The loss of one, above a brother dear, Nor can refrain from many a scalding tear. XVI Warlike Sobrino, of much blood bereaved, Which from his flank and wounded visage rained, Long since had fallen, reversed and sore aggrieved, And had by now his vessels well nigh drained. Olivier too lies stretched; nor has retrieved, Nor can retrieve, his crippled foot, save sprained, And almost crushed; so long between the plain, And his stout courser jammed, the limb has lain; XVII And but Orlando helped (so woe begone Was weeping Olivier, and brought so low) He could not have released his limb alone; And, when released, endures such pain, such woe, The helpless warrior cannot stand upon, Or shift withal his wounded foot, and so Benumbed and crippled is the leg above, That he without assistance cannot move. XVIII The victory brought Orlando small delight; On whom too heavily and hardly weighed Of slaughtered Brandimart the piteous sight; Nor sure of Oliviero's life he made. Sobrino yet survived; but little light The wounded monarch had, amid much shade: For almost spend his ebbing life remained So fast from him the crimson blood had drained. XIX The County has him taken, bleeding sore; Thither, where he is saved with sovereign care; And he as if a kinsman of the Moor, Benignly comforts him and speaks him fair: For in Orlando, when the strife was o'er, Was nothing evil; ever prompt to spare. He from the dead their arms and coursers reft, The rest he to their knives' disposal left. XX Here as my story stood not on good ground, Frederick Fulgoso doubtful does appear; Who, searching Barbary's every shore and sound Erewhile on board a squadron, landed here; And the isle so rugged and so rocky found, In all its parts so mountainous and drear, There is not (through the land) a level space (He says) whereon a single boot to place. XXI Nor deems he likely, that six cavaliers, The wide world's flower, on Alpine rock should vye, In that equestrian fight, with levelled spears. To whose objection thus I make reply: Erewhile a place, well fit for such careers, Stretched at the bottom of the hills did lie; But afterwards, o'erthrown by earthquake's shock, A cliff o'erspread the plain with broken rock. XXII So, of Fulgoso's race thou shining ray, Clear, lasting light, if, questioning my word, Thou on this point hast ever said me nay, And haply too, before the unconquered lord, Through whom thy land, reposing, casts away All haste, and wholly leans to kind accord, Prythee delay not to declare, that I In this my story haply tell no lie. XXIII Meanwhile his eyes the good Orlando reared, And saw, on turning them to seaward, where Under full sail a nimble bark appeared, As if she to that island would repair. I will not now rehearse who thither steered; For more than one awaiteth me elsewhere. Wend me to France and see if they be glad At having chased the Saracens, or sad; XXIV See what she does withal, the lady true, That sees her knight content to wend so wide; Of the afflicted Bradamant I shew; After she saw the oath was nullified, Made in the hearing of those armies two, Upon the Christian and the paynim side; Since he again had failed her, there was nought Wherein she could confide, the damsel thought. XXV And now her too accustomed plaint and wail Repeating, of Rogero's cruelty Fair Bradamant renewed the wonted tale; She cursed her hard and evil destiny; Then loosening to tempestuous grief the sail, Heaven that consented to such perjury, -- And did not yet by some plain token speak -- She, in her passion, called unjust and weak. XXVI The sage Melissa she accused, and cursed The oracle of the cavern, through whose lie She in that sea of love herself immersed, Upon whose waters she embarked to die. She to Marphisa afterwards rehearsed Her woes, and told her brother's perfidy; She chides, pours forth her sorrows, and demands, With tears and outcries, succour at her hands. XXVII Marphisa shrugs her shoulders; what alone She can, she offers -- comfort to the fair; Nor thinks Rogero her has so foregone But what to her he shortly will repair. And, should he not, such outrage to be done, The damsel plights her promise not to bear; Twixt her and him shall deadly war be waged, Or he shall keep the word, which he engaged. XXVIII She makes her somewhat thus her grief restrain; Which having vent in some sort spend its gall, Now we have seen the damsel in her pain Rogero impious, proud, and perjured call, See we, if in a happier state remain The brother of that gentle maid withal; Whose flesh, bones, nerves, and sinews are a prey To burning love; Rinaldo I would say. XXIX I say Rinaldo that (as known to you) Angelica the beauteous loved so well: Nor him into the amorous fillets drew So much her beauty as the magic spell. In peace reposed those other barons true; For wholly broken was the infidel: Alone amid the victors, he, of all The paladins, remained Love's captive thrall. XXX To seek her he a hundred couriers sent, And sought as well, himself, the missing maid: He in the end to Malagigi went, Who in his need had often given him aid: To him he told his love, with eyelids bent On earth, and visage crimsoned o'er; and prayed That sage magicians to instruct him, where He in the world might find the long-sought fair. XXXI A case, so strange and wondrous, marvel sore In friendly Malagigi's bosom bred: The wizard knew, a hundred times and more, He might have had the damsel in his bed; And he himself, to move the knight or yore, In her behalf, enough had done and said: Had him by prayer and menace sought to bend, Yet ne'er was able to obtain his end; XXXII And so much more, that out of prison ward He then would Malagigi so have brought. Now will he seek her, of his own accord, On less occasion, when it profits nought. Next that magician Montalbano's lord To mark how sorely do had erred, besought: Since little lacked, but through the boon denied, Erewhile he had in gloomy dungeon died. XXXIII But how much more Rinaldo's strange demand Sounded importunately in his ear, So by sure index Malagigi scanned, That so much was Angelica more dear. Rinaldo prayer unable to withstand, In ocean sunk the wizard cavalier All memory of old injury assaid, And bowned himself to give the warrior aid. XXXIV For his reply he craved some small delay, And with fair hope consoled Mount Alban's knight, He should be able of the road to say By which Angelica had sped her flight, In France or wheresoe'er; then wends his way Thither where he is wont his imps to cite; A grot impervious and with mountains walled: His book he opened and the spirits called. XXXV Then one he chooses, in love-cases read, Whom Malagigi to declare requires, How good Rinaldo's heart, before so died, Was now so quickly moved by soft desires; And of those fountains twain (the demon said) Whereof one lights, one quenches amorous fires; And how nought cures the mischief caused by one But that whose streams in counter current run; XXXVI And says, Rinaldo, having drunk whilere From the love-chasing fountain's mossy urn, To Angelica, that long had wooed the peer, Had shown himself so obstinate and stern; And he, whom after his ill star did steer To drink of that which makes the bosom burn, Her whom but just before he loathed above All reason, by that draught was forced to love. XXXVII Him his ill star and cruel fate conveyed To swallow fire and flame i' the frozen lake: For nigh at the same time the Indian maid In the other bitter stream her thirst did slake; Which in her bosom so all love allayed, Henceforth she loathed him more than noisome snake; He loved her, and such love was his, as late Rinaldo bore her enmity and hate. XXXVIII Of this strange story fully certified Was Malagigi by the demon's lore; Who news as well of Angelique supplied; How yielding up herself to a young Moor, With him embarking on the unstable tide, She had abandoned Europe's every shore; And hoisting her bold canvas to the wind, In Catalonian galley loosed for Ind. XXXIX Rinaldo seeking out the sage anew For his reply -- he would dissuade the knight From loving more that Indian lady, who Now waited on a vile barbarian wight; And was so distant he could ill pursue; If he would chase the damsel on her flight, Who must have measured than half her way Homeward, with young Medoro to Catay. XL In that bold lover no displeasure deep The journey of Angelica would move; Nor yet would mar or break the warrior's sleep To think that he again must eastward rove: But that a stripling Saracen should reap The first fruits of that faithless lady's love In him such passion bred, such heart-ache sore, He never in his life so grieved before. XLI No power hath he to make one sole reply; His heart, his lip, is quivering with disdain; His tongue no word is able to untie; His mouth is bitter, and 'twould seem with bane. He flung from the magician suddenly, And, as by fury stirred and jealous pain, He after mighty plaint and mighty woe Resolved anew to eastern realms to go. XLII Licence he asks of Pepin's royal son, Upon the ground, since with his courser dear To Sericane is King Gradasso gone, Against the use of gallant cavalier, Him honour moves the selfsame course to run, In the end he may prevent the paynim peer From ever vaunting, that with sword or lance He took him from a Paladin of France. XLIII Charles gives him leave to go; though, far and nigh, With him all France laments he thence should wend; But he in fine that prayer can ill deny, So honest seems the worthy warrior's end. Him Dudon, Guido, would accompany; But he refuses either valiant friend: From Paris he departs, and wends alone, Plunged in his grief and heaving many a groan. XLIV Ever in memory dwells the restless thought, He might a thousand times have had the fair; And -- mad and obstinate -- had, when besought, A thousand times refused such beauty rare; And such sweet joy was whilom set at nought, Such bright, such blessed moments wasted were; And now he life would gladly give away To have that damsel but for one short day. XLV The thought will never from his mind depart, How for a sorry footpage she could slight, -- Flinging their merit and their love apart -- The service of each former loving wight. Vext by such thought, which racked and rent his heart, Rinaldo wends towards the rising light: He the straight road to Rhine and Basle pursued, Till he arrived in Arden's mighty wood. XLVI When within that adventurous wood has hied For many a mile Montalban's cavalier, Of lonely farm or lordly castle wide, Where the rude place was roughest and most drear, The sky disturbed he suddenly descried, He saw the sun's dimmed visage disappear, And spied forth issuing from a cavern hoar A monster, which a woman's likeness wore. XLVII A thousand lidless eyes are in her head: She cannot close them, nor, I think, doth sleep: She listens with as many ears, and spread Like hair, about her forehead serpents creep. Forth issued into day that figure dread From devilish darkness and the caverned deep. For tail, a fierce and bigger serpent wound About her breast, and girt the monster round. XLVIII What in a thousand, thousand quests had ne'er Befal'n Rinaldo, here befel the knight; Who, when he sees the horrid form appear, Coming to seek him and prepared for fight, Feels in his inmost veins such freezing fear, As haply never fell on other wight; Yet wonted daring counterfeits and feigns, And with a trembling hand the faulchion strains. XLIX The monster so the fierce assault did make Therein her master was well descried, It might be said; she shook a poisonous snake, And now on this, now on the other side, Leapt at the knight; at her Rinaldo strake Ever meanwhile with random blows and wide; With forestroke, backstroke, he assails the foe; He often smites, but never plants a blow. L The monster threw a serpent at his breast, That froze his heart beneath its iron case: Now through the vizor flung the poisonous pest, Which crept about his collar and his face. Dismaid, Rinaldo fled the field, and prest With all his spurs his courser through the chase: But not behind the hellish monster halts, Who in a thought upon the crupper vaults. LI Wend where the warrior will, an-end or wide, Ever with him is that accursed Pest: Nor knows he how from her to be untied, Albeit his courser plunges without rest. Like a leaf quakes his heart within his side, Not that the snakes in other mode molest, But they such horror and such loathing bred, He shrieks, he groans, and gladly would be dead. LII By gloomiest track and blindest path he still Threaded the tangled forest here and there; By thorniest valley and by roughest hill, And wheresoever darkest was the air; Thus hoping to have rid him of that ill, Hideous, abominable, poisonous Care; Beneath whose gripe he foully might have fared, But that one quickly to his aid repaired. LIII But aid, and in good time, a horseman bore, Equipt with arms of beauteous steel and clear: For crest, a broken yoke the stranger wore; Red flames upon his yellow shield appear: So was the courser's housing broidered o'er, As the proud surcoat of the cavalier. His lance he grasped, his sword was in its place, And at his saddle hung a burning mace. LIV That warrior's mace a fire eternal fills, Whose lasting fuel ever blazes bright; And goodly buckler, tempered corslet thrills, And solid helm; then needs the approaching knight Must make him way, wherever 'tis his will To turn his inextinguishable light. Nor of less help in need Rinaldo stands, To save him from the cruel monster's hands. LV The stranger horseman, like a warrior bold, Where he that hubbub hears, doth thither swoop, Until he sees the beast, whose snakes enfold Rinaldo, linked in many a loathsome loop, Who sweats at once with heat and quakes with cold, Nor can he thrust the monster from his croup. Arrived the stranger smote her in the flank, Who on the near side of the courser sank: LVI But scarcely was on earth extended, ere She rose and shook her snakes in volumed spire. The knight no more assails her with the spear; But is resolved to plague the foe with fire: He gripes the mace and thunders in her rear With frequent blows, like tempest in its ire; Nor leaves a moment to that monster fell To strike one stroke in answer, ill or well; LVII And, while he chases her or holds at bay, Smites her and venges many a foul affront, Counsels the paladin, without delay, To take the road which scales the neighbouring mount: He took that proffered counsel and that way, And without stop, or turning back his front, Pricked furiously till he was out of sight; Though hard to clamber was the rugged height. LVIII The stranger, when he to her dark retreat Had driven from upper light that beast of hell (Where she herself doth ever gnaw and eat, While from her thousand eyes tears ceaseless well) Followed the knight, to guide his wandering feet; And overtook him on the highest swell; Then placed himself beside the cavalier Him from those dark and gloomy parts to steer. LIX When him returned beheld Montalban's knight, That countless thanks were due to him, he said, And that at all times, as a debt of right, His life should be for his advantage paid. Of him he next demands, how he is hight, That he may know and tell who brought him aid; And among worthy warriors, and before King Charles, exalt his prowess evermore. LX The stranger answered: "Let it irk not thee That I not now my name to thee display; Ere longer by a yard the shadows be, This will I signify; a short delay." Wending together, they a river see Whose murmurs woo the traveller from his way, And shepherd-swain, by whiles, to their green brink; There an oblivion of their love to drink. LXI My lord, that fountain's chilling stream and clear Extinguished love; Angelica of yore Drinking thereof, for good Montalban's peer Conceived that hate she nourished evermore; And if she once displeased the cavalier, And he to her such passing hatred bore, For this no other cause occasion gave, My lord, save drinking of this chilly wave. LXII Arriving at that limpid river's side, The cavalier that with Rinaldo goes, Reined-in his courser, how with toil, and cried, "Here 'twere not ill, meseemeth, to repose." -- "It cannot but be well" (the peer replied), "Because, beside that mid-day fiercely glows, I have so suffered from that hideous Pest, As sweet and needful shall I welcome rest." LXIII Upon the green sward lit the martial two, While their loose horses through the forest fed; And from their brows the burnished helmets threw On that flowered herbage, yellow, green, and red. Rinaldo to the liquid crystal flew, By heat and thirst unto the river sped; And with one draught of that cold liquid drove Out of his burning bosom thirst and love. LXIV Whenas Rinaldo, sated with the draught, Raising his head the stranger knight espied, And saw that he, repentant, every thought Of that so frantic love had put aside, He reared himself, and said with semblance haught That which he would not say before, and cried: "Rinaldo, know that I am hight Disdain, Bound hither but to break thy worthless chain." LXV So saying, suddenly he passed from sight; With him his horse: this in Rinaldo bred Much wonderment; and the astonished knight, "Where is he?" gazing round about him, said. He cannot guess if 'twere a magic sprite, A fiend by Malagigi thither sped, From those his ministers, to break the chain, Fettered whereby he lived so long in pain; LXVI Of if an angel from the heavenly sphere In his ineffable goodness by the Lord, Dispatched, as to Tobias's aid whilere, A medicine for his blindness to afford. But good or evil angel -- whatsoe'er He was that him to liberty restored -- Him thanked and praised Rinaldo, for a heart Healed only by his help of amorous smart. LXVII Old hate revived upon Rinaldo's side; Nor he alone unworthy to be wooed, The damsel deemed by pilgrimage so wide Her half a league he would not have pursued. Nathless anew Baiardo to bestride To Sericane would go that warrior good: As well because his honour him compelled, As for the talk which he with Charles had held. LXVIII He pricked to Basle upon the following day, Whither the tidings had arrived before: That Count Orlando was, in martial fray, To meet Gradasso and the royal Moor: Nor through Orlando was divulged that say: But one, who crost from the Sicilian shore, And thither had, in haste, the journey made, As certain news, the tidings had conveyed. LXIX Rinaldo had gladly been at Roland's side, And from that battle far himself doth see: Every ten miles he changes horse and guide, And whips and spurs, and makes his courser flee. He crost the Rhine at Constance, forward hied, He traversed Alp, arrived in Italy, He left Verona, Mantua, in his rear, And reached and past the Po, with swift career. LXX Much towards eve already sloped the sun, And the first star was glimmering in the sky, When, doubting on the bank if he shall run Another course, or in some hostel lie Until the shades of night and vapours dun Before Aurora's beauteous visage fly, A cavalier approaching him he viewed, Who courtesy in face and semblance shewed. LXXI He, after greeting him, if he were tied In wedlock, made in gentle wise demand. Rinaldo, wondering what the quest implied, Made answer: "I am bound in nuptial band." -- "I joy thereat," the cavalier replied; Then, that he might this saying understand, Added, "I pray that you, sir knight, within My mansion will this eve be pleased to inn. LXXII "For I will make you see what must please A wight" (pursued the stranger) "that is wed." Rinaldo, as well that he would take his ease, -- But this, with so long posting sore bested -- As that to see and hear strange novelties By natural desire he still was led, His offer takes, and enters a new road, Following that cavalier to his abode. LXXIII A bowshot from the way diverged the two, And a great palace fronting them descried: Whence squires with blazing lights (a numerous crew) Issued, and chased the darkness far and wide. Entering, his eyes around Rinaldo threw, And saw a place, whose like is seldom spied, Of beauteous fabric, and well ordered plan; Nor such huge cost befitted private man. LXXIV Of serpentine and of hard porphyry are The stones which form the gateway's arch above. Of bronze the portal leaves, which figures bear, Whose lively features seem to breathe and move. Beneath the vaulted entry, colours rare Cheating the eye, in mixt mosaic strove, The quadrangle within was galleried, And of a hundred yards, on every side. LXXV A gateway is there to each galleried row, And, twixt it and that gate, an arch is bent; Of equal breadth, but different in their show, For the architect had spared not ornament. Each arch an entrance was; up which might go A laden horse; so easy the ascent. To arch above leads every stair withal, And every arch is entrance to a hall. LXXVI Above, project the arches in such sort, They for the spacious portals form a shade; And each two pillars has for its support: Of bronze are some, and some of marble made. The ornamented chambers of the court Too many are to be at length displayed; With easements, which (beside what is in sight) The skilful master underground had dight. LXXVII Tall columns, with their capitals of gold, Which gemmed entablatures support in air; Exotic marbles engraved with figures fair; Picture and cast, and works so manifold, Albeit by night they mostly hidden were, Showed that two kings' united treasure ne'er Would have sufficed such gorgeous pile to rear. LXXVIII Above the beauteous ornaments and rich That mingled in that gay quadrangle meet, There is a fresh and plenteous fountain, which Scatters in many threads its watery sheet, 'Tis here that youths at equal distance pitch, I' the middle, tables for the festive treat. Whence they four gates of that rich mansion see, And seen from those four gates as well may be. LXXIX By cunning master, diligent and wise, With much and subtle toil, the fount was made: In open gallery or pavilion's guise; Which from eight separate fronts, projects a shade. A gilded roof, which with enamelled dyes Was stained below, the building overlayed. Eight marble statues (snowy was the grain), With the left arm that gilded roof sustain. LXXX Fair Amalthaea's horn in the right hand Had quaintly sculptured the ingenious master, Whence water, trickling forth with murmur bland, Descends into a vase of alabaster; And he, in likeness of a lady grand, With sovereign art had fashioned each pilaster. Various they were in visage and in vest, But all of equal charms and grace possest. LXXXI Upon two beauteous images below Each of these female statues fix their feet. The lower seem with open mouth to show That song and harmony to them are sweet; And, by their attitude, 'twould seem, as though Their every work and every study meet In praising them, they on their shoulders bear, As they would those whose likenesses they wear. LXXXII The images below them in their hand Long scrolls and of an ample size contain, Which of the worthiest figures of that band The several names with mickle praise explain As well their own at little distance stand, Inscribed upon that scroll, in letters plain, Rinaldo, by the help of blazing lights, Marked, one by one, the ladies and their knights. LXXXIII The first inscription there which meets the eye Recites at length Lucretia Borgia's fame, Whom Rome should place, for charms and chastity, Above that wife who whilom bore her name. Strozza and Tebaldeo -- Anthony And Hercules -- support the honoured dame: (So says the scroll): for tuneful strain, the pair A very Linus and an Orpheus are. LXXXIV A statue no less jocund, no less bright, Succeeds, and on the writing is impressed; Lo! Hercules' daughter, Isabella hight, In whom Ferrara deems her city blest, Much more because she first shall see the light Within its circuit, than for all the rest Which kind and favouring Fortune in the flow Of rolling years, shall on that town bestow. LXXXV The pair that such desirous ardour shew That aye her praises should be widely blown: John James alike are named: of those fair two, One is Calandra, one is Bardelon. In the third place, and fourth, where trickling through Small rills, the water quits that octagon, Two ladies are there, equal in their birth, Equal in country, honour, charms and worth. LXXXVI One was Elizabeth, one Eleanor, And if we credit what that marble said, Manto's so glorious city which such store Sets my melodious Maro, whom she bred, More vaunts not him, nor reverences more, Than these fair dames her poet's honoured head. The first of these her hallowed feet had set On Peter Bembo and James Sadolet. LXXXVII Arelio and Castiglion, a polished pair, That other lady, in mid air, sustain. Their names were carved upon the marble fair, Then both unknown, and now so fames a twain. Next was a lady, that from Heaven shall heir As mighty virtue as on earth doth reign, Or ever yet hath reigned, in any age, Well proved by Fortune in her love or rage. LXXXVIII Inscribed in characters of gold is here Lucretia Bentivoglia, and among Her praises, 'tis declared Ferrara's peer Joys that such daughter doth to him belong. Her shall Camillus voice, and far and near Reno and Felsina shall hear his song, Wrapt in as mighty wonder at the strain As that wherewith Amphrysus heard his swain; LXXXIX And one, through whom that city's name (where sweet Isaurus salts his wave in larger vase) Fame shall from Africa to Ind repeat, From southern tracts to Hyperborean ways, More than because Rome's gold in that famed seat Was weighed, whereof perpetual record says Guy Posthumus -- about whose honoured brow Phoebus and Pallas bind a double bough. XC Dian is next in order of that train. "Regard not (said the marble) is she wear A haughty port; for in her heart, humane The matron is, as in her visage, fair. Learned Celio Calcagnine in lofty strain Her glories and fair name abroad shall bear, And Juba's and Moneses' kingdom hear, And Spain and farthest Ind, his trumpet clear; XCI And a Cavallo shall make such a font Of poetry in famed Ancona run, As that winged courser on Parnassus' mount; Or was it on the hill of Helicon? 'Tis Beatrice, who next uprears her front, Whereof so speaks the writing on the stone: "Her consort Beatrice, while she has breath, Blesses, and leaves unhappy at her death; XCII "Yea, Italy; that with her triumphs bright, Without that lady fair shall captive be." A lofty song appears of her to indite A lord of the Correggio's noble tree; And, Benedeo's pride, Timotheus hight. Between his banks, descending to the sea, By their joint music shall the stream be stopt, Whose trees erewhile the liquid amber dropt. XCIII Between this and that lofty column's place Into fair Borgia fashioned (as was said) Of aspect so distinguished, of such grace, A lady was, of alabaster made, That, hiding in a simple veil her face, In sable, without gems or gold arraid, She, 'mid the brightest, flung her light as far, As amid lesser fires the Cyprian star. XCIV None knows, observing her with steadfast view, If she of charms or grace have fuller store, Whether her visage most majestic shew, Or beam with genius or with beauty more. "He that would speak -- would speak her praises true -- (Declares in fine the sculptured marble's lore) The fairest of emprizes would intend, But never bring his noble task to end." XCV Albeit such grace and passing sweetness shewed Her fair and well wrought image, she disdain Appeared to nurse, that one of wit so rude Should dare to sing her praise in humble strain, As he that only without comrade stood, I know not why, her statue to sustain, The marble all those other names revealed. That pair's alone the artist had concealed. XCVI The statues in the middle form a round, The floor whereof dry stalks of coral pave; Most pleasant, cool, and grateful, is that ground; So rendered by the pure and crystal wave. Which vent without in other channel found; And issued forth in many a stream, to lave A mead of azure, white, and yellow hue; Gladdening the plants that on their margins grew. XCVII Conversing with his courteous host, the peer Sate at the board, and oft and often prayed, That without more delay the cavalier Would keep the promise he whilere had made; And marking, ever and anon, his cheer, Observes his heart with some deep woe downweighed. For not a moment 'mid their converse slips, But what a burning sigh is on his lips. XCVIII Oft with desire was good Rinaldo stung To ask that sorrow's cause, and the request Was almost on the gentle warrior's tongue, And there by courteous modesty represt. Now at their banquet's close a youth, among The menial crew, on whom that charge did rest, Placed a gold cup before the paladin, Filled full of gems without, of wine within. XCIX The host then somedeal smiling, from the board Looked up at Aymon's son; but who this while Well marked him, as he eyed Montalban's lord, Had deemed him more disposed to weep than smile. "So oft reminded, to maintain my word, 'Tis time meseems (said he, that owned the pile) To shew the touchstone for a woman's love, Which needs to wedded man must welcome prove. C "Ne'er, in my judgment, should the married dame Be from espial by her lord released; Thus shall he know if honour or if blame His portion is; if he is man or beast. The weight of horns, though coupled with such shame, Is of all burdens upon the earth the least. While well-nigh all behold his antlers spread, He feels them not who has them on his head. CI "If certain of thy wife's fidelity, Thou hast more ground to prize and hold her dear Than one, whose wife is evil known to be, Or husband that is still in doubt and fear. Full many husbands live in jealousy, And groundlessly, of women chaste and clear. On many women many men rely Meanwhile, who bear their branching antlers high. CII "If thou would'st be assured thy wife is true (As sure methinks thou thinkest and must think) For it is hard that notion to undo, Unless thy trust before sure tokens sink, -- No hearsay matter this -- thyself shalt view The truth, if thou in this fair vessel drink, Placed solely on the supper-board, that thou May'st see the marvel promised thee but now. CIII "Drink, and a mighty marvel shall be seen; For if thou wearest Cornwall's lofty crest, No drop of wine shall pass thy lips between, And all the draught be spilt upon thy breast. If faithful is thy wife, thou shalt drink clean. And now -- to try thy fortune -- to the test!" He said, and with fixt eyes the sign explored; If on his breast the wine Rinaldo poured. CIV Rinaldo was nigh moved the cup to raise, And seek what he would haply wish unsought: Forward he reached his hand and took the vase, About to prove his fortune in the draught. Then of the passing peril of the case, Before it touched his lips, the warrior thought. But let me, sir, repose myself, and I Will then relate the Paladin's reply. CANTO 43 ARGUMENT Rinaldo from his courteous landlord hears What folly had destroyed his every good; Next learns another story, as he steers Toward Ravenna with the falling flood: Then last arrives where, conqueror o'er his foes Orlando was, but in no joyful mood. He, that the Child a Christian made whilere, Christens Sobrino, and heals Olivier. I O Execrable avarice! O vile thirst Of sordid gold! it doth not me astound So easily thou seizest soul, immersed In baseness, or with other taint unsound; But that thy chain should bind, amid the worst, And that thy talon should strike down and wound One that for loftiness of mind would be Worthy all praise, if he avoided thee. II Some earth and sea and heaven above us square, Know Nature's causes, works, and properties; What her beginnings, what her endings are; And soar till Heaven is open to their eyes: Yet have no steadier aim, no better care, Stung by thy venom, than, in sordid wise, To gather treasure: such their single scope, Their every comfort, and their every hope. III Armies by him are broken in his pride, And gates of warlike towns in triumph past: The foremost he to breast the furious tide Of fearful battle; to retire the last; Yet cannot save himself from being stied Till death, in thy dark dungeon prisoned fast. Of others that would shine thou dimm'st the praise; Whom other studies, other arts would raise. IV What shall of high and beauteous dames be said? Who (from their lovers' worth and charms secure) Against long service, I behold, more staid, More motionless, than marble shafts, endure: Then Avarice comes, who so her spells hath laid, I see them stoop directly to her lure. -- Who could believe? -- unloving, in a day They fall some elder's, fall some monster's prey. V Not without reason here I raise this cry: -- Read me who can, I read myself -- nor so I from the beaten pathway tread awry, Nor thus the matter of my song forego. Not more to what is shown do I apply My saying, than to what I have to show. But now return we to the paladine, Who was about to taste the enchanted wine. VI Fain would he think awhile, of whom I speak, (As said) ere to his lips the vase he bore; He thought; then thus: "When finding what we seek Displeases, this 'tis folly to explore, My wife's a woman; every woman's weak. Then let me hold the faith I held before. Faith still has brought, and yet contentment brings. From proof itself what better profit springs? VII "From this small good, much evil I foresee: For tempting God moves sometimes his disdain. I know not if it wise or foolish be, But to know more than needs, I am not fain. Now put away the enchanted cup from me; I neither will, nor would, the goblet drain; Which is with Heaven's command as much at strife, As Adam's deed who robbed the tree of life. VIII "For as our sire who tasted of that tree, And God's own word, by eating, disobeyed, Fell into sorrow from felicity, And was by misery evermore o'erlaid; The husband so, that all would know and see; Whatever by his wife is done and said; Passes from happiness to grief and pain, Nor ever can uplift his head again." IX Meanwhile the good Rinaldo saying so, And pushing from himself the cup abhorred, Beheld of tears a plenteous fountain flow From the full eyes of that fair mansion's lord; Who cried, now having somewhat calmed his woe, "Accursed be he, persuaded by whose word, Alas! I of the fortune made assay, Whereby my cherished wife was reft away! X "Wherefore ten years ago wast thou not known, So that I counselled might have been of thee? Before the sorrows and the grief begun, That have nigh quenched my eyes; but raised shall be The curtain from the scene, that thou upon My pain mayst look, and mayst lament with me; And I to thee of mine unheard-of woe The argument and very head will show. XI "Above, was left a neighbouring city, pent Within a limpid stream that forms a lake; Which widens, and wherein Po finds a vent. Their way the waters from Benacus take. Built was the city, when to ruin went Walls founded by the Agenorean snake. Here me of gentle line my mother bore, But of small means, in humble home and poor. XII "If Fortune's care I was not, who denied To me upon my birth a wealthy boon, Nature that went with graceful form supplied; So that in beauty rival had I none. Enamoured of me in youth's early tide Erewhile was dame and damsel more than one: For I with beauty coupled winning ways; Though it becomes not man himself to praise. XIII "A sage within our city dwelled, a wight, Beyond belief, in every science great; Who, when he closed his eyes on Phoebus' light, Numbered one hundred years, one score and eight: A savage life he led and out of sight, Until impelled by love, the senior late By dint of gifts obtained a matron fair, Who secretly to him a daughter bare; XIV "And to prevent the child from being won, As was erewhile the mother, that for gain Bartered her chastity, whose worth alone Excels what gold earth's ample veins contain, With her he from the ways of man is gone, And where he spies the loneliest place, his train Of demons forces, in enchantment skilled, This dome so spacious, fair, and rich, to build. XV "By ancient and chaste dames he there made rear This daughter, that in sovereign beauty grew; Nor suffered her to see or even hear A man beside himself; and, for her view, -- Lest lights should lack, whereby her course to steer -- The senior every modest lady, who E'er on unlawful love the barrier shut, Made limn in picture, or in sculpture cut. XVI "Nor he alone those virtuous dames, who, sage And chaste, had so adorned antiquity, Whose fame, preserved by the historic page, Is never doomed its dying day to see; But those as well that will in future age Everywhere beautify fair Italy, Made fashion in their well-known form and mien; As eight that round this fount by thee are seen. XVII "What time the damsel ripe for husband shows, So that the fruit may now be gathered, I (Did chance or my misfortune so dispose?) Am worthiest found; and those broad lands that lie Without the walls which that fair town enclose, -- The fishy flat no less than upland dry -- Extending twenty miles about that water, He gives me for a dowry, with his daughter. XVIII "She was so mannered, was so fair of hue, None could desire she other gifts should bring; So well to broider was she taught, and sew, Minerva knew not better; did she sing, Or play, or walk, to those that hear and view, She seems a heavenly, and no mortal thing; And in the liberal arts was skilled as well As her own sire, or scarce behind him fell. XIX "With genius high and beauty no less bright, Which might have served the very stones to move, Such love, such sweetness did the maid unite, Thinking thereof meseems my heart is clove. She had no greater pleasure or delight Than being with me, did I rest or rove. Twas long ere we had any strife; in fine We quarrelled; and the fault, alas! was mine. XX "Five years my consort's father had been dead, Since to that yoke I stooped, and pledged my vow; When in short time (the manner shall be said) Began the sorrows that I feel even now. While me with all his pinions overspread Love of the dame, whose praises thus I blow, A noble townswoman with love of me Was smit; more sorely smitten none could be. XXI "She, in all magic versed, was of such skill As never was enchantress; by her say Moved solid earth, and made the sun stand still, Illumined gloomy night and darkened day: Yet never could she work upon my will, With salve I could not give, except with scathe Of her to whom erewhile I pledged my faith. XXII "Not because she right gentle was and bright, Nor because I believed her love so true, Nor for large gift, nor promise often plight, Nor yet because she never ceased to sue, Could she from me obtain one spark of light From that first flame my gentle consort blew: So mates and masters every will in me The knowledge of my wife's fidelity. XXIII "I in the hope, belief, and certitude My wife to me was faithful evermore, Should with contempt the beauty have eschewed Of that famed daughter which fair Leda bore; And all the wit and wealth wherewith was wooed The illustrious shepherd upon Ida hoar. But no repulse withal with her avails, Who me, for ever at my side, assails. XXIV "One day that me beyond my palace sees That weird enchantress, who Melissa hight, And where she can discourse with me at ease, She finds a way whereby my peace to blight; And, goading me with evil jealousies, The faith I nursed at heart, she puts to flight. She 'gan commending my intent to be Faithful to her who faithful was to me. XXV " `But that she faithful is, ye cannot say, Save of her faith ye have assurance true; If she fails not withal, where fail she may, She faithful, modest may be deemed by you: But is she never from your side away, Is not permitted other man to view, How does this boldness come, that you would be The warrant of her untried modesty? XXVI " `Go forth awhile; go forth come from home alone; And be the bruit in town and village spread That she remains behind, and you are gone; Let lovers and let couriers have their head: If, unpersuaded still by prayer and boon, She does no outrage to the marriage bed; Though doing so she deem herself unseen, Then faithful you the dame may justly ween.' XXVII "I with such words and such-like words was plied, Till so on me the shrewd enchantress wrought, I wished to see my consort's virtue tried By certain proof, and to the touchstone brought. -- `Now grant we (I to that witch-lady cried) She prove what cannot by myself be thought, How by some certain token can I read If she will merit punishment or meed?' XXVIII " `A drinking-cup will I for that assay Give you (she said) of virtue strange and rare: Such was for Arthur made by Morgue the fay, To make him of Genevra's fault aware. The chaste wife's lord thereof may drink; but they Drink not, whose wedded partners wanton are: For, when they would the cordial beverage sup, Into their bosom overflows the cup. XXIX " `Below departing, you the test shall try, And, to my thinking, now shall you drink clean; For clean as yet I think your consort, I: The event however shall by you be seen. Yet will I warrant not your bosom dry, Should you repeat the proof; for if, between The cup and lip, the liquor be not shed, You are the happiest wight that ever wed.' XXX "The offer I accept, the vase to me Is given, and trial made with full success; For hitherto (as hoped) confirmed I see My gentle consort's worth and faithfulness. 'Leave her awhile (Melissa said), and be A month or twain a truant, more or less: Then homeward wend; again the goblet fill; And prove if you the beverage drink or spill.' XXXI "I thought it hard to leave my consort's side; Not as so much about her truth in pain, As that I could nor for two days abide, Nay, not an hour without her could remain. `-- You in another way (Melissa cried) Guided by me, the truth shall ascertain; Voice, vesture shall you change; and to her sight Present yourself, disguised like other wight.' XXXII "Sir, a fair city nigh at hand, defends Twixt fierce and threatening horns the foaming Po; Whose jurisdiction to the shore extends, Where the sea's briny waters come and go: This yields in ancientry, but well contends With neighbouring towns in rich and gorgeous show: A Trojan remnant its foundations placed, Which scaped from Attila's destructive waste. XXXIII "A rich, a youthful, and a handsome knight Bridles this city with his sovereign sway; Who, following a lost falcon in its flight, Entering by chance my dwelling on a day, Beheld my wife, who pleased him so at sight, He bore her impress in his heart away; Nor ceased to practise on her, with intent To incline the matron to his evil bent. XXXIV "So often she repels the cavalier That finally his courtship is foregone; But her fair image graved by Love will ne'er Be razed from memory; me Melissa won (So well she soothed and flattered) of that peer The face and figure to the sight to don; And changed me -- nor well how can I declare -- In voice and visage and in eyes and hair. XXXV "I, having to my lady made a show As eastward bound and gone, -- like him that wooed, Her rich and youthful lover, altered so, His semblance, attended by Melissa, go, Into a page upon her side transmewed; Who the most costly jewels with her bore E'er brought form Ind, or Erithraean shore. XXXVI "I enter safely, that my palace knew, And with me wends Melissa; and there I So wholly at her ease Madonna view, No woman or attendant squire is by. To her with suppliant prayer forthwith I sue, And next those goads to evil deed apply; Show emerald, ruby, diamond, that might serve; To make the firmest heart from honour swerve; XXXVII "And I declare to her the gift is small To that, which she may hope to make her own; Then of the vantage speak, that from his hall Her husband at the present time is gone; And I how long it was to her recall, Since, as she knew, to her my love was shown; And that my loving with such faith, in the end Might worthily to some reward pretend. XXXVIII "At first she was somedeal disturbed; became Like scarlet; nor would listen to my say; But seeing those bright jewels flash like flame, Her stubborn heart was softened, and gave way; And in brief speech and feeble said the dame What to remember takes my life away: She with my wishes, said, she would comply, If sure to be unseen of watchful eye. XXXIX "Me my wife's words like poisoned weapon thrill, And pierce my suffering spirit through and through: Through bones and veins there went a deadly chill; My tongue clave to my throat: The witch withdrew With that the magic mantle, and at will Transformed me to mine ancient shape anew. -- Bethink thee of what hue my wife became, Taken by me in such notorious shame! XL "Of deadly hue we both of us remain; We both stand silent; both with downcast eye. So feeble is my tongue, that I with pain, So faint my voice, that I with pain can cry; 'Thou wouldst betray me then, O wife, for gain, If there was one that would my honour buy!' She nought replies; nor save by tears she speaks, Which furrow, as they fall, her woeful cheeks. XLI "Shame stings her sore, but yet in sorer wise Wrath at the outrage I to her had done; And so without restraint it multiplies, And into rage and cruel hate is run, To fly from me forthwith does she devise; And, what time from his car dismounts the sun, Runs to the shore, aboard her pinnace wends, And all that night the stream in haste descends; XLII "And she at morn presents herself before Him that had loved her once, the cavalier, Whose semblance and whose borrowed face I wore When, to my shame, I tempted her whilere. To him that loved, and loves her evermore, Her coming, it may be believed, is dear. From thence she bade me never entertain The hope she'd love me or be mine again. XLIII "Alas! with him she swells in mickle glee Even from that day, and makes of me a jest; And of that evil which I brought on me I languish yet, and find no place of rest. Justly this growing ill my death will be, Of little remnant now of life possest. I well believe I in a year had died, But that a single comfort aid supplied. XLIV "That comfort was; of all which harboured were Here for ten years (for still to every guest Beneath my roof I bade the vessel bear) Was none but with the wine had bathed his breast. To have so many comrades in my care, Some little soothes the griefs that so molest. Thou only of so many hast been wise, Who wouldst forbear the perilous emprize. XLV "My wish, o'erpassing every fitting bound, To know what husband of his wife should know, Is cause, by me no quiet will be found, Whether my death be speedy of be slow. Thereat at first Melissa joys; but drowned Forthwith is her light mirth; for of my woe Esteeming her the cause, that dame so sore I hated, I would not behold her more. XLVI "Impatient to be treated with disdain By me, -- of her more loved than life, she said - Where she forthwith as mistress to remain Had hoped, when thence the other was conveyed, -- Not to behold such present, cause of pain, Her own departure little she delayed; And went so far away, no further word By me was ever of that woman heard." XLVII His tale the mournful cavalier so taught; And when he now had closed his history, With pity touched, somewhile immersed in thought Rinaldo mused, and after made reply: "Right ill advice to thee Melissa brought, Who moved three thus to anger wasps; and I Perceive in thee small wisdom, that wouldst sound A thing which thou wouldst gladly not have found. XLVIII "If she, thy wife, by avarice was inclined To break her faith and be to thee untrue, Muse not: nor first nor last of womankind, She, worsted, from such cruel war withdrew; And by a meaner bribe yet firmer mind Is even tempted fouler deed to do. Of men, of how many we hear, that sold Their patrons and their friends for sordid gold? XLIX "With such fierce arms thou ill didst her assail, If to behold a brave defence thou sought. Knowst thou not, against gold of no avail Is stone, or steel to hardest temper wrought? Meseems that thou in tempting her didst fail More than herself, that was so quickly caught. I know not, had she tempted thee as much, If thou, thyself, hadst better stood the touch." L Here ends Rinaldo, and -- the parley done -- Rises and to his rest desires to go: Awhile will he repose; and then be gone, An hour or two before the daylight show. But little time has Aymon's warlike son; Nor idly will that little time bestow. To him the mansion's master made reply, He in his house might at his pleasure lie. LI For bed and bower, within, were ready dight; But -- would he take his counsel for his guide -- In comfort might he sleep throughout the night. And yet advance some miles; "For thou," he cried, "Shalt have a pinnace, that with rapid flight And without risque shall with the current glide. Therein shalt thou all night pursue thy way, And on thy journey gain withal a day." LII Good seemed that proffer in Rinaldo's eyes, And to the courteous host large thanks he paid; Then for the pinnace which that lord supplies, That waits him with her crew, the warrior made. Here, at full ease reclined, Rinaldo lies, While with the stream his frigate is conveyed; Which, by six oars impelled, flies fast and fair, And cleaves the water, as a bird the air. LIII As soon as he reclines his weary head, Asleep is Mount Albano's cavalier; Having erewhile that they shall wake him, said, As soon as they Ferrara's city near. Melara lies left of that river's bed, Sermide to the right; they in their rear Next leave Stellata and Figarolo, Where his two horns are lowered by angry Po. LIV Of those two horns that which t'ward Venice goes Rinaldo's pilot left, and took the right; Then the Bodeno past. Already shows Faintly the eastern blue, and fades from sight; For now Aurora from her basket throws All her rich flowers, and paints it red and white; When viewing the two castles of Tealdo, Again his head uplifts the good Rinaldo. LV "O happy town! whereof" (the warrior cried) "Spake Malagigi, having, far and near, The fixt and wandering fires of heaven espied, And forced some subject spirit to appear, To me foretelling that in future tide, -- What time with him I took his way whilere -- Even to such pitch thy glorious fame should rise, Thou from all Italy wouldst bear the prize." LVI So saying, in his barge he all this while Hurries, as if the bark with pinions flew, Scowering the king of rivers, to that isle Nearest the town; and, though it not to view (Deserted and neglected then) doth smile, This yet rejoices to behold anew; Nor makes small mirth thereat; because aware Hereafter how adorned 'twill be and fair. LVII Before when he with him that way had gone, From Malagigi, his cousin, did he hear That when seven hundred times his course had run, Circling the heaven in Aries, the fourth sphere, Of islands this should be the fairest one In sea, or pool, or river, far and near, So that who this beheld, would brook no more To hear that praised which fair Nausicaa bore. LVIII He heard, it in fair mansions would outdo That island which Tiberius held so dear; And trees that in Hesperian gardens grew Would yield to what this beauteous place should bear; -- So rare its race of beasts -- no fairer shew Herded or housed erewhile by Circe were; Venus with Loves and Graces there should sport, Nor more in Gnide and Cyprus keep her court; LIX And so would flourish through his study and care, Who will with knowledge and with power should blend; And who so safely should that bright repair With circling wall and sheltering dyke defend, The united world's assault it well might dare, Nor call on foreign power its aid to lend; And that Duke Hercules' sire and Hercules' son Was he by whom this marvel should be done. LX So wends the warrior summing in his mind What erst to him had told his cousin wise; What time the sage of future things divined, Whereof with him he often wont devize; And aye contemplating that city blind, "How can it ever be," Rinaldo cries, "That in all liberal and all worthy arts Shall flourish so these waste and watery parts? LXI "And that to city of such amplitude And beauty such a petty burgh should grow, And where but marsh and miry pool is viewed, Henceforth should full and fruitful harvests glow? Even now I rise, to hail the gentle blood, The love, the courtesy thy lords shall show, O thou fair city, in succeeding years; Thy burghers' honours and thy cavaliers'. LXII "The grace ineffable of powers above, Thy princes' wisdom and their love of right, Shall with perpetual peace, perpetual love Preserve thee in abundance and delight; And a defence from all the fury prove Of such as hate thee; and unmask their spite. Be thy content thy neighbours' wide annoy, Rather than thou shouldst envy other's joy!" LXIII While thus Rinaldo speaks, so swiftly borne By the quick current flies that nimble yawl; Not to the lure more swiftly makes return The falcon, hurrying at his lord's recall. Thenceforth the right-hand branch of the right horn Rinaldo takes; and hid are roof and wall: St. George recedes; recede from that swift boat The turrets OF GAIBANA and OF THE MOAT. LXIV Montalban's martial lord (as it befell, That thought moved thought, which others moved again) In memory chances on the knight to dwell, That him at supper late did entertain; That, through this city's cause, the truth to tell, Hath reason evermore to be in pain; And of the magic vessel him bethinks Which shows his consort's guilt to him that drinks; LXV And him bethinks therewith of what the knight Related; how of all that he had tried, Who of his goblet drank, there was no wight But split the wine he to his lips would guide. Now he repents him; now, "'Tis my delight," (Mutters) "that I the proof would not abide: Succeeding I should prove but what I thought; And not succeeding, to what pass am brought! LXVI "This my belief I deem a certainty; And faith could have but small increase in me: So, if I this should by the touchstone try, My present good would little bettered be: But small the evil would not prove, if I Saw of my Clarice what I would not see. This were a thousand against one to stake; To hazard much where I could nothing take." LXVII The knight of Clermont buried in this mood, Who lifted not his visage from the floor, A mariner with much attention viewed, That overright was seated at his oar; And, for he deemed he fully understood The thought that prest the cavalier so sore, Made him (well-spoken was the man and bold) Wake from his muse, some talk with him to hold. LXVIII The substance of the talk between the two Was, that the husband little wit possest, Who, wishing to assay if she was true, Had tried his wife by too severe a test: For woman, proof to gold and silver, who, Armed but with modesty, defends her breast, This from a thousand faulchions will defend More surely, and through burning fires will wend. LXIX The mariner subjoined: "Thou saidest well; With gifts so rich he should not her have prest; For, these assaults, these charges, to repel, Not good alike is every human breast. I know not if of wife thou has heard tell (For haply not with us the tale may rest) That in the very sin her husband spied, For which she by his sentence should have died. LXX "My lord should have remembered, gold and meed Have upon every hardest matter wrought: But he forgot this truth in time of need; And so upon his head this ruin brought, Ah! would that he in proof, like me, a deed Done in this neighbouring city had been taught, His country and mine own; which lake and fen, Brimming with Mincius' prisoned waters, pen. LXXI "I of Adonio speak, that in a hound A treasure on the judge's wife conferred." "Thereof," replied the paladin, "the sound Hath not o'erpast the Alps; for never word Of this neighbouring France, nor in my round Through far and foreign countries have I heard: So tell, if telling irks not," said the peer, "What willingly I bown myself to hear. LXXII The boatman then: "Erewhile was of this town One Anselm, that of worthy lineage came; A wight that spent his youth in flowing gown, Studying his Ulpian: he of honest fame, Beauty, and state assorting with his own, A consort sought, and one of noble name: Nor vainly; in a neighbouring city, crowned With superhuman beauty, one he found. LXXIII "She such fair manners and so graceful shows, She seems all love and beauty; and much more Perchance than maketh for her lord's repose; Then well befits the reverend charge he bore. He, wedded, strait in jealousy outgoes All jealous men that ever were before: Yet she affords not other cause for care But that she is too witty and too fair. LXXIV "In the same city dwelt a cavalier, Numbered that old and honoured race among, Sprung from the haughty lineage, which whilere Out of the jaw-bone of a serpent sprung: Whence Manto, doomed my native walls to rear, Descended, and with her a kindred throng. The cavalier (Adonio was he named) Was with the beauties of the dame inflamed; LXXV "And for the furtherance of his amorous quest, To grace himself, began his wealth to spend, Without restraint, in banquet and in vest, And what might most a cavalier commend: If he Tiberius' treasure had possest, He of his riches would have made an end. I well believe two winters were not done, Ere his paternal fortune was outrun. LXXVI "The house erewhile, frequented by a horde -- Morning and evening -- of so many friends, Is solitary; since no more his board Beneath the partridge, quail, and pheasant bends. Of that once noble troop upon the lord, Save beggars, hardly any one attends. Ruined, at length he thinks he will begone To other country, where he is unknown. LXXVII "He leaves his native land with this intent, Nor letteth any his departure know; And coasts, in tears and making sad lament, The marshes that about his city go: He his heart's queen, amid his discontent, Meanwhile forgets not, for this second woe. Lo! him another accident that falls, From sovereign woe to sovereign bliss recalls! LXXVIII "He saw a peasant who with heavy stake Smote mid some sapling trunks on every side: Adonio stopt, and wherefore so he strake, Asked of the rustic, that in answer cried, Within that clump a passing ancient snake, Amid the tangled stems he had espied: A longer serpent and more thick to view He never saw, nor thought to see anew; LXXIX "And that from thence he would not wend his way Until the reptile he had found and slain, When so Adonio heard the peasant say, He scarce his speech with patience could sustain, Aye reverence to the serpent wont to pay, The honoured ensign of his ancient strain; In memory that their primal race had grown Erewhile from serpent's teeth by Cadmus sown; LXXX "And by the churl the offended knight so said, And did withal, he made him quit the emprize; Leaving the hunted serpent neither dead, Nor injured, nor pursued in further wise. Thither, where he believes would least have spread The story of his woe, Adonio hies; And in discomfort and in sorrow wears, Far from his native land, seven weary years. LXXXI "Neither for distance nor for straitened cheer, Which will not let Thought run its restless round, Ceased Love, so wont to rein the cavalier, Aye to inflame his heart, aye vex his wound: At length those beauties, to his eyes so dear, Parforce must he revisit, homeward bound. Unshorn, afflicted, he, in poor array, Thither returns, from whence he went his way. LXXXII "My city, at the time whereof I tell, To Rome was fain to send an embassy; That sometime near his holiness should dwell; And for how long a time could none foresee. Upon our judge the lot of envoy fell: O day, that ever wept by him will be! To be excused, Anselmo promised, prayed, And bribed; but at the last parforce obeyed. LXXXIII "As no less cruel and less hard to abide He deemed a woe which caused such piteous smart, Than had he seen a hostile hand his side Lay bare, and from his bosom pluck his heart: Dead-white with jealous fear his cheek is dyed, Through doubt of his fair consort while apart; And in the mode he deems may best avail, He supplicates her not in faith to fail, LXXXIV "Nor beauty, to his wife the husband cries, Nor noble blood, nor fortune, are enow To make a woman to true honour rise, Save chaste in name and deed; subjoining how The virtue that mankind most highly prize Is that which triumphs after strife; and now Through his long absense, a fair field and wide Is opened where that virtue may be tried. LXXXV "With such persuasions, and with many more Anselm exhorts the lady to be true. His going doth his woful wife deplore. O heaven, what tears, what loud complaints ensue! Immersed in her despair, that lady swore, Sooner the sun bedimmed the world should view Than she would break her faith; she would expire Sooner than she would cherish such desire. LXXXVI "Though to the lady's promise and protest He lent belief, and somewhat calmed his fears, Until he further hear he will not rest; And till he can find matter for his tears, A soothsayer he among his friends possest, Prized for his knowledge, as the first of seers; Who of all witchery and of magic art Had read the whole, or read the greater part. LXXXVII "To him before departing does he pray, To take the charge upon himself to see If true would be Argia while away (So name his consort), or the contrary. Won by his prayers, he takes the time o' the day; Figures the heavens as they appear to be. Anselmo left him at his work, and came His answer on the following day to claim. LXXXVIII "The astrologer is silent, loath to expose A matter that will work the doctor woe; And would excuse himself with many a gloze: But when he sees, he would the evil know, Argia will break faith with him, he shows, As soon as he shall from his threshold go. Nor prayer shall soften her, nor beauty fire: Corrupted will she be by gain and hire. LXXXIX "When to Anselmo's early doubt and fear Are joined the threatnings of the signs above, How stands his heart may well to thee appear, If thou hast known the accidents of love; And worse than every woe, wherewith whilere The afflicted spirits of that husband strove, Is that it by the prophet is foretold, Argais' honour will be bought and sold. XC "Now to support his wife, as best he may, From falling into such an evil deed. For man, alas, will sometimes disarray The altar, when he finds himself in need, What gold and gems the judge had put away, (A plenteous store) he leaves; and field and mead, Rents, fruits, and all possessions whatsoe'er Leaves to his consort; all his worldly gear: XCI " `With power,' he said, `not only without measure, These, as thou needest, to enjoy and spend, But do with them according to thy pleasure, Consume and fling away, and give and vend: Other account I ask not of my treasure, If such as now I find thee in the end; But such as now remain; -- at thy command (Even shouldst thou squander both) are house and land.' XCII "Unless she heard he thither made repair, He prayed that she would dwell not in the town; But would a farm of his inhabit, where She might with all convenience live alone. And this besought he of his consort fair, As thinking, that the rustics, which on down Pasture their flocks, or fruitful fallows till, Could ne'er contaminate her honest will. XCIII "Her fearful husband still embracing close, Her arms about his neck Argia threw: A burst of tears her visage overflows: For from her eyes two streams their way pursue. She grieves, he guilty should his wife suppose; As if she hath already been untrue: For his suspicion to its source she traced; That in her faith no faith Anselmo placed. XCIV "Citing their long farewell, I should exceed. `-- To thee at length,' he so the dame addrest, `I recommend my honour'; -- and indeed Took leave, and on his road in earnest prest; And truly felt, on wheeling round his steed, As if his heart was issuing from his breast. She follows him as long as she can follow With eyes whose tears her furrowed visage hollow. XCV "Poor, pale, unshorn, and wretched (as whilere To you in former strain by me was said), Homeward meanwhile the wandering cavalier, Hoping he there should be unknown, had made. Beside the lake that pilgrim journeyed, near The city, where he gave the serpent aid, In that thick brake besieged by village swain, Who with his staff the reptile would have slain. XCVI "Arriving here, upon the dawn of light, For yet some stars were glimmering in the skies, Approaching him, in foreign vesture dight, Along the shore, a damsel he espies. Though neither squire nor waiting wench in sight Appears, yet noble is the lady's guise. With pleasing visage she Adonio boards, And then breaks silence in the following words. XCVII "Albeit thou know'st me not, O cavalier I am thy kin, and greatly bound to thee: I am thy kin; for of the lineage clear Derived of haughty Cadmus' seed are we. I am the fairy Manto, that whilere Laid the first stone of this rude villagery; And (as thou haply mayst have heard it famed) Mantua from me the rising town was named. XCVIII " `O' the fairies am I one: with that to show Our fatal state, and what it doth import; We to all other kinds of ill below Are subject by our natal influence, short Of death; but with immortal being such woe Is coupled, death is not of direr sort. For every seventh day we all must take By certain law, the form of spotted snake. XCIX " `So sad it is that loathsome coil to fill, And prone, at length, upon the ground to crawl; Equal to this here is no worldly ill; So that immortal life is cursed by all. And thou the debt I owe thee (for my will Is to inform thee of its cause withal) Shalt know as well; how on that fatal day Of change we are to countless ills a prey. C " `So hated as the serpent beast is none; And we that wear its evil form, alarm, Outrage, and war endure from every one: For all that see us, hunt and do us harm: Unless we can to ground for shelter run, We feel how heavy falls man's furious arm. Happier it were to die, than languish -- broke, Battered, and crippled by the cruel stroke. CI " `My mighty obligation due to thee Is that, when once thou didst this greenwood thread, Thou from a rustic's fury rescuedst me, By whose ill handling was I sore bested. But for thine aid, I should not have got free, Without a broken spine or battered head: With body crooked and crushed I should have lain, Albeit I could not by his arm be slain. CII " `Because thou hast to know upon the day We sprang from earth with scales of dragon dight, -- Subject to us at other times -- to obey The heavens refuse; and we are void of might: At other seasons, at our simple say The circling sun stands still, and dims its light: Fixt earth is moved, and in a circle wheels: Ice at our word takes fire, and fire congeals. CIII " `Now here, prepared to render thee the meed Of benefit then done to me, I stand; For now, dismantled of my dragon weed, Vainly no grace of me wilt thou demand. Even now, thrice richer art thou by my deed, Than when thou heirdst erewhile thy father's land: Now will I that henceforth thou shalt be poor; But wealth, the more 'tis spent, augment the more: CIV " `And because with that ancient knot thou still, I know, art tangled, which by Love was tied, The mode and order, how thou mayst fulfil Thy wishes, shall by me be signified. Now that her lord is absent, 'tis my will My scheme without delay by thee be tried; Go forth the lady at her farm to find, Without the town; nor will I say behind.' CV "She her discourse continuing, 'gan advise What form he to that lady's eyes should take: I say, what vesture wear, and in what wise Should speak, how tempt her; what entreaties make: And said, how she her figure would disguise; For, save the day wherein she was a snake, Upon all others went the fairy drest In whatsoever figure pleased her best. CVI "She in a pilgrim's habit clothed the knight, Such as from door to door our alms entreat: Into a dog she changed herself to sight; The smallest ever seen, of aspect sweet, Long hair, than ermine's fur more snowy white; And skilled withal in many a wondrous feat. Towards Agria's villa, so transmewed, The fairy and the knight their way pursued; CVII "And at the labourer's cabins in his round The stripling halts, before he stops elsewhere; And certain rustic reeds begins to sound; His dog is up, and dances to the air. The dame, that hears the voice and cry rebound, Is by the rumour moved to see the pair. Into her court she has the pilgrim brought, As Anselm's evil destiny had wrought: CVIII "And here Adonio gives the dog command; And here by that obedient dog is shown Dance of our country and of foreign land, With paces, graces, fashions of his own; And finally he does, amid that band, With winning ways what else is to be done, With such attention of the admiring crew, None winked their eyes, their breath they scarcely drew. CIX "Great marvel in the dame, then longing, bred That gentle dog: she one that her had nursed With no mean offer to his master sped. -- `If all the riches for which women thirst' (To her embassadress in answer said The wary pilgrim) `in my bags were pursued, There is not in that treasure what would boot To purchase of my dog one single foot': CX "And he, the truth of his discourse to show, Into a corner took the beldam old, And bade the dog in courtesy bestow Upon that messanger a mark of gold. The dog obeyed, and shook himself; and lo! The treasure! which he bade her have and hold: Thereto he added, `Thinkest thou by ought A dog so fair and useful can be bought? CXI " `For whatsoever I of him demand, I empty-handed never go away; Now pearl, now ring will he shake from him, and Now gift me with some rich and fair array. Yet tell madonna he is at her command; But not for gold; for him no gold can pay; But if I for one night her arms may fill, Him may she take and do with him her will.' CXII "So said, a gem, new-dropt, on her he prest, And bade her to the lady bear the boon. That in the costly produce she possest Ten, twenty ducats' value deemed the crone. She bore the message to the dame addressed, And after wrought on her till she was won To buy the beauteous dog, who might be bought By payment of a prize which costeth nought. CXIII "Argia somewhat coy at first appears; Partly that she her faith will not forego; Partly that she believes not all she hears That beldam of the dog and pilgrim show. The nurse insists, and dins into her ears, That seldom such a chance occurs below; And makes her fix another day to see That dog, when fewer eyes on her shall be. CXIV "The next appearance which Adonio made Was ruin to the doctor; for the hound Doubloons, by dozens and by dozens, braid Of pearl, and costly jewels scattered round. So that Argia's pride of heart was laid; And so much less the dame maintained her ground, When she in him, who made the proffer, viewed The Mantuan cavalier that whilom wooed. CXV "The harlot nurse's evil oratory, The prayer and presence of the suitor lord, The occasion to acquire that mighty fee, Which wretched Anselm's absence would afford, The hope that none would her accuser be, So vanquish her chaste thoughts, she makes the accord -- Accepts the wondrous dog; and, as his pay, To her leman yields herself a willing prey. CXVI The fruits of love long culled that cavalier With his lady fair; unto whom the fay Took such affection, whom she held so dear, That she obliged herself with her to stay. Through all the signs the sun had travelled, ere The judge had leave to wend his homeward way. He finally returned; but sore afraid Through what the astrologer erewhile had said. CXVII "Arrived, his first employment is to run To that astrologer's abode, and crave, If shame and evil to his wife be done; Of if she yet her faith and honor save. The heavens he figured; and to every one Of the seven planets its due station gave; Then to the judge replied that it had been Even as he feared, and as it was foreseen. CXVIII "By richest presents tempted to forego Her faith, a prey was she to other wight. This to the doctor's heart was such a blow; Nor lance, nor spear, I deem, so sorely smite. To be more certified he wends (although He is too well assured the seer is right) To that old nurse; and, drawing her apart, To learn the truth employs his every art. CXIX "He in wide circles doth about her wind, Hoping now here, now there, to spy some trace: But nought in the beginning can he find, With whatsoever care he sifts the case. For she, as not unpractised in that kind, Denies, and fronts him with untroubled face; And, as well taught, above a month stands out, Holding the judge 'twixt certainty and doubt. CXX "How blest would doubt appear, had he that wound Foreseen, which would be given by certainty! When out of that false nurse at last he found He could not fish the truth by prayer or fee, Touching no chord but yielded a false sound, He shrewdly waits his time till there should be Discord between the beldam and his wife: For whereso women are, is stir and strife. CXXI "And even that Anselmo waited, so Befell; since, angered by the first despite, Unsought of him, to him that nurse did go, To tell the whole; and nothing hid from sight. How sank his heart beneath that cruel blow, 'Twere long to say; how prostrate lay his sprite. So was the wretched judge with grief opprest, He of his wits well-nigh was dispossest; CXXII "And finally resolved to die, so burned His rage, but first would kill the faithless dame; And he with one destructive faulchion yearned To free himself from woe and her from shame. Stung by such blind and furious thoughts, returned Anselmo to the city, in a flame; And to the farm despatched a follower true, Charged with the bidding he was bound to do. CXXIII "He bids the servant to the villa go, And to Argia in his name pretend, He by a fever is reduced so low, She hardly can arrive before his end. Hence without waiting escort -- would she show Her love -- she with his man must backward wend, (Wend with him will she surely, nor delay) And bids him cut her throat upon the way. CXXIV "The serving man to call his lady went Prepared his lord's command on her to do. Having her little dog at starting hent, She mounted and began her journey, through The dog advised of Anselm's ill intent, But bid no less her purpose to pursue; For he had taken thought for her; and aid Should in the time of peril be purveyed. CXXV "The servant from his pathway turns aside, And through bye-roads and solitary goes; Purposely lighting on a stream, whose tide From Apennine into our river flows; Where, both of farm and busy city wide, A holt, and dark and dismal greenwood grows. Silent appeared the gloomy place, and one Fitting the cruel deed which should be done. CXXVI "He drew his sword on her, and signified The mandate by her angry husband given; That so she might entreat, before she died, Forgiveness of her every sin from Heaven. I know not how; she vanished from his side, When through her flank the blade he would have driven. Vainly long time he seeks her, then remains Foiled and outscorned, for guerdon of his pains. CXXVII "He all astound and with bewildered face, And full of shame, to seek his lord returns; Who from the servant that unwonted case, Unweeting how the thing had happened, learns; Nor knows the fairy Manto fills a place About Argia, prompt to serve her turns. Because the nurse, that all the rest revealed (I know not wherefore, I), had this concealed. CXXVIII "He knows not what to do: the outrage sore Avenged he has not, nor his pain allaid: What was a mote is now a beam; so sore It prest him; on his heart so heavy weighed. So plain is what was little known before, He fears that it will shortly be displaid. At first, he haply might have hid his woe; Which Rumour now throughout the world will blow. CXXIX "Full well he wots, that since his evil vein He to his wife, unhappy wretch! hath shown, Not to be subject to his yoke again, She to some strong protector will have flown; Who to his ignominy will maintain, And utter scorn, the lady as his own: And haply may she to some losel flee, Who will her paramour and pander be. CXXX "For remedy, he sends in haste a band Of messengers, with letters far and nigh. Some of Argia here, some there demand; Nor town unsearched is left in Lombardy. Next he in person goes; nor any land Leaves unexamined by himself or spy. Yet cannot he discover means or way For learning where concealed his consort lay. CXXXI "The servant last he called on whom was laid The ill hest, but who had served not his despite; And thither by his guidance was conveyed, Where (as 'twas said) she vanished from his sight; Who haply lurked by day in greenwood-shade, And to some friendly roof retired at night. He thither guided, where but forest-trees He thinks to find, a sumptuous palace sees. CXXXII "This while for bright Argia in that part The fay had made with speedy toil prepare An alabaster palace by her art, Gilded within, without, and everywhere. So wonderful, no tongue could tell, no heart Conceive, how rich within, without how fair: That, which thou deemed so fair, my master's home, Is but a cottage to that costly dome. CXXXIII "Curtain and cloth of arras deck the wall, Sumptuously woven and in different wise, In vaulted cellar and in littered stall; Not only spread in latticed galleries, Not only spread in lordly bower and hall. Vase, gold and silver, gems of many dyes, Carved into cup and charger, blue, red, green, And countless cloths of silk and gold are seen. CXXXIV "He chanced upon the costly dome (as I To you was in my story making known) When he expected not a hut to spy, And but a weary waste of woodland lone. As he beheld the dome with wondering eye, Anselmo thought his intellects were gone: That he was drunk, or dreamed that wondrous sight He weened, of that his wits had taken flight. CXXXV "An Aethiop woman posted at the door, With blubber lip and nostril, he descries. Nor will he see again, nor e'er before Had seen a visage of such loathsome guise: Ill-favoured -- such was Aesop feigned of yore: If there, she would have saddened Paradise. Greasy and foul and beggarly her vest; Nor half her hideousness have I exprest. CXXXVI "Anselm, who saw no other wight beside To tell who was that mansion's lord, drew nigh To the Aethiopian, and to her applied; And she: `The owner of this house am I.' The judge was well assured the negress lied, And made that answer but in mockery: But with repeated oaths the negress swears; 'Tis hers, and none with her the mansions shares; CXXXVII "And would he see the palace, him invites To view it at his ease; and recommends If there be ought within which him delights, To take it for himself or for his friends. Anselmo hears, and from his horse alights, Gives it his man; and o'er the threshold wends; And by the hag conducted, mounts from hall Below to bower above, admiring all. CXXXVIII "Form, site, and sumptuous work doth he behold, And royal ornament and fair device; And oft repeats, not all this wide world's gold To buy the egregious mansion wound suffice. To him in answer said that negress old: 'And yet this dome, like others, hath its prize; If not in gold and silver, price less high Than gold and silver will the palace buy': CXXXIX "And she to him prefers the same request, Which erst Adonio to Argia made. A fool he deemed the woman and possest, Who for a boon so foul and filthy prayed. Yet ceased she not, though more than thrice represt; And strove so well Anselmo to persuade, Proffering, for his reward, the palace still, She wrought on him to do her evil will. CXL "The wife Argia, that is hid fast by, When in such sin her husband she descries, Of doctor, that was deemed so passing wise, Springs forth and saith: `Ah! worthy deed! which I Found in such foul and filthy work, espy!' Bethink thee, if his kindling blushes rise; If he stands mute! why opens not thy hollow And central womb, O earth, the wretch to swallow? CXLI "To clear herself and shame him, doth she stun Anselmo, never ceasing to upbraid. `What pain should by thyself be undergone For this so filthy deed, (Argia said) If thou would'st take my life for having done What Nature prompted and a lover prayed; One that was fair and gentle, and who brought A gift, compared wherewith, this dome is nought? CXLII " `If worthy of one death thou deemest me, Worthy art thou a hundred deaths to die: And, though my pleasure might I do on thee, So passing puissant in this place am I, No other or worse vengeance done shall be Upon my side, on thy delinquency. The give against the take, O husband, place; And, as 'twas granted thee, so grant me grace: CXLIII " `And be there peace between us, and accord That all be to forgetfulness consigned; Nor thee I of thy fault by deed or word, Nor me of mine, henceforward thou remind!' This seemed a goodly bargain to her lord; Nor to such pardon was he disinclined. Thus peace and concord they at home restore, And love each other dearly evermore." CXLIV So said the mariner, and some brief fit Of laughter in Montalban's master stirred; And made his visage burn, as if 'twas lit With fire, when of Anselmo's shame he heard. Rinaldo greatly praised Argia's wit, Who by such quaint device had trapped that bird; Who fell into the net wherein the dame Herself erewhile had fallen, but with less shame. CXLV When the sun climbed a steeper road, the knight Ordered the board with food to be supplied, Which the good Mantuan landlord overnight Took care with largest plenty to provide; While the fair town, upon the left, from sight Retired, and on the right that marish wide. Argenta is come and gone, with circling walls And stream into whose bed Santerno falls. CXLVI Then was not fair Bastia built, deem I, Which little cause of boast affords to Spain (That there her banner has been raised on high), And causes deeper sorrow to Romagne. Thence in strait line their bark, that seems to fly, To the right shore the boatmen drive amain: Next through a stagnant channel make, that near Ravenna brings by noon the cavalier. CXLVII Though oft of money he had small supply, Then was the knight so well bested, he made The weary rowers, in his courtesy, A parting present, ere farewell was said. Here changing horse and guide, to Rimini Rinaldo rode that very eye, nor stayed In Montefiore till the night was done; And well nigh reached Urbino with the sun. CXLVIII Then Frederick was not there of gentle lore, Nor was Elizabeth nor Guido good; Francis Maria nor sage Leonore; Who would in courteous, not in haughty mood, Have forced so famed a paladin for more Than one short eye, with them to make abode; As they long did, and do unto this day, By dames and cavaliers who pass that way. CXLIX Since here none takes his rein, Rinaldo bends His course an-end to Cagli; o'er the height, Rifted by Gaurus and Metaurus, wends Past Apennine, no longer on his right, Umbri and Tuscans; and at Rome descends. From Rome to Ostia goes Montalban's knight: Thence to the city sails; wherein a grave His pious son to old Anchises gave. CL There changes back; and thence in haste he goes Bound towards Lampedosa's island-shore, That place of combat chosen by the foes, And where they had encountered Frank and Moor. Rinaldo grants his boatmen no repose; That do what can be done by sail and oar. But with ill wind and strong the warrior strives; And, though by little, there too late arrives. CLI Thither he came what time Anglante's peer The useful and the glorious deed had done; Had slain those paynim kings in the career, But had a hard and bloody conquest won: Dead was Sir Brandimart; and Olivier, Dangerously hurt and sore, sate woe-begone, Somedeal apart, upon the sandy ground, Martyred and crippled by his cruel wound. CLII From tears could not the mournful Count refrain, When brave Rinaldo he embraced, and said, How in the battle Brandimart was slain. Such love, such faith endeared the warrior dead. Nor less Rinaldo's tears his visage stain When he so cleft beholds their comrade's head. Thence to embrace bold Oliviero, where He sits with wounded foot, he makes repair. CLIII All comfort that he could he gave; though none Could good Rinaldo to himself afford; Because he came but when the feast was done; Yea after the removal of the board. The servants wend to the demolished town, There hide the bones of either paynim lord Beneath Biserta's ruined domes, and nigh And far, the fearful tidings certify. CLIV At the fair conquest won by Roland's blade, Sansonet and Astolpho make great cheer; Yet other mirth those warriors would have made Had Brandimart not perished; when they hear That he is dead, their joy is so allayed They can no more the troubled visage clear. Which of them now the tidings of such woe To the unhappy Flordelice shall show? CLV The night preceding that ill-omened day Flordelice dreamed the vest of sable grain That she had made, her husband to array, And woven with her hand and worked with pain, Before her eyes all sprinkled-over lay With ruddy drops, in guise of pattering rain. That she had worked it so the lady thought; And then was grieved at seeing what was wrought. CLVI And seemed to say, "Yet from my lord have I Command to make it all of sable hue; Now wherefore it is stained with other dye Against his will, in mode so strange to view?" She from that dream draws evil augury; And thither on that eve the tidings flew: But these concealed Astolpho from the dame Till he to her with Sansonetto came. CLVII When they are entered, and she sees no show Of joyful triumphs, she, without a word, Without a hint to indicate that woe, Knows that no longer living is her lord. With that her gentle heart was riven so, And so her harassed eyes the light abhorred, And so was every other sense astound, That, like one dead, she sank upon the ground. CLVIII She in her hair, when life returns again, Fastens her hand; and on her lovely cheeks, Repeating the beloved name in vain, With all her force her scorn and fury wreaks; Uproots and tears, her locks, and in her pain Like woman, smit by evil demon, shrieks, Or, as Bacchante at the horn's rude sound, Erewhile was seen to run her restless round. CLIX Now to the one, to the other now her prayer She made for knife, wherewith her heart to smite; Now she aboard the pinnace would repair That brought the corse of either paynim knight, And would on either, lifeless as they were, Do cruel scathe, and vent her fierce despite. Now would she seek her lord, till at his side She rested from her weary search, and died. CLX "Ah! wherefore, Brandimart, did I let thee Without me wend on such a dire emprize? She ne'er before did thy departure see, But Flordelice aye followed thee," she cries: "Well aided mightest thou have been by me; For I on thee should still have kept my eyes; And when Gradasso came behind thee, I Thee might have succoured with a single cry; CLXI "And haply I so nimbly might have made Between you, that the stroke I might have caught, And with my head, as with a buckler, stayed: For little ill my dying would have wrought. Anyhow I shall die; and -- that debt paid -- My melancholy death will profit nought: When, had I died, defending thee in strife, I could not better have bestowed my life. CLXII "Even is averse had been hard Destiny, And all heaven's host, when thee I sought to aid, At least my tears had bathed thy visage, I Should the last kiss thereon, at least, have laid; And, ere amid the blessed hierarchy Thy spirit mixt, `Depart' -- I should have said -- `In peace, and wait me in thy rest; for there, Where'er thou art, I swiftly shall repair.' CLXIII "Is this, O Brandimart, is this the reign, Whose honoured sceptre thou wast now to take? With thee to Dommogire, thy fair domain, Thus went I; me thus welcome dost thou make? Alas! what hope to-day thou renderest vain! Ah! what designs, fell Fortune, dost thou break! Ah! wherefore fear I, since a lot so blest, Is lost, to lose as well the worthless rest?" CLXIV Repeating this and other plaint, so spite And fury waxed, that she in her despair Made new assault upon her tresses bright, As if the fault was wholly in her hair: Wildly her hands together doth she smite, And gnaw; with nails her lip and bosom tear. But I return to Roland and his peers; While she bemoans herself and melts in tears. CLXV Roland with Olivier, who much requires Such leech's care, his anguish to allay; And who, himself, some worthy place desires As much, wherein Sir Brandimart to lay, Steers for the lofty mountain, that with fires Brightens the night, with smoke obscures the day. The wind blows fair, and on the starboard hand, Not widely distant from them, lies that land. CLXVI With a fresh wind, that in their favour blows, They loose their hawser at the close of day: In heaven above the silent goddess shows Her shining horn, to guide them on their way; And on the following morn before them rose The pleasant shores that round Girgenti lay. Here Roland orders for the ensuing night All that is needful for the funeral rite. CLXVII He, when he saw his order duly done, And now the westering sun's fair light was spent. With many nobles, who from neighbouring town, At his invital, to Girgenti went, -- The shore with torches blazing up and down, And sounding wide with cries and loud lament, -- Thither returned where late, of life bereft, His friends, beloved in life and death, was left. CLXVIII There stands Bardino, weeping o'er the bier, Who under Age's heavy burden bows; Who, in the tears on shipboard shed whilere. Might well have wept away his eyes and brows: Upbraiding skies and stars, the cavalier, Like lion, in whose veins a fever glows, Roars as he wreathes his wayward hands within His hoary hair, and rends his wrinkled skin. CLXIX Upon the paladin's return the cry Redoubled, and the mourning louder grew Orlando to the corse approached more nigh, And speechless stood awhile, his friends to view, Pale, as at eve is the acanthus' dye Or lily's, which were plucked at morn: he drew A heavy sigh, and on the warrior dead Fixing his stedfast eyes, the County said: CLXX "O comrade bold and true, there here liest slain, And who dost live in heaven above, I know, Rewarded with a life, thy glorious gain, Which neither heat nor cold can take, my woe Forgive, if thou beholdest me complain: Because I sorrow to remain below, And not to share in such delights with thee; Not that thou art not left behind with me. CLXXI "Alone, without thee, there is nought I may Ever possess, without thee, that can please. If still with thee in tempest and affray, Ah wherefore not with thee in calm and ease? Right sore must be my trespass, since this clay Will not to follow thee my soul release. If in thy troubles still I bore a burden, Why am I not a partner of thy guerdon? CLXXII "Thine is the guerdon; mine the loss; thy gain Is single; but not single is my woe: Partners with me in sorrow are Almayne, And grieving France and Italy; and oh! How will my lord and uncle, Charlemagne, How will his paladins lament the blow! How will the Christian church and empire moan, Whose best defence in thee is overthrown! CLXXIII "Oh! how thy foes will by the death of thee Be freed henceforward from alarm and fear! Alas! how strengthened paynimry will be! What hardiment will now be theirs! what cheer! What of thy consort will become? I see Even here her mourning, and her outcries hear. Me she accuses, haply hates, I know; In that, through me, her every hope lies low. CLXXIV "Yet by one comfort, Flordelice, is followed His loss, for us that reft of him remain: His death, with such surpassing glory hallowed, To die all living warriors should be fain. Those Decii; Curtius, in Rome's forum swallowed; Cordus, so vaunted by the Grecian train; Not with more honour to themselves, with more Profit to others, went to death of yore." CLXXV These sad laments and more Orlando made; And all this while white friars, and black, and gray, With other clerks, by two and two arrayed, Behind in long procession took their way; And they to God for the departed prayed, That he would to his rest his soul convey. Before and all about were torches reared, And changed to day the sable night appeared. CLXXVI They raise the warrior's bier, and ranged to bear By turns that honoured weight were earl and knight. The pall was purple silk, with broidery rare Of gold, and pearls in costly circles dight. Thereon, of lordly work and no less fair, Cushions were laid, with jewels shining bright. On which was stretched the lifeless knight in view, Arrayed in vest of like device and hue. CLXXVII A hundred men had past before the rest, All taken from the poorest of the town; And in one fashion equally were drest Those beadsmen all, in black and trailing gown. A hundred pages followed them, who prest A hundred puissant steeds, for warfare bown; And by those pages backed, the portly steeds Went, sweeping wide the ground with sable weeds. CLXXVIII Banners in front and banners borne in rear, Whose fields with diverse ensignry is stained, Unfurled accompany the funeral bier; Which from a thousand vanquished bands were gained, For Caesar and for Peter's church whilere, By that rare force, which now extinct remained. Bucklers by other followers carried are, Won from good warriors, whose device they bear. CLXXIX By hundreds and by hundreds followed more, Ordained for different tasks, the steps of those; Who burning torches like those others bore. Mantled, say rather closely muffled, goes Roland in sables next, and evermore His eyes suffused and red with weeping shows. Nor wears a gladder face Montalban's peer. At home his wound detains Sir Olivier. CLXXX The ceremonies would be long to say In verse, wherewith Sir Brandimart was mourned; The mantles, black or purple, given away; The many torches which that eve were burned. Wending to the cathedral, where the array Past on its road, were no dry eyes discerned: All sexes, ages, ranks, in pitying mood Gazed upon him so youthful, fair, and good. CLXXXI He in the church was placed; and, when with vain Lament the women had bemoaned the dead, And Kyrie Eleison, by the priestly train, And other holy orisons were said, In a fair ark, upraised on columns twain, Was reared, with sumptuous cloth of gold o'erspread. So willed Orlando; till he could be laid In sepulchre of costlier matter made: CLXXXII Nor out of Sicily the Count departs, Till porphyries he procures and alabasters, And fair designs; and in their several arts Has with large hire engaged the primest masters. Next Flordelice, arriving in those parts, Raises the quarried slabs and rich pilasters; Who, good Orlando being gone before, Is hither wafted from the Africk shore. CLXXXIII She, seeing that her tears unceasing flow, And that of long lament she never tires; Nor she, for mass or service said, her woe Can ease, or satisfy her sad desires, Vows in her heart she thence will never go Till from the wearied corse her soul expires; And builds in that fair sepulchre a cell; There shuts herself; therein for life will dwell. CLXXXIV Thither in person, having courier sent And letter, Roland goes, her thence to take; Her, would she wend to France, with goodly rent Would gift, and Galerana's inmate make; As far as Lizza convoy her, if bent On journeying to her father; for her sake If wholly she to serve her God was willed, A monastery would the warrior build. CLXXXV Still in that sepulchre she dwelt, and worn By weary penance, praying night and day, It was not long, ere by the Parcae shorn Was her life's thread: already on their way Were the three Christian warriors, homeward borne, Sorrowing and afflicted sore in mind For their fourth comrade who remained behind. CLXXXVI They would not go without a leech, whose skill Might ease the wound of warlike Olivier; Which, as in the beginning it could ill Be salved, is hard to heal. Meanwhile they hear The champion so complain, his outcries fill Orlando and all that company with fear. While they discoursed thereon, the skipper, moved By a new notion, said what all approved. CLXXXVII A hermit not far distance hence, he said A lonely rock inhabits in this sea; Whose isle none, seeking succour, vainly tread, Whether for counsel or for aid it be: Who hath done superhuman deeds; the dead Restores to life; and makes the blind to see; Hushes the winds; and with a sign o' the cross Lulls the loud billows when they highest toss; CLXXXVIII And adds they need not doubt, if they will go To seek that holy man to God so dear, But he on Olivier will health bestow; Having his virtue proved by signs more clear. This counsel pleases good Orlando so, That for the holy place he bids him steer; Who never swerving from his course, espies The lonely rock, upon Aurora's rise. CLXXXIX Worked by good mariners, the bark was laid Safely beside the rugged rock and fell: The marquis there, with crew and servants' aid, They lowered into their boat; and through the swell And foaming waters in that shallop made For the rude isle; thence sought the holy cell; The holy cell of that same hermit hoar, By whom Rogero was baptized before. CXC The servant of the Lord of Paradise Receives Orlando and the rest on land; Blesses the company in cheerful wise; And after of their errand makes demand; Though he already had received advice From angels of the coming of that band. That they were thither bound in search of aid For Oliviero's hurt, Orlando said; CXCI Who, warring for the Christian faith, in fight To perilous pass was brought by evil wound. All dismal fear relieved that eremite, And promised he would make him wholly sound. In that no unguents hath the holy wight, Nor is in other human medicine found, His church he seeks, his knee to Jesus bows, And issues from the fane with cheerful brows; CXCII And in the name of those eternal Three, The Father, and the Son, and Holy Ghost, On Oliviero bade his blessing be. Oh! grace vouchsafed to faith! his sainted host From every pain the paladin did free; And to his foot restored its vigour lost. He moved more nimble than before, and sure; And present was Sobrino at the cure. CXCIII Sobrino, so diseased that he described How worse with each succeeding day he grew, As soon as he that holy monk espied The manifest and mighty marvel do, Disposed himself to cast Mahound aside, And own in Christ a living God and true. He, full of faith, with contrite heart demands Our holy rite of baptism at his hands. CXCIV So him baptized the hermit; and as well That monarch made as vigorous as whilere. At this conversion no less gladness fell On Roland and each Christian cavalier, Than when, restored from deadly wound, and well The friendly troop beheld Sir Olivier. Rogero more rejoiced than all that crew; And still in faith and grace the warrior grew. CXCV Rogero from the day he swam ashore Upon that islet, there had ever been. That band is counselled by the hermit hoar, Who stands, benign, those warlike knights between, Eschewing in their passage mire and moor, To wade withal through that dead water, clean, Which men call life; wherein so fools delight; And evermore on heaven to fix their sight. CXCVI Roland on shipboard sends one from his throng, Who fetches hence good wine, hams, cheese, and bread; And makes the sage, who had forgotten long All taste of partridge since on fruits he fed, Even do for love, what others did, among Those social guests for whom the board was spread. They, when their strength by food was reinforced, Of many things amid themselves discoursed; CXCVII And as in talk it often doth befall That one thing from another takes its rise, Roland and Olivier Rogero call To mind for that Rogero, in such wise Renowned in arms; whose valour is of all Lauded and echoed with accordant cries. Not even had Rinaldo known the knight For him whose prowess he had proved in fight. CXCVIII Him well Sobrino recognized whilere, As soon as with that aged man espied; But he at first kept silence; for in fear Of some mistake the monarch's tongue was tied. But when those others knew the cavalier For that Rogero, famous far and wide, Whose courtesy, whose might and daring through The universal world loud Rumor blew, CXCIX All, for they know he is a Christian, stand About him with serene and joyful face: All press upon the knight; one grasps his hand; Another locks him fast in his embrace: Yet more than all the others of that band Him would Montalban's lord caress and grace: Why more than all the others will appear In other strain, if you that strain will hear. CANTO 44 ARGUMENT Rinaldo his sister to the Child hath plight, And to Marseilles is with the warrior gone: And having crimsoned wide the field in fight, Therein arrives King Otho's valiant son. To Paris thence: where to that squadron bright Is mighty grace and wonderous honour done. The Child departs, resolved on Leo's slaughter, To whom Duke Aymon had betrothed his daughter. I In poor abode, mid paltry walls and bare, Amid discomforts and calamities, Often in friendship heart united are, Better than under roof of lordly guise, Or in some royal court, beset with snare, Mid envious wealth, and ease, and luxuries; Where charity is spent on every side, Nor friendship, unless counterfeit, is spied. II Hence it ensues that peace and pact between Princes and peers are of such short-lived wear. To-day king, pope, and emperor leagued are seen, And on the marrow deadly foemen are. Because such is not as their outward mien The heart, the spirit, that those sovereigns bear. Since, wholly careless as to right or wrong, But to their profit look the faithless throng. III Though little prone to friendship is that sort, Because with those she loveth not to dwell, Who, be their talk in earnest or in sport, Speak not, except some cozening tale to tell; Yet if together in some poor resort They prisoned are by Fortune false and fell, What friendship is they speedily discern; Though years had past, and this was yet to learn. IV In his retreat that ancient eremite Could bind his inmates with a faster noose, And in true love more firmly them unite, Than other could in domes where courtiers use; And so enduring was the knot and tight, That nothing short of death the tie could loose. Benignant all the hermit found that crew; Whiter at heart than swans in outward hue. V All kind he found them, and of courteous lore; Untainted with iniquity, in wise Of them I painted, and who nevermore Go forth, unless concealed in some disguise. Of injuries among them done before All memory, by those comrades buried lies: Nor could they better love, if from one womb And from one seed that warlike band had come. VI Rinaldo more than all that lordly train Rogero graced and lovingly caressed; As well because be on the listed plain Had proved the peer so strong in martial gest, As that he was more courteous and humane Than any knight that e'er laid lance in rest: But much more; that to him on many a ground By mighty obligation was he bound. VII The fearful risk by Richardetto run He knew, and how Rogero him bested; What time the Spanish monarch's hest was done, And with his daughter he was seized in bed; And how he had delivered either son Of good Duke Buovo (as erewhile was said) From Bertolagi of Maganza's hand, His evil followers, and the paynim band. VIII To honour and to hold Rogero dear, Him, Sir Rinaldo thought, this debt constrained; And that he could not so have done whilere, The warlike lord was sorely grieved and pained; When one for Africk's monarch couched the spear, And one the cause of royal Charles maintained: Now he Rogero for a Christian knew, What could not then be done he now would do. IX Welcome, with endless proffers, on his side, And honour he to good Rogero paid. The prudent sire that in such kindness spied An opening made for more, the pass assayed: "And nothing else remains," that hermit cried, "Nor will, I trust, my counsel be gainsaid) But that, conjoined by friendship, you shall be Yet faster coupled by affinity. X "That from the two bright progenies, which none Will equal in illustrious blood below, A race may spring, that brighter than the sun Will shine, wherever that bright sun may glow; And which, when years and ages will have run Their course, will yet endure and fairer show, While in their orbits burn the heavenly fires: So me, for your instruction, God inspires." XI And his discourse pursuing still, the seer So spake, he moves Rinaldo by his rede To give his sister to the cavalier; Albeit with either small entreaties need. Together with Orlando, Olivier The counsel lauds, and would that union speed: King Charles and Aymon will, he hopes, approve, And France will welcome wide their wedded love. XII So spake together peer and paladine: Nor knew that Aymon, with King Charles' consent, Unto the Grecian emperor Constantine To give his gentle daughter had intent; Who for young Leo, of his lofty line The heir and hope, to crave the maid had sent. Such warmth the praises of her worth inspired, With love of her unseen was Leo fired. XIII To him hath Aymon answered: he, alone, Cannot conclude thereon in other sort, Until he first hath spoken with his son, Rinaldo, absent then from Charles's court; Who with winged haste, he deems, will thither run, And joy in kinsman of such high report; But from the high regard he bears his heir, Can nought resolve till thither he repair. XIV Now good Rinaldo, of his father wide, And of the imperial practice knowing nought, Promised his beauteous sister as a bride, Upon his own, as well as Roland's thought And the others, harboured in that cell beside; But most of all on him the hermit wrought; And by such marriage, 'twas the peer's belief, He could not choose but pleasure Clermont's chief. XV That day and night, and of the following day Great part, with that sage monk the warriors spent; Scarce mindful that the crew their coming stay, Albeit the wind blew fair for their intent, But these, impatient at their long delay, More than one message to the warriors sent; And to return those barons urged so sore, Parforce they parted from the hermit hoar. XVI The Child who, so long banished, had not stayed From the lone rock, whereon the waters roared, His farewell to that holy master made, Who taught him the true faith: anew with sword Orlando girt his side, and with the blade, Frontino and martial Hector's arms restored; As knowing horse and arms were his whilere, As well as out of kindness to the peer; XVII And, though the enchanted sword with better right Would have been worn by good Anglantes' chief, Who from the fearful garden by his might Had won the blade with mickle toil and grief, Than by Rogero, who that faulchion bright Received with good Frontino, from the thief, He willingly thereof, as with the rest, As soon as asked, the warrior repossest. XVIII The hermit blessings on the band implores: They to their bark in fine return; their sails Give to the winds, and to the waves their oars; And such clear skies they have and gentle gales, Nor vow nor prayer the patron makes; and moors His pinnace in the haven of Marseilles. There, safely harboured, let the chiefs remain, Till I conduct Astolpho to that train. XIX When of that bloody, dear-brought victory The scarcely joyful tale Astolpho knew, He, seeing evermore fair France would be Secure from mischief from the Moorish crew, Homeward to send the king of Aethiopy Devised, together with his army, through The sandy desert, by the self-same track, Through which he led them to Biserta's sack. XX Erewhile restored, in Afric waters ride Sir Dudon's ships which did the paynims rout; Whose prows (new miracle!) and poop, and side, As soon as all their sable crews are out, Are changed anew to leaves; which far and wide, Raised by a sudden breeze, are blown about; And scattered in mid-air, like such light gear, Go eddying with the wind, and disappear. XXI Home, horse and foot, the Nubian host arraid By squadrons, all, from wasted Africk go; But to their king, first, thanks Astolpho paid, And said, he an eternal debt should owe; In that he had in person given him aid With all his might and main against the foe. The skins Astolpho gave them, which confined The turbid and tempestuous southern wind. XXII I say, enclosed in skins that wind he gave, Which in such fury blows at noon, on high I moves the shifting plain in many a wave, And fills the eddying sand the troubled sky, To carry with them, and from scathe to save Their squadrons, lest the dusty whirlwind fly; And bids them, when arrived at home, unnoose The bladder's vent, and let their prisoners loose. XXIII When they have lofty Atlas passes won, The horses that the Nubian riders bear, Turpin relates, are changed at once to stone; So that the steeds return to what they were. But it is time the Duke to France was gone; Who having thus provided, in his care, For the main places in the Moorish land, Made the hippogryph anew his wings expand; XXIV He reached Sardinia at one flight and shear, Corsica from Sardinia; and then o'er The foaming sea his venturous course did steer, Inclining somewhat left the griffin's soar. In the sea-marshes last his light career He stopt, on rich Provence's pleasant shore: Where to the hyppogryph by him is done What was erewhile enjoined by sainted John. XXV To him the charge did sainted John commit, When to Provence by that winged courser borne, Him nevermore with saddle or with bit To gall, but let him to his lair return. Already had the planet, whither flit Things lost on earth, of sound deprived his horn: For this not only hoarse but mute remained, As soon as the holy place Astolpho gained. XXVI Thence to Marseilles he came; and came the day Orlando, and Rinaldo, and Olivier Arrived therein, upon their homeward way, With good Sobrino, and the better peer, Rogero: not so triumphs that array, Touched by the death of him, their comrade dear, As they for such a glorious victory won -- But for that sad disaster -- would have done. XXVII Of the kings slain upon the paynim part, The news from Sicily to Charles were blown, Sobrino's fate, and death of Brandimart; Nor less of good Rogero had been shown. Charles stood with jocund fate and gladsome heart, Rejoicing he had from his shoulders thrown The intolerable load whereof the weight Will for long time prevent his standing straight. XXVIII To honour those fair pillars that sustain The state -- the holy empire's corner-stone -- The nobles of his kingdom Charlemagne Dispatched, to meet the knights, as far as Saone; And from his city with his worthiest train, King, duke, and her, the partner of his throne, Issued amid a fair and gorgeous band Of noble damsels, upon either hand. XXIX The emperor Charles with bright and cheerful brow, Lords, paladins and people, kinsmen, friends, Fair love to Roland and the others show. Mongrana and Clermont's cry the welkin rends. No sooner, mid that kind and festal show, The interchange of fond embracements ends, Than Roland and his friends Rogero bring, And mid those lords present him to the king; XXX And him Rogero of Risa's son declare, And vouch in valour as his father's peer, "Witnesses of his worth our squadrons are, They best can tell his prowess with the spear." Meanwhile, the noble and the lovely pair, Marphisa and gentle Bradamant appear. This runs to fold Rogero to her heart; More coy, that other stands somedeal apart. XXXI The emperor bids Rogero mount again, Who from his horse had lit, in reverence due; And, side by side, with him his courser rein; Nor aught omits that monarch which may do The warrior honour, mid his martial train: How the true faith he had embraced he knew; Of all instructed by that band before; When first those paladins set foot ashore. XXXII With pomp triumphal and with festive cheer The troop returns within the city-walls: With leaves and garlands green the streets appear, And tapestried all about with gorgeous palls. Of herbs and flowers a mingled rain, where'er They wend, upon the conquering squadron falls, Which with full hands from stand and window throw Damsel and dame upon the knights below. XXXIII At every turn, in various places are, Of sudden structure arch and trophy high, Whereon Biserta's sack is painted fair, Ruin and fire, and feat of chivalry: Scaffolds, upraised for different sports elsewhere And merrimake and stage-play meet the eye; And, writ with truth, above, below, between, To THE EMPIRE'S SAVIOURS, everywhere is seen. XXXIV With sound of shrilling pipe and trumpet proud, And other festive music, laughter light, Applause and favour of the following crowd, Which scarce found room, begirt with dames and knight, The mighty emperor, mid those greetings loud. Before the royal palace did alight: Where many days he feasted high in hall His lords, mid tourney, mummery, mask and ball. XXXV His son to Aymon on a day made known His sister he would make Rogero's bride; And, before Olivier and Milo's son, Her to the Child by promise had affied; Who think with him that kindred is there none Wherewith to league themselves, on any side, For valour or nobility of blood, Better than his; nay, none so passing good. XXXVI Duke Aymon heard his heir with some disdain; That, without concert with him, and alone He dared to plight his daughter, whom he fain Would marry to the Grecian emperor's son; And not to him that has no kingly reign, Nay has not ought that he can call his own; And should not know, how little nobleness Is valued without wealth; how virtue less. XXXVII But Beatrice, his wife, with more despite Arraigns her son, and calls him arrogant; And moves each open way and hidden sleight To break Rogero's match with Bradamant; Resolved to tax her every means and might To make her empress of the wide Levant. Firm in his purpose is Montalban's lord, Nor will in ought forego his plighted word. XXXVIII Beatrice who believes the highminded fair Is at her hest, exhorts her to reply, Rather than she will be constrained to pair With a poor knight, she is resolved to die; Nor, if this wrong she from Rinaldo bear Will she regard her with a mother's eye: Let her refuse and keep her stedfast course; For her free will Rinaldo cannot force. XXXIX Silent stands mournful Bradamant, nor dares Meanwhile her lady-mother's speech gainsay; To whom such reverence, and respect, she bears, She thinks no choice is left but to obey. Yet a foul fault it in her eyes appears, If what she will not do, she falsely say: She will not, for she cannot; since above All guidance, great or small, is mighty Love. XL Deny she dared not, nor yet seem content; So, sighed and spake not; but -- when uncontrolled She could -- she gave her secret sorrow vent, While from her eyes the tears like billows rolled; A portion of the pains that her torment, Inflicting on her breast and locks of gold: For this she beat, and those uptore and brake; And thus she made lament, and thus she spake. XLI "Ah! shall I will what she wills not, by right More sovereign mistress of my will than I? Hers shall I hold so cheaply, so to slight A mother's will, my own to satisfy? Alas! what blemish is so foul to sight In damsel? What so ill, as to affy Myself to husband, reckless of her will, Which 'tis my duty ever to fulfil? XLII "Wo worth the while! and shall I then to thee By filial love be forced to be untrue, O my Rogero, and surrender me To a new hope, a new love, and a new Desire; or rather from those ties break free, From all good children to good parents due; Observance, reverence cast aside; and measure My duty by my happiness, my pleasure? XLIII "I know, alas! what I should do; I know That which a duteous daughter doth behove; I know; but what avails it, if not so My reason moves me as my senses move; If she retires before a stronger foe; Nor can I of myself dispose, for Love; Nor think how to dispose; so strict his sway; Nor, saving as he dictates, do and say? XLIV "Aymon and Beatrice's child, the slave Of Love am I; ah! miserable me! I from my parents am in hope to have Pardon and pity, if in fault I be: But, if I anger Love, whose prayer shall save Me from his fury, till one only plea, Of mine the Godhead shall vouchsafe to hear; Nor doom me dead as soon as I appear? XLV "Alas! with long and obstinate pursuit, To our faith to draw Rogero have I wrought; And finally have drawn; but with what boot, If my fair deed for other's good be wrought? So yearly by the bee, whose labour's fruit Is lost for her, is hive with honey fraught. But I will die ere I the Child forsake, And other husband than Rogero take. XLVI "If I shall not obey my father's hest, Nor mothers, I my brother's shall obey, Of greater wisdom far than them possest; Nor Time hath made that warrior's wit his prey; And what he wills by Roland is profest; And, one and the other, on my side are they; A pair more feared and honoured far and wide Than all the members of my house beside. XLVII "If them the flower of Clermont's noble tree, The glory and the splendor all account; If all believe our other chivalry They, more than head o'ertops the foot, surmount; Why would I Aymon should dispose of me, Rather than good Rinaldo and the Count? I should not; so much less, as not affied To Leo, and Rogero's promised bride." XLVIII If cruel thoughts the afflicted maid torment, Rogero's mind enjoys not more repose; For albeit those sad tidings have not vent Yet in the city, he the secret knows. He o'er his humble fortunes makes lament Which his enjoying such a good oppose; As unendowed with riches or with reign, Dispensed so widely to a worthless train. XLIX Of other goods which Nature's hand supplies, Or which acquired by man's own study are, He such a portion in himself espies, Such and so large was never other's share: In that, no beauty with his beauty vies; In that, resistance to his might is rare. The palm by none from him can challenged be, In regal splendour, magnanimity. L But they at whose disposal honours lie, Who give at will, and take away renown; The vulgar herd; and from the vulgar I, Except the prudent man, distinguished none; Nor emperor, pope, nor king, is raised more high Than these by sceptre, mitre, or by crown, Nor save by prudence; save by judgement, given But to the favoured few by partial Heaven; LI This vulgar (to say out what I would say) Which only honours wealth, therewith more smit Than any worldly thing beside, nor they Aught heed or aught esteem, ungraced with it, Be beauty or be daring what it may, Dexterity or prowess, worth, or wit, Or goodness -- yet more vulgar stands confest In that whereof I speak than in the rest. LII Rogero said: "If Aymon is disposed An empress in his Bradamant to see, Let not his treaty be so quickly closed With Leo; let a year be granted me: In that, meanwhile, I hope, by me deposed Shall Leo with his royal father be, And I, encircled with their forfeit crown, Shall be for Aymon no unworthy son. LIII "But if he give without delay, as said, His daughter to the son of Constantine, If to that promise no regard be paid, Which good Rinaldo and the paladine, His cousin, erst before the hermit made, The Marquis Olivier and King Sobrine, What shall I do? such grievous wrong shall I Endure, or, rather than endure it, die? LIV "What shall I do? her father then pursue, On whom for vengeance this grave outrage cries? I heed not that the deed is hard to do, Or if the attempt in me is weak or wise: -- But presuppose that, with his kindred crew Slain by my hand that unjust elder dies; This will in nothing further my content; Nay it will wholly frustrate my intent. LV " `Twas ever my intent, and still 'tis so To have the love, not hatred, of that fair; But should I Aymon slay, or bring some woe By plot or practice, on his house or heir, Will she not justly hold me as her foe, And me, that foeman, as her lord forswear? What shall I do, endure such injury? Ah! no, by Heaven! far rather I will die. LVI "Nay die I will not; but with better right Shall Leo die, who so disturbs my joy; He and his unjust sire; less dear his flight With Helen paid her paramour of Troy; Nor yet in older time that foul despite, Done to Proserpina, cost such annoy To bold Pirithous, as for her I've lost My grief of heart shall son and father cost. LVII "Can it be true, my life, that to forsake Thy champion for this Greek should grieve not thee? And could thy father force thee him to take, Though joined thy brethren with thy sire should be? But 'tis my fear that thou would'st rather make Accord withal with Aymon than with me; And that it seemeth better in thy sight To wed with Caesar than with simple wight. LVIII "Can it be true that royal name should blind, Imperial title, pomp and majesty, And taint my Bradamant's egregious mind, Her mighty valour and her virtue high, So that, as cheaper, she should cast behind Her plighted faith, and from her promise fly? Nor sooner she a foe to Love be made, Than she no longer say, what once she said?" LIX These things Rogero said, and more beside, Discoursing with himself, and in such strain Oftentimes the afflicted warrior cried, That stander-by o'erheard the knight complain, And more than once his grief was signified To her that was the occasion of his pain; Who no less for his cruel woe, when known, Lamented than for sorrows of her own. LX But most, of all the sorrows that were said To vex Rogero, most it works her woe To hear that he afflicts himself, in dread Lest for the Grecian prince she him forego. Hence this belief, this error, from his head To drive, comfort on the knight bestow, The trustiest of her bower-women, one day, She to Rogero bade these words convey. LXI "Rogero, I what I was till death will be; And be more faithful, if I can be more: Deals Love in kindness or in scorn with me; Hath doubtful Fortune good or ill in store; I am a very rock of faith, by sea And winds unmoved, which round about it roar Nor I have changed for calm or storm, nor I Will ever change to all eternity. LXII "Sooner shall file or chisel made of lead To the rough diamond various forms impart, Than any stroke, by fickle Fortune sped, Or Love's keen anger, break my constant heart: Sooner return, to Alp, their fountain-head, The troubled streams that from its summit part, Than e'er, for change or chances, good or nought, Shall wander from its way my stedfast thought. LXIII "All power o'er me have I bestowed on you, Rogero; and more than others may divine: I know that to a prince whose throne is new Was never fealty sworn more true than mine; Nor ever surer state, this wide world through, By king or keysar was possest than thine. Thou need'st not dig a ditch nor build a tower, In fear lest any rob thee of that power. LXIV "For if thou hire no aids, assault is none, But what thereon shall aye be made in vain; Nor shall it be by any riches won: So vile a price no gentle heart can gain: Nor by nobility, nor kingly crown, That dazzle so the silly vulgar train; Nor beauty, puissant with the weak and light, Shall ever make me thee for other slight. LXV "Thou hast no cause, amid thy griefs, to fear My heart should ever bear new impress more: So deeply is thine image graven here, It cannot be removed: that my heart's core Is not of wax is proved; for Love whilere Smote it a hundred times, not once, before He by his blows a single scale displaced, What time therein his hand thine image traced. LXVI "Ivory, gem, and every hard-grained stone That best resists the griding tool, may break: But, save the form it once hath taken, none Will ever from the graver's iron take. My heart like marble is, or thing least prone Beneath the chisel's trenchant edge to flake: Love this may wholly splinter, ere he may Another's beauty in its core enlay." LXVII Other and many words with comfort rife, And full of love and faith, she said beside; Which might a thousand times have given him life, Albeit a thousand times the knight had died: But, when most clear of the tempestuous strife, In friendly port these hopes appeared to ride, These hopes a foul and furious wind anew Far from the sheltering land to seaward blew. LXVIII In that the gentle Bradamant, who fain Would do far more than she hath signified, With wonted daring armed her heart again; And boldly casting all respect aside, One day stood up before King Charlemagne; And, "Sire, if ever yet," the damsel cried, "I have found favour in your eyes for deed Done heretofore, deny me not its meed; LXIX "And I entreat, before I claim my fee, That you to me your royal promise plight, To grant my prayer; and fain would have you see That what I shall demand is just and right." "Thy valour, damsel dear, deserves from me The boon wherewith thy worth I should requite" (Charles answered), "and I to content thee swear, Though of my kingdom thou should'st claim a share." LXX "The boon for which I to your highness sue, Is not to let my parents me accord (Pursued the martial damsel) save he shew More prowess than myself, to any lord. Let him contend with me in tourney, who Would have me, or assay me with the sword. Me as his wife let him that wins me, wear; Let him that loses me, with other pair." LXXI With cheerful face the emperor made reply, The entreaty was well worthy of the maid; And that with tranquil mind she might rely, He would accord the boon for which she prayed. This audience was not given so secretly, But that the news to others were conveyed; Which on that very day withal were told In the ears of Beatrice and Aymon old; LXXII Who against Bradamant with fury flame, And both alike, with sudden anger fraught, (For plainly they perceive, that in her claim She for Rogero more than Leo wrought) And active to prevent the damsel's aim From being to a safe conclusion brought, Privily take her from King Charles's court, And thence to Rocca Forte's tower transport. LXXIII A castle this, which royal Charlemagne Had given to Aymon some few days before, Built between Carcasson and Perpignan, On a commanding point upon the shore. Resolved to send her eastward, there the twain As in a prison kept her evermore. Willing or nilling, so must she forsake Rogero, and for lord must Leo take. LXXIV The martial maid of no less modest vein Than bold and full of fire before the foe, Albeit no guard on her the castellain Hath set, and she is free to come or go, Observant of her sire, obeys the rein: Yet prison, death, and every pain and woe To suffer is resolved that constant maid Before by her Rogero be betrayed. LXXV Rinaldo, who thus ravished from his hand, By ancient Aymon's craft his sister spied, And saw he could no more in wedlock's band Dispose of her, by him in vain affied, Of his old sire complains, and him doth brand, Laying his filial love and fear aside: But little him Rinaldo's words molest; Who by the maid will do as likes him best. LXXVI Rogero, bearing this and sore afraid That he shall lose his bride; and Leo take, If left alive, by force or love the maid, Resolved within himself (but nothing spake) Constantine's heir should perish by his blade; And of Augustus him a god would make. He, save his hope deceived him and was vain, Would sire and son deprive of life and reign. LXXVII His limbs in arms, which Trojan Hector's were, And afterwards the Tartar king's, he steeled; Bade rein Frontino, and his wonted wear Exchanged, crest, surcoat and emblazoned shield. On that emprize it pleased him not to bear His argent eagle on its azure field. White as a lily, was a unicorn By him upon a field of crimson worn. LXXVIII He chose from his attendant squires the best, And willed none else should him accompany; And gave him charge, that ne'er by him exprest Rogero's name in any place should be; Crost Meuse and Rhine, and pricked upon his quest Through the Austrian countries into Hungary; Along the right bank of the Danube made, And rode an-end until he reached Belgrade. LXXIX Where Save into dark Danube makes descent, And to the sea, increased by him, doth flow, He saw the imperial ensigns spread, and tent And white pavilion, thronged with troops below. For Constantine to have that town was bent Anew, late won by the Bulgarian foe. In person, with his son, is Constantine, With all the empire's force his host to line. LXXX Within Belgrade, and through the neighbouring peak, Even to its bottom which the waters lave, The Bulgar fronts him; and both armies seek A watering-place in the intermediate Save. A bridge across that rapid stream the Greek Would fling; the Bulgar would defend the wave; When thither came Rogero; and engaged Beheld the hosts in fight, which hotly raged. LXXXI The Greeks in that affray were four to one, And with pontoons to bridge the stream supplied; And a bold semblance through their host put on Of crossing to the river's further side. Leo meanwhile was from the river gone With covert guile; he took a circuit wide, Then thither made return; his bridges placed From bank to bank, and past the stream in haste. LXXXII With many horse and foot in battle dight, Who nothing under twenty thousand rank, Along the river rode the Grecian knight; And fiercely charged his enemies in flank. The emperor, when his son appeared in sight. Leading his squadrons on the farther bank, Uniting bridge and bark together, crost Upon his part the stream with all his host. LXXXIII King Vatran, chief of the Bulgarian band, Wise, bold, withal a warrior, here and there Laboured in vain such onset to withstand, And the disorder of his host repair; When Leo prest him sore, and with strong hand The king to earth beneath his courser bare; Whom at the prince's hest, for all to fierce Is he to yield, a thousand faulchions pierce. LXXXIV The Bulgar host hath hitherto made head; But when they see their sovereign is laid low, And everywhere that tempest wax and spread, They turn their backs where erst they faced the foe. The Child, who mid the Greeks, from whom they fled, Was borne along, beheld that overthrow, And bowned himself their battle to restore, As hating Constantine and Leo more. LXXXV He spurs Frontino, that in his career Is like the wind, and passes every steed; He overtakes the troop, that in their fear Fly to the mountain and desert the mead. Many he stops and turns; then rests his spear; And, as he puts his courser to his speed, So fearful is his look, even Mars and Jove Are frighted in their azure realms above. LXXXVI Advanced before the others, he descried A cavalier, in crimson vest, whereon With all its stalk in silk and gold was spied A pod, like millet, in embroidery done: Constantine's nephew, by the sister's side, He was, but was no less beloved than son: He split like glass his shield and scaly rind; And the long lance appeared a palm behind. LXXXVII He left the dead, and drew his shining blade Upon a squadron, whom he saw most nigh; And now at once, and now at other made; Cleft bodies, and made hearts from shoulders fly. At throat, at breast and flank the warrior laid; Smote hand, and arm, and shoulder, bust, and thigh; And through that champaign ran the reeking blood, As to the valley foams the mountain-flood. LXXXVIII None that behold those strokes maintain their place; So are they all bewildered by their fear. Thus suddenly the battle changed its face: For, catching courage from the cavalier, The Bulgar squadrons rally, turn, and chase The Grecian troops that fled from them whilere. Lost was all order in a thought, and they With all their banners fled in disarray. LXXXIX Leo Augustus on a swelling height, Seeing his followers fly, hath taken post; Where woeful and bewildered (for to sight Nothing in all the country round is lost) He from his lofty station eyes the knight, Who with his single arm destroys that host; And cannot choose, though so his prowess harms, But praise that peer and own his worth in arms. XC He knew full well by ensignry displaid, By surcoat and by gilded panoply, That albeit to the foe he furnished aid, That champion was not of his chivalry; Wondering his superhuman deeds surveyed; And now an angel seemed in him to see, To scourge the Greeks from quires above descended, Whose sins so oft and oft had heaven offended; XCI And, as a man of great and noble heart, (Where many others would have hatred sworn) Enamoured of such valour, on his part, Would not desire to see him suffer scorn: For one that died, six Grecians' death less smart Would cause that prince; and better had he borne To lose as well a portion of his reign, Than to behold so good a warrior slain. XCII As baby, albeit its fond mother beat And drive it forth in anger, in its fear Neither to sire nor sister makes retreat; But to her arms returns with fondling cheer: So Leo, though Rogero in his heat Slaughters his routed van and threats his rear, Cannot that champion hate; because above His anger is the admiring prince's love. XCIII But if young Leo loved him and admired, Meseems that he an ill exchange hath made; For him Rogero loathed; nor aught desired More than to lay him lifeless with his blade: Him with his eyes he sought; for him inquired; But Leo's fortune his desire gainsayed; Which with the prudence of the practised Greek, Made him in vain his hated rival seek. XCIV Leo, for fear his bands be wholly spent, Bids sound the assembly his Greek squadrons through: He to his father a quick courier sent, To pray that he would pass the stream anew; Who, if the way was open, well content Might with his bargain he; and with a few Whom he collects, the Grecian cavalier Recrost the bridge by which he past whilere. XCV Into the power o' the Bulgars many fall, Stalin from the hill-top to the river-side; And they into their hands had fallen all, But for the river's intervening tide. From the bridge many drop, and drown withal; And many that ne'er turned their heads aside, Thence to a distant ford for safety made; And many were dragged prisoners to Belgrade. XCVI When done was that day's fight, wherein (since borne To ground the Bulgar king his life did yield) His squadrons would have suffered scathe and scorn, Had not for them the warrior won the field, The warrior, that the snowy unicorn Wore for his blazon on a crimson shield, To him all flock, in him with joy and glee The winner of that glorious battle see. XCVII Some bow and some salute him; of the rest Some kist the warrior's feet, and some his hand. Round him as closely as they could they prest, And happy those are deemed, that nearest stand; More those that touch him; for to touch a blest And supernatural thing believes the band. On him with shouts that rent the heavens they cried, To be their king, their captain, and their guide. XCVIII As king or captain them will he command As liked them best, he said, but will not lay On sceptre or on leading-staff his hand; Nor yet Belgrade will enter on that day: For first, ere farther flies young Leo's band, And they across the river make their way, Him will he follow, nor forego, until That Grecian leader he o'ertake and kill. XCIX A thousand miles and more for this alone He thither measured, and for nought beside. He saith; and from the multitude is gone, And by a road that's shown to him doth ride. For towards the bridge is royal Leo flown; Haply lest him from this the foe divide: Behind him pricks Rogero with such fire, The warrior calls not, nor awaits, his squire. C Such vantage Leo has in flight (to flee He rather may be said than to retreat) The passage open hath he found and free; And then destroys the bridge and burns his fleet. Rogero arrived not, till beneath the sea The sun was hid; nor lodging found; his beat He still pursued; and now shone forth the moon: But town or village found the warrior none. CI Because he wots not where to lodge, he goes All night, nor from his load Frontino frees. When the new sun his early radiance shows, A city to the left Rogero sees; And there all day determines to repose, As where he may his wearied courser ease, Whom he so far that livelong night had pressed; Nor had he drawn his bit, nor given him rest. CII Ungiardo had that city in his guard, Constantine's liegeman, and to him right dear; Who, since upon the Bulgars he had warred, Much horse and foot had sent that emperor; here Now entered (for the entrance was not barred) Rogero, and found such hospitable cheer, He to fare further had no need, in trace Of better or of more abundant place. CIII In the same hostelry with him a guest Was lodged that evening a Romanian knight; Present what time the Child with lance in rest Succoured the Bulgars in that cruel fight; Who hardly had escaped his hand, sore prest And scared as never yet was living wight; So that he trembled still, disturbed in mind, And deemed the knight of the unicorn behind. CIV He by the buckler knew as soon as spied The cavalier, whose arms that blazon bear, For him that routed the Byzantine side; By hand of whom so many slaughtered were. He hurried to the palace, and applied For audience, weighty tidings to declare; And, to Ungiardo led forthwith, rehearsed What shall by men in other strain be versed. CANTO 45 ARGUMENT Young Leo doth from death Rogero free; For him Rogero Bradamant hath won, Making that maid appear less strong to be, Disguised in fight like Leo; and, that done, Straight in despite would slay himself; so he By sorrow, so by anguish is foredone. To hinder Leo of his destined wife Marphisa works, and kindles mighty strife. I By how much higher we see poor mortal go On Fortune's wheel, which runs a restless round, We so much sooner see his head below His heels; and he is prostrate on the ground. The Lydian, Syracusan, Samian show This truth, and more whose names I shall not sound; All into deepest dolour in one day Hurled headlong from the height of sovereign sway. II By how much more deprest on the other side, By how much more the wretch is downwards hurled, He so much sooner mounts, where he shall ride, If the revolving wheel again be twirled. Some on the murderous block have well-nigh died, That on the following day have ruled the world. Ventidius, Servius, Marius this have shown In ancient days; King Lewis in our own; III King Lewis, stepfather of my duke's son; Who, when his host at Santalbino fled, Left in his clutch by whom that field was won, Was nigh remaining shorter by the head. Nor long before the great Corvinus run A yet more fearful peril, worse bested: Both throned, when overblown was their mischance, One king of Hungary, one king of France. IV 'Tis plain to sight, through instances that fill The page of ancient and of modern story, That ill succeeds to good, and good to ill; That glory ends in shame, and shame in glory; And that man should not trust, deluded still, In riches, realm, or field of battle, gory With hostile blood, nor yet despair, for spurns Of Fortune; since her wheel for ever turns. V Through that fair victory, when overthrown Were Leo and his royal sire, the knight Who won that battle to such trust is grown, In his good fortune and his peerless might, He, without following, without aid, alone (So is he prompted by his daring sprite) Thinks, mid a thousand squadrons in array, -- Footmen and horsemen -- sire and son to slay. VI But she, that wills no trust shall e'er be placed In her by man, to him doth shortly show, How wight by her is raised, and how abased; How soon she is a friend, how soon a foe; She makes him know Rogero, that in haste Is gone to work that warrior shame and woe; The cavalier, which in that battle dread With much ado had from his faulchion fled. VII He to Ungiardo hastens to declare The Child who put the imperial host to flight, Whose carnage many years will not repair, Here past the day and was to pass the night; And saith, that Fortune, taken by the hair, Without more trouble, and without more fight, Will, if he prisons him, the Bulgars bring Beneath the yoke and lordship of his king. VIII Ungiardo from the crowd, which had pursued Thither their flight from the ensanguined plain, For, troop by troop, a countless multitude (Arrived, because not all the bridge could gain) Knew what a cruel slaughter had ensued: For there the moiety of the Greeks was slain; And knew that by a cavalier alone One host was saved, and one was overthrown; IX And that undriven he should have made his way Into the net, and of his own accord, Wondered, and showed his pleasure, at the say In visage, gesture, and in joyful word. He waited till Rogero sleeping lay; Then softly sent his guard to take that lord; And made the valiant Child, who had no dread Of such a danger, prisoner in his bed. X By his own shield accused, that witness true, The Child is captive in Novogorood, To Ungiardo, worst among the cruel, who Marvellous mirth to have that prisoner shewed. And what, since he was naked, could he do, Bound, while his eyes were yet by slumber glued? A courier, who the news should quickly bear, Ungiardo bids to Constantine repair. XI Constantine on that night with all his host, Raising his camp, from Save's green shore had gone: With this in Beleticche he takes post, Androphilus', his sister's husband's town, Father of him, whose arms in their first joust (As if of wax had been his habergeon) Had pierced and carved the puissant cavalier, Now by Ungiardo pent in dungeon drear. XII Here from attack the emperor makes assure The city walls and gates on every side; Lest, from the Bulgar squadrons ill secure, Having so good a warrior for their guide, His broken Grecians worse than fear endure; Deeming the rest would by his hand have died. Now he is taken, these breed no alarms; Nor would he fear the banded world in arms. XIII The emperor, swimming in a summer sea, Knows not for very pleasure what to do: "Truly the Bulgars may be said to be Vanquished," he cries, with bold and cheerful brow. As he would feel assured of victory, That had of either arm deprived his foe; So the emperor was assured, and so rejoiced, When good Rogero's fate the warrior voiced. XIV No less occasion has the emperor's son For joying; for besides that he anew Trusts to acquire Belgrade, and tower and town Throughout the Bulgars' country to subdue, He would by favours make the knight his own, And hopes to rank him in his warlike crew: Nor need he envy, guarded by his blade, King Charles', Orlando's, or Rinaldo's aid. XV Theodora was by other thoughts possest, Whose son was killed by young Rogero's spear; Which through his shoulders, entering at his breast, Issued a palm's breadth in the stripling's rear; Constantine's sister she, by grief opprest, Fell down before him; and with many a tear That dropt into her bosom, while she sued, His heart with pity softened and subdued. XVI "I still before these feet will bow my knee, Save on this felon, good my lord," (she cried) "Who killed my son, to venge me thou agree, Now that we have him in our hold; beside That he thy nephew was, thou seest how thee He loved; thou seest what feats upon thy side That warrior wrought; thou seest if thou wilt blot Thine own good name, if thou avenge him not. XVII "Thou seest how righteous Heaven by pity stirred From the wide champaign, red with Grecian gore, Bears that fell man; and like a reckless bird Into the fowler's net hath made him soar; That for short season, for revenge deferred, My son may mourn upon the Stygian shore. Give me, my lord, I pray, this cruel foe, That by his torment I may soothe my woe." XVIII So well she mourns; and in such moving wise And efficacious doth she make lament; (Nor from before the emperor will arise, Though he three times and four the dame has hent, And to uplift by word and action tries) That he is forced her wishes to content; And thus, according to her prayer, commands The Child to be delivered to her hands; XIX And, not therein his orders to delay, They take the warrior of the unicorn To cruel Theodora; but one day Of respite has the knight: to have him torn In quarters, yet alive; to rend and slay Her prisoners publicly with shame and scorn, Seems a poor pain; and he must undergo Other unwonted and unmeasured woe. XX At the commandment of that woman dread, Chains on his neck and hands and feet they don; And put him in a dungeon-cell, where thread Of light was never by Apollo thrown: He has a scanty mess of mouldy bread; And sometimes is he left two days with none; And one that doth the place of jailer fill Is prompter than herself to work him ill. XXI Oh! if Duke Aymon's daughter brave and fair, Of if Marphisa of exalted mind Had heard Rogero's sad estate declare, And how he in this guise in prison pined, To his rescue either would have made repair, And would have flung the fear of death behind: Nor had bold Bradamant, intent to aid, Respect to Beatrice or Aymon paid. XXII Meanwhile King Charlemagne upon his side, Heeding his promise made in solemn sort, That none should have the damsel for his bride, That of her prowess in the field fell short; Not only had his sovereign pleasure cried With sound of trumpet in his royal court, But in each city subject to his crown. Hence quickly through the world the bruit was blown. XXIII Such the condition which he bids proclaim: He that would with Duke Aymon's daughter wed Must with the sword contend against that dame From the suns rise until he seeks his bed; And if he for that time maintains the game, And is not overcome, without more said, The lady is adjudged to have lost the stake; Nor him for husband can refuse to take. XXIV The choice of arms must be by her foregone, No matter who may claim it in the course: And by the damsel this may well be done, Good at all arms alike, on foot or horse. Aymon, who cannot strive against the crown, -- Cannot and will not -- yields at length parforce. He much the matter sifts, and in the end Resolves to court with Bradamant to wend. XXV Though for the daughter choler and disdain The mother nursed, yet that she honour due Might have, she garments, dyed in different grain, Had wrought for her, of various form and hue. Bradamant for the court of Charlemagne Departs, and finding not her love, to her view His noble court appears like that no more, Which had appeared to her so fair before. XXVI As he that hath beheld a garden, bright With flowers and leaves in April or in May, And next beholds it, when the sun his light Hath sloped toward the north, and shortened day, Finds it a desert horrid to the sight; So, now that her Rogero is away, To Bradamant, who thither made resort, No longer what it was appeared that court. XXVII What is become of him she doth not dare Demand, lest more suspicion thence be bred; But listens still, and searches here and there; That this by some, unquestioned, may be said; Knows he is gone, but has no notion where The warrior, when he went, his steps had sped; Because, departing thence, he spake no word Save to the squire who journeyed with his lord. XXVIII Oh! how she sighs! how fears the gentle maid, Hearing Rogero, as it were, was flown! Oh! how above all other terrors, weighed The fear, that to forget her he was gone! That, seeing Aymon still his wish gainsayed, And that to wed the damsel hope was none, He fled, perchance, so hoping to be loosed From toils wherein he by her love was noosed; XXIX And that with further end the youthful lord Her from his heart more speedily to chase, Will rove from realm to realm, till one afford Some dame, that may his former love efface; Even, as the proverb says, that in a board One nail drives out another from its place. A second thought succeeds, and paints the youth Arraigned of fickleness, as full of truth; XXX And her reproves for having lent an ear To a suspicion so unjust and blind; And so, this thought absolves the cavalier; And that accuses; and both audience find; And now this way, now that, she seemed to veer; Nor this, nor that -- irresolute of mind -- Preferred: yet still to what gave most delight Most promptly leaned, and loathed its opposite; XXXI And thinking, ever and anon, anew On that so oft repeated by the knight, As for grave sin, remorse and sorrow grew That she had nursed suspicion and affright; And she, as her Rogero were in view, Would blame herself, and would her bosom smite; And say: "I see 'twas ill such thoughts to nurse, But he, the cause, is even cause of worse. XXXII "Love is the cause; that in my heart inlaid Thy form, so graceful and so fair to see; And so thy darling and thy wit pourtrayed, And worth, of all so bruited, that to me It seems impossible that wife or maid, Blest with thy sight, should not be fired by thee; And that she should not all her art apply To unbind, and fasten thee with other tie. XXXIII "Ah! wellaway! if in my thought Love so Thy thought, as thy fair visage, had designed, This -- am I well assured -- in open show, As I unseen believe it, should I find; And be so quit of Jealousy, that foe Would not still harass my suspicious mind; And, where she is by me repulsed with pain, Not quelled and routed would she be, but slain. XXXIV "I am like miser, so intent on gear, And who hath this so buried in his heart, That he, for hoarded treasure still in fear, Cannot live gladly from his wealth apart. Since I Rogero neither see nor hear, More puissant far than Hope, O Fear! thou art; To thee, though false and idle I give way; And cannot choose but yield myself thy prey. XXXV "But I, Rogero, shall no sooner spy The light of thy glad countenance appear, Against mine every credence, from mine eye Concealed (and woe is me), I know not where, -- Oh! how true Hope false Fear shall from on high Depose withal, and to the bottom bear! Ah! turn to me, Rogero! turn again, And comfort Hope, whom Fear hath almost slain. XXXVI "As when the sun withdraws his glittering head, The shadows lengthen, causing vain affright; And as the shadows, when he leaves his bed, Vanish, and reassure the timid wight: Without Rogero so I suffer dread; Dread lasts not, if Rogero is in sight. Return to me, return, Rogero, lest My hope by fear should wholly be opprest. XXXVII "As every spark is in the night alive, And suddenly extinguished when 'tis morn; When me my sun doth of his rays deprive, Against me felon Fear uplifts his horn: But they the shades of night no sooner drive, Than Fears are past and gone, and Hopes return. Return, alas! return, O radiance dear! And drive from me that foul, consuming Fear. XXXVIII "If the sun turn from us and shorten day, Earth all its beauties from the sight doth hide; The wild winds howl, and snows and ice convey; Bird sings not; nor is leaf or flower espied. So, whensoever thou thy gladsome ray, O my fair sun, from me dost turn aside, A thousand, and all evil, dreads, make drear Winter within me many times a year. XXXIX "Return, my sun, return! and springtide sweet, Which evermore I long to see, bring back; Dislodge the snows and ice with genial hear; And clear my mind, so clouded o'er and black." As Philomel, or Progne, with the meat Returning, which her famished younglings lack, Mourns o'er an empty nest, or as the dove Laments himself at having lost is love; XL The unhappy Bradamant laments her so, Fearing the Child is reft from her and gone; While often tears her visage overflow: But she, as best she can, conceals her moan. Oh! how -- oh! how much worse would be her woe, If what she knew not to the maid were known! That, prisoned and with pain and pine consumed, Her consort to a cruel death was doomed. XLI The cruelty which by that beldam ill Was practised on the prisoned cavalier, And who prepared the wretched Child to kill, By torture new and pains unused whilere, While so Rogero pined, the gracious will Of Heaven conveyed to gentle Leo's ear; And put into his heart the means to aid, And not to let such worth be overlaid. XLII The courteous Leo that Rogero loved, Not that the Grecian knew howe'er that he Rogero was, but by that valour moved Which sole and superhuman seemed to be, Thought much, and mused, and planned, how it behoved -- And found at last a way -- to set him free; So that his cruel aunt should have no right To grieve or say he did her a despite. XLIII In secret, Leo with the man that bore The prison-keys a parley had, and said, He wished to see that cavalier, before Upon the wretch was done a doom so dread. When it was night, one, faithful found of yore, Bold, strong, and good in brawl, he thither led; And -- by the silent warder taught that none Must know 'twas Leo -- was the door undone. XLIV Leo, escorted by none else beside, Was led by the compliant castellain, With his companion, to the tower, where stied Was he, reserved for nature's latest pain. There round the neck of their unwary guide, Who turns his back the wicket to unchain, A slip-knot Leo and his follower cast; And, throttled by the noose, he breathes his last. XLV -- The trap upraised, by rope from thence suspended For such a need -- the Grecian cavalier, With lighted flambeau in his hand, descended, Where, straitly bound, and without sun to cheer, Rogero lay, upon a grate extended, Less than a palm's breadth of the water clear: To kill him in a month, or briefer space, Nothing was needed but that deadly place. XLVI Lovingly Leo clipt the Child, and, "Me, O cavalier! thy matchless valour," cried, "Hath in indissoluble bands to thee, In willing and eternal service, tried; And wills thy good to mine preferred should be, And I for thine my safety set aside, And weigh thy friendship more than sire, and all Whom I throughout the world my kindred call. XLVII "I Leo am, that thou what fits mayst know, Come to thy succour, the Greek emperor's son: If ever Constantine, my father, trow That I have aided thee, I danger run To be exiled, or aye with troubled brow Regarded for the deed that I have done; For thee he hates because of those thy blade Put to the rout and slaughtered near Belgrade." XLVIII He his discourse with more beside pursues, That might from death to life the Child recall; And all this while Rogero's hands doth loose. "Infinite thanks I owe you," cries the thrall, "And I the life you gave me, for your use Will ever render back, upon your call; And still, at all your need, I for your sake, And at all times, that life will promptly stake." XLIX Rogero is rescued; and the gaoler slain Is left in that dark dungeon in his place; Nor is Rogero known, nor are the twain: Leo the warrior, free from bondage base, Brings home, and there in safety to remain Persuades, in secret, four or six days' space: Meanwhile for him will he retrieve the gear And courser, by Ungiardo reft whilere. L Open the gaol is found at dawn of light, The gaoler strangled, and Rogero gone. Some think that these or those had helped his flight: All talk; and yet the truth is guessed by none. Well may they think by any other wight Rather than Leo had the deed been done; For many deemed he had cause to have repaid The Child with scathe, and none to give him aid. LI So wildered by such kindness, so immersed In wonder, is the rescued cavalier, So from those thoughts is he estranged, that erst So many weary miles had made him steer, His second thoughts confronting with his first, Nor these like those, nor those like these appear. He first with hatred, rage, and venom burned; With pity and with love then wholly yearned. LII Much muses he by night and much by day; -- Nor cares for ought, nor ought desires beside -- By equal or more courtesy to pay The mighty debt that him to Leo tied. Be his life long or short, or what it may, Albeit to Leo's service all applied, Dies he a thousand deaths, he can do nought, But more will be deserved, Rogero thought. LIII Thither meanwhile had tidings been conveyed Of Charles' decree: that who in nuptial tye Would yoke with Bradamant, with trenchant blade Or lance must with the maid his prowess try. These news the Grecian prince so ill appaid, His cheek was seen to blanch with sickly dye; Because, as one that measured well his might, He knew he was no match for her in fight. LIV Communing with himself, he can supply (He sees) the valour wanting with his wit; And the strange knight with his own ensignry, Whose name is yet unknown to him, will fit: Him he against Frank champion, far and nigh, Believes he may for force and daring pit; And if the knight to that emprize agree, Vanquished and taken Bradamant will be. LV But two things must he do; must, first, dispose That cavalier to undertake the emprize; Then send afield the champion, whom he chose, In mode, that none suspect the youth's disguise: To him the matter Leo doth disclose; And after prays in efficacious wise, That he the combat with the maid will claim, Under false colours and in other's name. LVI Much weighs the Grecian's eloquence; but more Than eloquence with good Rogero weighed The mighty obligation which he bore; That debt which cannot ever be repaid. So, albeit it appeared a hardship sore And thing well-nigh impossible, he said, With blither face than heart, that Leo's will In all that he commands he would fulfil. LVII Albeit no sooner he the intent exprest, Than with sore grief Rogero's heart was shent; Which, night and day, and ever, doth molest, Ever afflict him, evermore torment: And though he sees his death is manifest, Never will he confess he doth repent: Rather than not with Leo's prayer comply, A thousand deaths, not one, the Child will die. LVIII Right sure he is to die; if he forego The lady, he foregoes his life no less. His heart will break through his distress and woe, Or, breaking not with woe and with distress, He will, himself, the bands of life undo, And of its clay the spirit dispossess. For all things can he better bear than one; Than see that gentle damsel not his own. LIX To die is he disposed; but how to die Cannot as yet the sorrowing lord decide: Sometimes he thinks his prowess to belie, And offer to her sword his naked side: For never death can come more happily Than if her hand the fatal faulchion guide: Then sees, except he wins the martial maid For that Greek prince, the debt remains unpaid. LX For he with Bradamant, as with a foe, Promised to do, not feign, a fight in mail, And not to make of arms a seeming show; So that his sword should Leo ill avail. Then by his word will he abide; and though His breast now these now other thoughts assail, All from his bosom chased the generous youth, Save that which moved him to maintain his truth. LXI With the emperor's licence, armour to prepare, And steeds meanwhile had wrought his youthful son; Who with such goodly following as might square With his degree, upon his way was gone: With him Rogero rides, through Leo's care, Equipt with horse and arms, that were his own. Day after day the squadron pricks; nor tarries Until arrived in France; arrived at Paris. LXII Leo will enter not the town; but nigh Pitches his broad pavilions on the plain; And his arrival by an embassy Makes known that day to royal Charlemagne. Well pleased is he; and visits testify And many gifts the monarch's courteous vein. His journey's cause the Grecian prince displayed, And to dispatch his suit the sovereign prayed: LXIII To send afield the damsel, who denied Ever to take in wedlock any lord Weaker than her: for she should be his bride, Or he would perish by the lady's sword. Charles undertook for this; and, on her side, The following day upon the listed sward Before the walls, in haste, enclosed that night, Appeared the martial maid, equipt for fight. LXIV Rogero past the night before the day Wherein by him the battle should be done, Like that which felon spends, condemning to pay Life's forfeit with the next succeeding sun: He made his choice to combat in the fray All armed; because he would discovery shun: Nor barded steed he backed, nor lance he shook; Nor other weapon than his faulchion took. LXV No lance he took: yet was it not through fear Of that which Argalia whilom swayed; Astolpho's next; then hers, that in career Her foemen ever upon earth had laid: Because none weened such force was in the spear, Nor that it was by necromancy made; Excepting royal Galaphron alone; Who had it forged, and gave it to his son. LXVI Nay, bold Astolpho, and the lady who Afterwards bore it, deemed that not to spell, But simply to their proper force, was due The praise that they in knightly joust excel; And with whatever spear they fought, those two Believed that they should have performed as well. What only makes that knight the joust forego Is that he would not his Frontino show. LXVII For easily that steed of generous kind She might have known, if him she had espied; Whom in Montalban, long to her consigned, The gentle damsel had been wont to ride. Rogero, that but schemes, but hath in mind How he from Brandamant himself shall hide, Neither Frontino nor yet other thing. Whereby he may be known, afield will bring. LXVIII With a new sword will he the maid await; For well he knew against the enchanted blade As soft as paste would prove all mail and plate; For never any steel its fury stayed; And heavily with hammer, to rebate Its edge, as well he on this faulchion layed. So armed, Rogero in the lists appeared, When the first dawn of day the horizon cheered. LXIX To look like Leo, o'er his breast is spread The surcoat that the prince is wont to wear; And the gold eagle with its double head He blazoned on the crimson shield doth bear; And (what the Child's disguisement well may stead) Of equal size and stature are the pair. In the other's form presents himself the one; That other lets himself be seen of none. LXX Dordona's martial maid is of a vein Right different from the gentle youth's, who sore Hammers and blunts the faulchion's tempered grain, Lest it his opposite should cleave or bore. She whets her steel, and into it would fain Enter, that stripling to the quick to gore: Yea, would such fury to her strokes impart, That each should go directly to his heart. LXXI As on the start the generous barb in spied, When he the signal full of fire attends; And paws now here now there; and opens wide His nostrils, and his pointed ears extends; So the bold damsel, to the lists defied, Who knows not with Rogero she contends, Seemed to have fire within her veins, nor found Resting-place, waiting for the trumpet's sound. LXXII As sometimes after thunder sudden wind Turns the sea upside down; and far and nigh Dim clouds of dust the cheerful daylight blind, Raised in a thought from earth, and whirled heaven-high; Scud beasts and herd together with the hind; And into hail and rain dissolves the sky; So she upon the signal bared her brand, And fell on her Rogero, sword in hand. LXXIII But well-built wall, strong tower, or aged oak, No more are moved by blasts that round them rave, No more by furious sea is moved the rock, Smote day and night by the tempestuous wave, Than in those arms, secure from hostile stroke, Which erst to Trojan Hector Vulcan gave, Moved was he by that ire and hatred rank Which stormed about his head, and breast, and flank. LXXIV Now aims that martial maid a trenchant blow, And now gives point; and wholly is intent 'Twixt plate and plate to reach her hated foe; So that her stifled fury she may vent: Now on this side, now that, now high, now low She strikes, and circles him, on mischief bent; And evermore she rages and repines; As balked of every purpose she designs. LXXV As he that layeth siege to well-walled town, And flanked about with solid bulwarks, still Renews the assault; now fain would batter down Gateway or tower; now gaping fosse would fill; Yet vainly toils (for entrance is there none) And wastes his host, aye frustrate of his will; So sorely toils and strives without avail The damsel, nor can open plate or mail. LXXVI Sparks now his shield, now helm, now cuirass scatter, While straight and back strokes, aimed now low, now high, Which good Rogero's head and bosom batter, And arms, by thousands and by thousands fly Faster than on the sounding farm-roof patter Hailstones descending from a troubled sky. Rogero, at his ward, with dexterous care, Defends himself, and ne'er offends the fair. LXXVII Now stopt, now circled, now retired the knight, And oft his hand his foot accompanied; And lifted shield, and shifted sword in fight, Where shifting he the hostile hand espied. Either he smote her not, or -- die he smite -- Smote, where he deemed least evil would betide. The lady, ere the westering sun descend, Desires to bring that duel to an end. LXXVIII Of the edict she remembered her, and knew Her peril, save the foe was quickly sped: For if she took not in one day nor slew Her claimant, she was taken; and his head Phoebus was now about to hide from view, Nigh Hercules' pillars, in his watery bed, When first she 'gan misdoubt her power to cope With the strong foe, and to abandon hope. LXXIX By how much more hope fails the damsel, so Much more her anger waxes; she her blows Redoubling, yet the harness of her foe Will break, which through that day unbroken shows; As he, that at his daily drudgery slow, Sees night on his unfinished labour close, Hurries and toils and moils without avail, Till wearied strength and light together fail. LXXX Didst thou, O miserable damsel, trow Whom thou wouldst kill, if in that cavalier Matched against thee thou didst Rogero know, On whom depend thy very life-threads, ere Thou killed him thou wouldst kill thyself; for thou, I know, dost hold him than thyself more dear; And when he for Rogero shall be known, I know these very strokes thou wilt bemoan. LXXXI King Charles and peers him sheathed in plate and shell Deem not Rogero, but the emperor's son; And viewing in that combat fierce and fell Such force and quickness by the stripling shown; And, without e'er offending her, how well That knight defends himself, now change their tone; Esteem both well assorted; and declare The champions worthy of each other are. LXXXII When Phoebus wholly under water goes, Charlemagne bids the warring pair divide; And Bradamant (nor boots it to oppose) Allots to youthful Leo as a bride. Not there Rogero tarried to repose; Nor loosed his armour, nor his helm untied: On a small hackney, hurrying sore, he went Where Leo him awaited in his tent. LXXXIII Twice in fraternal guise and oftener threw Leo his arms about the cavalier; And next his helmet from his head withdrew, And kiss'd him on both cheeks with loving cheer. "I would," he cried, "that thou wouldst ever do By me what pleaseth thee; for thou wilt ne'er Weary my love: at any call I lend To thee myself and state; these friendly spend; LXXXIV "Nor see I recompense, which can repay The mighty obligation that I owe; Though of the garland I should disarray My brows, and upon thee that gift bestow." Rogero, on whom his sorrows press and prey, Who loathes his life, immersed in that deep woe, Little replies; the ensigns he had worn Returns, and takes again his unicorn; LXXXV And showing himself spiritless and spent, From thence as quickly as he could withdrew, And from young Leo's to his lodgings went; When it was midnight, armed himself anew, Saddled his horse, and sallied from his tent; (He takes no leave, and none his going view;) And his Frontino to that road addrest, Which seemed to please the goodly courser best. LXXXVI Now by straight way and now by crooked wound Frontino, now by wood and wide champaign; And all night with his rider paced that round, Who never ceased a moment to complain: He called on Death, and therein comfort found; Since broke by him alone is stubborn pain; Nor saw, save Death, what other power could close The account of his insufferable woes. LXXXVII "Whereof should I complain," he said, "wo is me! So of my every good at once forlorn? Ah! if I will not bear this injury Without revenge, against whom shall I turn? For I, besides myself, none other see That hath inflicted on me scathe and scorn. Then I to take revenge for all the harm Done to myself, against myself must arm. LXXXVIII "Yet was but to myself this injury done, Myself to spare (because this touched but me) I haply could, yet hardly could, be won; Nay, I will say outright, I could not be. Less can I be, since not to me alone, But Bradamant, is done this injury; Even if I could consent myself to spare, It fits me not unvenged to leave that fair. LXXXIX "Then I the damsel will avenge, and die, (Nor this disturbs me) whatsoe'er betide; For, bating death, I know not aught, whereby Defence against my grief can be supplied. But I lament myself alone, that I Before offending her, should not have died. O happier Fortune! had I breathed my last In Theodora's dungeon prisoned fast! XC "Though she had slain, had tortured me before She slew, as prompted by her cruelty, At least the hope would have remained in store That I by Bradamant should pitied be: But when she knows that I loved Leo more Than her, that, of my own accord and free, Myself of her, I for his good, deprive, Dead will she rightly hate me or alive." XCI These words he said and many more, with sigh And heavy sob withal accompanied, And, when another sun illumed the sky, Mid strange and gloomy woods himself espied; And, for he desperate was and bent to die, And he, as best he could, his death would hide; This place to him seemed far removed from view, And fitted for the deed that he would do. XCII He entered into that dark woodland, where He thickest trees and most entangled spied: But first Frontino was the warrior's care, Whom he unharnessed wholly, and untied. "O my Frontino, if thy merits rare I could reward, thou little cause" (he cried) "Shouldst have to envy him, so highly graced, Who soared to heaven, and mid the stars was placed. XCIII "Nor Cillarus, nor Arion, was whilere Worthier than thee, nor merited more praise; Nor any other steed, whose name we hear Sounded in Grecian or in Latin lays. Was any such in other points thy peer, None of them, well I know, the vaunt can raise; That such high honour and such courtesy Were upon him bestowed, as were on thee. XCIV "Since to the gentlest maid, of fairest dye, And boldest that hath been, or evermore Will be, thou wast so dear, she used to tie Thy trappings, and to thee thy forage bore: Dear wast thou to my lady-love: Ah! why Call I her mine, since she is mine no more? If I have given her to another lord, Why turn I not upon myself this sword?" XCV If him these thoughts so harass and torment, That bird and beast are softened by his cries; (For, saving these, none hears the sad lament, Nor sees the flood that trickles form his eyes) You are not to believe that more content The Lady Bradamant in Paris lies; Who can no longer her delay excuse, Nor Leo for her wedded lord refuse. XCVI Ere she herself to any consort tie, Beside her own Rogero, she will fain Do what so can be done; her word belie; Anger friends, kindred, court, and Charlemagne; And if she nothing else can do, will die, By poison or her own good faulchion slain: For not to live appears far lesser woe, Than, living, her Rogero to forego. XCVII "Rogero mine, ah! wonder gone" (she cried) "Art thou; and canst thou so far distant be, Thou heardest not this royal edict cried, A thing concealed from none, expecting thee? Faster than thee would none have hither hied, I wot, hadst thou known this; ah! wretched me! How can I e'er in future think of aught, Saving the worst that can by me be thought? XCVIII "How can it be, Rogero, thou alone Hast read not what by all the world is read? If thou hast read it not, nor hither flown, How canst thou but a prisoner be, or dead? But well I wot, that if the truth were known, This Leo will for thee some snare have spread: The traitor will have barred thy way, intent Thou shouldst not him by better speed prevent. XCIX "From Charles I gained the promise, that to none Less puissant than myself should I be given; In the reliance thou wouldst be that one, With whom I should in arms have vainly striven. None I esteemed, excepting thee alone: But well my rashness is rebuked by Heaven: Since I by one am taken in this wise Unfamed through life for any fair emprize. C "If I am held as taken, since the knight I had not force to take nor yet to slay; A thing that is not, in my judgment, right; Nor I to Charles's sentence will give way, I know that I shall be esteemed as light, If what I lately said, I now unsay; But of those many ladies that have past For light, I am not, I, the first or last. CI "Enough I to my lover faith maintain, And, firmer than a rock, am still found true! And far herein surpass the female train, That were in olden days, or are in new! Nor, if they me as fickle shall arraign, Care I, so good from fickleness ensue; Though I am lighter than a leaf be said, So I be forced not with that Greek no wed." CII These things and more beside the damsel bright ('Twixt which oft sobs and tears were interposed), Ceased not to utter through the livelong night Which upon that unhappy day had closed. But, when within Cimmeria's caverned height Nocturnus with his troops of shades reposed, Heaven, which eternally had willed the maid Should be Rogero's consort, brought him aid: CIII This moves the haught Marphisa, when 'tis morn, To appear before the king; to whom that maid Saith, to the Child, her brother, mighty scorn Was done; nor should he be so ill appaid, That from him should his plighted wife be torn; And nought thereof unto the warrior said; And on whoever lists she will in strife Prove Bradamant to be Rogero's wife; CIV And this, before all others, will prove true On her, if to deny it she will dare; For she had to Rogero, in her view, Spoken those words, which they that marry swear; And with all ceremony wont and due So was the contract sealed between the pair, They were no longer free; nor could forsake The one the other, other spouse to take. CV Whether Marphisa true or falsely spake, I well believe that, rather with intent Young Leo's purpose, right or wrong, to break, Than tell the truth, she speaks; and with consent Of Bradamant doth that avowal make: For to exclude the hated Leo bent, And of Rogero to be repossest, This she believes her shortest way and best. CVI Sorely by this disturbed, King Charlemagne Bade Bradamant be called, and to her told That which the proud Marphisa would maintain; And Aymon present in the press behold! -- Bradamant drops her head, nor treats as vain, Nor vouches what avows that virgin bold, In such confusion, they may well believe That fierce Marphisa speaks not to deceive. CVII Joy good Orlando and joy Rinaldo show, Who view in valorous Marphisa's plea A cause the alliance shall no further go, Which sealed already Leo deemed to be; And yet, in spite of stubborn Aymon's no, Bradamant shall Rogero's consort be; And they may, without strife, without despite Done to Duke Aymon's, give her to the knight. CVIII For if such words have pass'd between the twain, Fast is the knot and cannot be untied; They what they vowed more fairly will obtain, And without further strife are these affied. "This is a plot, a plot devised in vain; And ye deceive yourselves (Duke Aymon cried) For, were the story true which ye have feigned, Believe not therefore that your cause is gained. CIX "For granting what I will not yet allow, And what I to believe as yet demur; That weakly to Rogero so her vow Was plighted, as Rogero's was to her; Where was the contract made, and when and how? More clearly this to me must ye aver. Either it was not so, I am advised; Or was before Rogero was baptized. CX "But if it were before the youthful knight A Christian was, I will not heed it, I; For 'twixt a faithful and a paynim wight, I deem that nought avails the marriage-tie. For this not vainly in the doubtful fight Should Constantine's fair son have risked to die; Nor Charlemagne for this, our sovereign lord Will forfeit, I believe, his plighted word. CXI "What now you say you should before have said, While yet the matter was unbroke, and ere Charles at my daughter's prayer that edict made Which has drawn Leo to the combat here." Orlando and Rinaldo were gainsayed So before royal Charles by Clermont's peer; And equal Charlemagne heard either side, But neither would for this nor that decide. CXII As in the southern or the northern breeze The greenwood murmurs; and as on the shore, When Aeolus with the god that rules the seas Is wroth, the hoarse and hollow breakers roar, So a loud rumour of this strife, that flees Through France, and spreads and circles evermore, Affords such matter to rehearse and hear, That nought beside is bruised far or near. CXIII These with Rogero, those with Leo side; But the most numerous are Rogero's friends, Who against Aymon, ten to one, divide. Good Charlemagne to neither party bends; But wills that cause shall be by justice tried, And to his parliament the matter sends. Marphisa, now the bridal was deferred, Appeared anew, and other question stirred; CXIV And said, "In that anther cannot have Bradamant, while my brother is alive, Let Leo, if the gentle maid he crave, His foe in listed fight of life deprive; And he, that sends the other to his grave, Freed from his rival, with the lady wive." Forthwith this challenge, as erewhile the rest, To Leo was declared at Charles' behest. CXV Leo who if he had the cavalier Of the unicorn, believed he from his foe Was safe; and thought no peril would appear Too hard a feat for him; and knew not how Thence into solitary woods and drear That warrior had been hurried by his woe; Him gone for little time and for disport Believed, and took his line in evil sort. CXVI This shortly Leo was condemned to rue: For he, on whom too fondly he relied, Nor on that day nor on the following two Appeared, nor news of him were signified; And combat with Rogero was, he knew, Unsafe, unless that knight was on his side: So sent, to eschew the threatened scathe and scorn, To seek the warrior of the unicorn. CXVII Through city, and through hamlet, and through town, He sends to seek Rogero, far and near: And not content with this, himself is gone In person, on his steed, to find the peer. But of the missing warrior tidings none Nor he nor any of the Court would hear But for Melissa: I for other verse Reserve myself, her doings to rehearse. CANTO 46 ARGUMENT After long search for good Rogero made, Him Leon finds, and yields to him his prize: Informed of all -- already with that maid He wives; already in her bosom lies: When thither he that Sarza's sceptre swayed To infect such bliss with impious venom hies, But falls in combat; and, blaspheming loud, To Acheron descends his spirit proud. I I, if my chart deceives me not, shall now In little time behold the neighbouring shore; So hope withal to pay my promised vow To one, so long my guide through that wide roar Of waters, where I feared, with troubled brow, To scathe my bark or wander evermore. But now, methinks -- yea, now I see the land; I see the friendly port its arms expand. II A burst of joy, like thunder to my ear, Rumbles along the sea and rends the sky. I chiming bells, I shrilling trumpets hear, Confounded with the people's cheerful cry; And now their forms, that swarm on either pier Of the thick-crowded harbour, I descry. All seem rejoiced my task is smoothly done, And I so long a course have safely run. III What beauteous dames and sage, here welcome me! With them what cavaliers the shore adorn! What friends! to whom I owe eternity Of thanks for their delight at my return. Mamma, Ginevra, with the rest I see, Correggio's seed, on the harbour's furthest horn. Veronica de Gambara is here, To Phoebus and the Aonian choir so dear. IV With Julia, a new Ginevra is in sight, Another offset from the selfsame tree; Hippolita Sforza, and Trivultia bright, Bred in the sacred cavern, I with thee Emilia Pia, and thee, Margherite, Angela Borgia, Graziosa, see, And fair Richarda d'Este, Lo! the twain, Blanche and Diana, with their sister train! V Beauteous, but wiser and more chaste than fair, I Barbara Turca, linked with Laura, know: Nor beams the sun upon a better pair 'Twixt Ind and where the Moorish waters flow. Behold Ginevra! that rich gem and rare Which gilds the house of Malatesta so, That never worthier or more honoured thing Adorned the dome of Keysar or of king. VI If she had dwelt in Rimini of yore, What time, from conquered Gaul returning home, Julius stood fearing on the river-shore, To ford the stream and make a foe of Rome, He every banner would have bowed before That dame, discharged his trophies, and such doom, Such pact would have received as liked her best; And haply ne'er had Freedom been opprest. VII The consort of my lord of Bozzolo Behold! the mother, sisters, cousinhood; Them of Torello, Bentivoglio, Pallavigini's and Visconti's brood! Lo! she to whom all living dames forego The palm, and all of Grecian, Latin blood, Or barbarous, all that ever were, whose name For grace and beauty most is noised by Fame; VIII Julia Gonzaga, she that wheresoe'er She moves, where'er she turns her lucid eyes, Not only is in charms without a peer, But seems a goddess lighted from the skies: With her is paired her brother's wife, who ne'er Swerved from her plighted faith -- aye good and wise -- Because ill Fortune bore her long despite; Lo! Arragonian Anna, Vasto's light! IX Anne gentle, courteous, and as sage as fair, Temple of Love and Truth and Chastity: With her, her sister dims all beauty, where Her radiance shines. Lo! one that hath set free Her conquering lord from Orcus' dark repair, And him in spite of death and destiny (Beyond all modern instance) raised on high, To shine with endless glory in the sky. X My ladies of Ferrara, those of gay Urbino's court are here; and I descry Mantua's dames, and all that fair array Which Lombardy and Tuscan town supply. The cavalier amid that band, whom they So honour, unless dazzled is mine eye By those fair faces, is the shining light Of his Arezzo, and Accolti hight. XI Adorned with scarlet hat, and scarlet pall, His nephew Benedict, lo! there I see; With him Campeggio and Mantua's cardinal; Glory and light of the consistory; And (if I dote not) mark how one and all In face and gesture show such mighty glee At my return, no easy task 'twould seem So vast an obligation to redeem. XII With them Lactantius is, Claude Ptolemy, Trissino, Pansa, and Capilupi mine, Latino Giovenal, it seems to me; Sasso, and Molza, and Florian hight Montine; With him, by whom through shorter pathway we Are led to the Ascraean font divine, Julio Camillo; and meseems that I Berna, and Sanga, and Flaminio spy. XIII Lo! Alexander of Farnese, and O Learned company that follows in his train! Phaedro, Cappella, Maddalen', Portio, Surnamed the Bolognese, the Volterrane. Blosio, Pierio, Vida, famed for flow Of lofty eloquence of exhaustless vein; Mussuro, Lascari, and Navagero, And Andrew Maro, and the monk Severo. XIV Lo! two more Alexanders! of the tree Of the Orologi one, and one Guarino: Mario d' Olvito, and of royalty That scourge, divine Pietro Aretino. I two Girolamos amid them see, Of Veritade and the Cittadino; See the Mainardo, the Leoniceno, Panizzato, Celio, and Teocreno. XV Bernardo Capel, Peter Bembo here I see, through whom our pure, sweet idiom rose, And who, of vulgar usage winnowed clear, Its genuine form in his example shows. Behold an Obyson, that in his rear Admires the pains which he so well bestows. I Fracastoro, Bevezzano note, And Tryphon Gabriel, Tasso more remote. XVI Upon me Nicholas Tiepoli And Nicholas Ammanio fix their eyes; With Anthony Fulgoso, who to spy My boat near land shows pleasure and surprise. There, from those dames apart, my Valery Stands with Barignan, haply to devise With him how, evermore by woman harmed, By her he shall not evermore be charmed. XVII Of high and superhuman genius, tied By love and blood, lo! Pico and Pio true; He that approaches at the kinsmen's side, -- So honoured by the best -- I never knew; But, if by certain tokens signified, He is the man I so desire to view, That Sannazaro, who persuades the nine To leave their fountain for the foaming brine. XVIII Diligent, faithful secretary, lo! The learned Pistophilus, mine Angiar here, And the Acciajuoli their joint pleasure show That for my bark there is no further fear. There I my kinsman Malaguzzo know; And mighty hope from Adoardo hear, That these my nest-notes shall by friendly wind Be blown from Calpe's rock to furthest Ind. XIX Joys Victor Fausto; Tancred joys to view My sail; and with them joy a hundred more. Women and men I see, a mingled crew, At my return rejoicing, crowd the shore. Then, since the wind blows fair, nor much to do Remains, let me my course delay no more; And turning to Melissa, in what way She rescued good Rogero let me say. XX Much bent was this Melissa (as I know I many times have said to you whilere) That Bradamant in wedlock should bestow Her hand upon the youthful cavalier; And so at heart had either's weal and woe, That she from hour to hour of them would hear: Hence ever on that quest she spirits sent, One still returning as the other went. XXI A prey to deep and stubborn grief, reclined Mid gloomy shades Rogero they descried; Firm not to swallow food of any kind, Nor from that purpose to be turned aside; And so to die of hunger he designed: But weird Melissa speedy aid supplied; Who took a road, from home forth issuing, where She met the Grecian emperor's youthful heir; XXII Leo that, one by one, dispatched his train Of followers, far and wide, through every bourn, And afterwards, in person went in vain, To find the warrior of the unicorn. The wise enchantress, that will sell and rein, Had on that day equipt a demon, borne By him, in likeness of a hackney horse, Constantine's son encountered in her course. XXIII "If such as your ingenuous mien" (she cried To Leo) "is your soul's nobility, And corresponding with your fair outside Your inward goodness and your courtesy, Some help, some comfort, sir, for one provide In whom the best of living knights we see; Who, save ye help and comfort quickly lend, Is little distant from his latter end. XXIV "The best of knights will die of all, who don, Or e'er donned sword and buckler, the most fair And gentle of all warriors that are gone, Or who throughout the world yet living are, And simply for a courteous deed, if none Shall comfort to the youthful sufferer bear. Then come, sir, for the love of Heaven, and try If any counsel succour may supply." XXV It suddenly came into Leo's mind The knight of whom she parlayed was that same, Whom throughout all the land he sought to find, And seeking whom, he now in person came. So that obeying her that would persuade Such pious work, he spurred behind the dame; Who thither led (nor tedious was the way) Where nigh reduced to death the stripling lay. XXVI They found Rogero fasting from all food For three long days, so broken down; with pain The knight could but upon his feet have stood, To fall, albeit unpushed, to ground again. With helm on head, and with his faulchion good Begirt, he lay reclined in plate and chain. A pillow of his buckler had he made, Where the white unicorn was seen pourtraid. XXVII There thinking what an injury he had done To his lady love -- how ingrate, how untrue To her had been -- not simple grief alone O'erwhelmed him, to such height his fury grew, He bit his hands and lips; while pouring down His cheeks, the tears unceasing ran, and through The passion that so wrapt his troubled sprite, Nor Leo nor Melissa heard the knight. XXVIII Nor therefore interrupts he his lament, Nor checks his sighs, nor checks his trickling tears. Young Leo halts, to hear his speech intent; Lights from his courser, and towards him steers: He knows that of the sorrows which torment Love is the cause; but yet from nought appears Who is the person that such grief hath bred; For by Rogero this remains unsaid. XXIX Approaching nearer and yet nearer, now He fronts the weeping warrior, face to face, Greets with a brother's love, and stooping low, His neck encircles with a fast embrace. By the lamenting Child I know not how Is liked his sudden presence in that place; Who fears annoy or trouble at his hand; And lest he should his wish for death withstand. XXX Him with the sweetest words young Leo plied, And with the warmest love that he could show, "Let it not irk thee," to the Child he cried, "To tell the cause from whence thy sorrows flow; For few such desperate evils man betide, But that there is deliverance from his woe, So that the cause be known; nor he bereft Of hope should ever be, so life be left. XXXI "Much grieve I thou wouldst hide thyself from me, That known me for thy faithful friend and true; Not only now I am so bound to thee, That I the knot can never more undo; But even from the beginning, when to be Thy deadly foeman I had reason due. Hope then that I will succour thee with pelf, With friends, with following, and with life itself. XXXII "Nor shun to me thy sorrow to explain, And I beseech thee leave to me to try If wealth avail to free thee from thy pain, Art, cunning, open force, or flattery, If my assistance is employed in vain, The last relief remains to thee to die: But be content awhile this deed to shun Till all that thou canst do shall first be done." XXXIII He said; and with such forceful prayer appealed; So gently and benignly soothed his moan; That good Rogero could not choose but yield, Whose heart was not of iron or of stone; Who deemed, unless he now his lips unsealed, He should a foul discourteous deed have done. He fain would have replied, but made assay Yet twice or thrice, ere words could find their way. XXXIV "My lord, when known for what I am (and me Now shalt thou know)," he made at last reply, "I wot thou, like myself, content wilt be, And haply more content, that I should die. Know me for him so hated once by thee; Rogero who repaid that hate am I; And now 'tis many days since with intent Of putting thee to death from court I went. XXXV "Because I would not see my promised bride Borne off by thee; in that Duke Aymon's love And favour was engaged upon thy side. But, for man purposes, and God above Disposes, thy great courtesy, well tried In a sore need, my fixt resolve did move. Nor only I renounced the hate I bore, But purposed to be thine for evermore. XXXVI "What time I as Rogero was unknown, Thou madest suit I would obtain for thee The Lady Bradamant; which was all one As to demand my heart and soul from me. Whether thy wish I rather than mine own Sought to content, thou hast been made to see. Thine is the lady; her in peace possess; Far more than mine I prize thy happiness. XXXVII "Content thee, that deprived of her, as well I should myself of worthless life deprive; For better I without a soul could dwell Than without Bradamant remain alive. And never while these veins with life-blood swell Canst thou with her legitimately wive: For vows erewhile have been between us said; Nor she at once can with two husbands wed." XXXVIII So filled is gentle Leo with amaze When he the stranger for Rogero knows, With lips and brow unmoved, with stedfast gaze And rooted feet, he like a statue shows; Like statue more than man, which votaries raise In churches, for acquittance of their vows. He deems that courtesy of so high a strain Was never done nor will be done again; XXXIX And that he him doth for Rogero know Not only that goodwill he bore whilere Abates not, but augments his kindness so, That no less grieves the Grecian cavalier Than good Rogero for Rogero's woe. For this, as well as that he will appear Deservedly an emperor's son -- although In other things outdone -- he will not be Defeated in the race of courtesy; XL And says, "That day my host was overthrown, Rogero, by thy wond'rous valour, though I had thee at despite, if I had known Thou was Rogero, as I know it now, So me thy virtue would have made thine own, As then it made me, knowing not my foe; So hatred from my bosom would have chased, And with my present love have straight replaced. XLI "That I Rogero hated, ere I knew Thou was Rogero, will I not deny. But think not that I further would pursue The hatred that I bore thee; and had I, When thee I from thy darksome dungeon drew, Descried the truth, as this I now descry, Such treatment shouldst thou then have had, as thou Shalt have from me, to thine advantage, now; XLII "And if I willingly had done so then, When not, as I am now, obliged to thee; How much more gladly should I now; and when, Not doing so, I should with reason be Deemed most ungrateful amid ingrate men; Since thou foregoest thine every good for me! But I to thee restore thy gift, and, more Glady than I received it, this restore. XLIII "The damsel more to thee than me is due; And though for her deserts I hold her dear, If that fair prize some happier mortal drew, I think not I my vital thread should shear: Nor would I by thy death be free to woo: That from the hallowed bands of wedlock clear Wherein the lady hath to thee been tied, I might possess her as my lawful bride. XLIV "Not only Bradamant would I forego, But whatsoe'er I in the world possess; And rather forfeit life than ever know That grief, through me, should such a knight oppress. To me is thy distrust great cause of woe, That since thou couldst dispose of me no less Than of thyself, thou -- rather than apply To me for succour -- wouldst of sorrow die." XLV These words he spake, and more to that intent, Too tedious in these verses to recite; Refuting evermore such argument As might be used in answer by the knight: Who said, at last, "I yield, and am content To live; but how can I ever requite The obligation, which by me is owed To thee that twice hast life on me bestowed?" XLVI Melissa generous wine and goodly cheer Thither bade carry, in a thought obeyed; And comforted the mourning cavalier, Who would have sunk without her friendly aid. Meanwhile the sound of steeds Frontino's ear Had reached, and thither had he quickly made: Him Leo's squires at his commandment caught, And saddled, and to good Rogero brought; XLVII Who, though by Leo helped, with much ado And labour sore the gentle courser scaled. So wasted was the vigour which some few Short days before, in fighting field, availed To overthrow a banded host, and do The deeds he did, in cheating armour mailed. Departing thence, ere they had measured more Than half a league, they reached an abbey hoar: XLVIII Wherein what of that day was yet unworn They past, the morrow, and succeeding day; Until the warrior of the unicorn His vigour had recruited by the stay. He, Leo, and Melissa then return To Charles's royal residence; where lay An embassy, arrived the eve before, Which from the Bulgars' land a message bore. XLIX Since they that had for king proclaimed the knight Besought Rogero thither to repair Through these their envoys deeming they would light On him in Charles's court, where they should swear Fidelity, and yield to him his right; And he from them the crown receive and wear. Rogero's squire who served this band to steer Has published tidings of the cavalier. L He of the fight has told which at Belgrade Erewhile Rogero for the Bulgars won; How Leo and his sire were overlaid, And all their army slaughtered and undone; Wherefore the Bulgars him their king had made; Their royal line excluding from the throne: Then how Ungiardo took the warrior brave, And him to cruel Theodora gave. LI He speaks with that of certain news, which say How good Rogero's jailer was found dead, The prison broke and prisoner away: Of what became of him was nothing said. -- Towards the city by a secret way (Nor was his visage seen) Rogero sped. He, on the following morning, and his friend, Leo, to Charles's court together wend. LII To Charles' court he wends; the bird he bore Of gold with its two heads -- of crimson hue Its field -- and that same vest and ensigns wore, As was erewhile devised between the two; And such as in the listed fight before His bruised and battered armour was in shew. So that they quickly knew the cavalier From him that strove with Bradamant whilere. LIII In royal ornaments and costly gown, Unarmed, beside him doth young Leo fare. A worthy following and of high renown Before, behind him, and about him are. He bowed to Charlemagne, who from his throne Had risen to do honour to the pair: Then holding still Rogero by the hand, So spake, while all that warrior closely scanned. LIV "Behold the champion good, that did maintain From dawn till fall of day the furious fight; And since by Bradamant nor taken, slain, Nor forced beyond the barriers was the knight, He is assured his victory is plain, Dread sir, if he your edict reads aright; And he hath won the lady for his wife: So comes to claim the guerdon of the strife. LV "Besides that by your edict's tenor none But him can to the damsel lift his eyes, -- Is she deserved by deeds of valour done, What other is so worthy of the prize? -- Should she by him that loves her best be won, None passes him, nor with the warrior vies; And he is here to fight against all foes That would in arms his right in her oppose." LVI King Charlemagne and all his peerage stand Amazed, who well believed the Grecian peer With Bradamant had striven with lifted brand In fight, and not that unknown cavalier. Marphisa, thither borne amid the band, That crowded round the royal chair to hear, Hardly till Leo made an ending staid; Then prest before the listening troop, and said: LVII "Since here Rogero is not, to contest The bride's possession with the stranger knight, Lest he, as undefended, be opprest, And forfeit so without dispute his right, On his behalf I undertake this quest, -- His sister I -- against whatever wight Shall here assert a claim to Bradamant, Or more desert than good Rogero vaunt." LVIII She spake this with such anger and disdain, Many surmised amid the assistant crew, That, without waiting leave from Charlemagne, What she had threatened she forthwith would do. No longer Leo deemed it time to feign; And from Rogero's head the helm withdrew; And to Marphisa, "For himself to speak, Behold him here and ready!" cried the Greek. LIX As looked old Aegeus at the accursed board, Seeing it was his son to whom -- so willed His wicked consort -- that Athenian lord Had given the juice from deadly drugs distilled; Whom he, if he had recognized his sword Though but a little later, would have killed; So looked Marphisa when, disclosed to view, She in the stranger knight Rogero knew; LX And ran forthwith to clip the cavalier; Nor could unclasp her arms: with loving show Charlemagne, Roland, and Rinaldo, here And there, fix friendly kisses on his brow. Nor him Sir Dudon, nor Sir Olivier, Nor King Sobrino can caress enow: Nor paladin nor peer, amid the crew, Wearies of welcoming that warrior true. LXI Leo, who well can play the spokesman, now That warlike band hath ceased to clip the knight, Tells before Charles and all that audience, how Rogero's daring, how Rogero's might, -- Albeit to his good squadron's scathe and woe -- Which at Belgrade he witnessed in that fight, So moved him that they overweighed all harms Inflicted on him by the warrior's arms. LXII So that to her Rogero being brought, Who would all havoc of the youth have made, He setting all his family at nought, Had out of durance vile the knight conveyed; And how Rogero, that the rescue wrought By Leo might be worthily repaid, Did that high courtesy; which can by none, That ever were or e'er will be, outdone; LXIII And he from point to point continuing, said That which Rogero had for him achieved; And after, how by sorrow sore bested, In that to leave his cherished wife he grieved, He had resolved to die, and, almost dead, Was only by his timely aid relieved; And this he told so movingly, no eye Remained, amid those martial many, dry. LXIV So efficaciously he after prayed To the obstinate Duke Aymon, not alone The stubborn sire of Bradamant he swayed, And to forego his settled purpose won; But that proud lord in person did persuade To beg Rogero's pardon, and his son And son-in-law to be beseech the knight; And thus to him his Bradamant was plight. LXV To her, where, of her feeble life in doubt, She in a secret chamber made lament, Through many a messenger, with joyful shout And mickle haste, the happy tidings went. Hence the warm blood, that stagnated about Her heart, by her first sorrow thither sent, Ebbed at this notice in so full a tide, Well nigh for sudden joy the damsel died. LXVI Of all her vigour is she so foregone, She cannot on her feeble feet rely: Yet what her force must needs to you be known, And what the damsel's magnanimity. None doomed to prison, wheel or halter, none Condemned some other evil death to die, About whose brows the sable band is tied, Rejoices more to hear his pardon cried. LXVII Joys Clermont's, joys Mongrana's noble house, Those kindred branches that fresh know to view. With equal grief Count Anselm overflows, Gan, Falcon, Gini and Ginami's crew: Yet they meanwhile beneath contented brows Conceal the dark and envious thoughts they brew. As the fox waits the motions of the hare, They wait their time for vengeance, and forbear. LXVIII Besides that oftentimes before the rage Of Roland and Rinaldo on them fell, Though they were calmed by Charles's counsel sage, And common danger from the infidel, They had new cause for grief in Bertolage Slain by their foemen and Sir Pinnabel: But they concealed their hatred, and endured Those griefs, as of the matter ill assured. LXIX Those envoys of the Bulgars that had made For Charles's court (as hath erewhile been shown), Hoping to find the knight, whose shield pourtrayed The unicorn, elected to their throne, Bless the good fortune which their hope repayed, Seeing that valiant warrior, and fall down Before his feet, and him in humble speech Again to seek their Bulgary beseech; LXX Where kept for him in Adrianople are The sceptre and the crown, his royal due: But let him succour to his kingdom bear; For -- to their further scathe -- advices shew Constantine doth a mighty host prepare, And thitherward in person moves anew; And they -- of their elected king possest -- Hope the Greek empire from his hands to wrest. LXXI He accepts the realm, by their entreaties won; And, to afford them aid against their foes, Will went to Bulgary when three months are done; Save Fortune otherwise of him dispose. When this is heard by that Greek emperor's son, He bids Rogero on his faith repose; For since by him the Bulgar's realm is swayed, Peace between them and Constantine is made; LXXII Nor needeth he depart in haste, to guide His Bulgar bands against the Grecian foe; For all that he had conquered far and wide, He will persuade his father to forego. None of the virtues, in Rogero spied, Moved Bradamant's ambitious mother so, Or so to endear her son-in-law availed, As hearing now that son a sovereign hailed. LXXIII The rich and royal nuptials they prepare As well befits him, by whose care 'tis done, 'Tis done by Charles; and with such cost and care As if 'twere for a daughter of his own. For such the merits of the damsel are, And such had all her martial kindred shown, Charles would not think he should exceed due measure If spent for her was half his kingdom's treasure. LXXIV He a free court bids cry; whither his way Securely every one that wills may wend; And offers open lists till the ninth day To whosoever would in arms contend; And bids build bowers afield, and interlay Green boughs therein, and flowers and foliage blend; And make those bowers so gay with silk and gold, No fairer place this ample world doth hold. LXXV Guested within fair Paris cannot be The countless foreign bands that thither fare; Who, rich and poor, of high and low degree, And Greeks and Latins and Barbarians are. There is no end of lord and embassy That thither from all ends of earth repair; All lodged conveniently, to their content, Beneath pavilion, booth, and bower and tent. LXXVI The weird Melissa against the coming night With singular and matchless ornament Had for that pair the nuptial chamber dight; Whereon long time before she had been bent: Long time before desirous of the rite Had been that dame, presageful of the event; Presageful of futurity, she knew What goodly fruit should from their stems ensue. LXXVII She had prepared the genial, fruitful bed, Under a broad pavilion; one more rich, Adorned, and jocund, never overhead (Did this for peace or war its master pitch) Was in the world, before or after, spread; And this from Thracian strand had borne the witch. The costly prize from Constantine she bore, Who for disport was tented on that shore. LXXVIII She with young Leo's leave, or rather so The Grecian's admiration to obtain, And a rare token of that art to show, Which on Hell's mighty dragon puts the rein, And at her pleasure rules that impious foe Of Heaven, together with his evil train, Bade demons the pavilion through mid air To Paris from Constantinople bear. LXXIX From Constantine that lay therein, who swayed The Grecian empire's sceptre, at mid-day This with its cordage, shaft whereby 'twas stayed, And all within and out, she bore away; And of the costly tent, through air conveyed, For young Rogero made a lodging gay. The bridal ended, this her demon crew Thither, from whence 'twas brought, conveyed anew. LXXX Two thousand tedious years were nigh complete, Since this fair work was fashioned by the lore Of Trojan maid, warmed with prophetic heat; Who, 'mid long labour and 'mid vigil sore, With her own fingers all the storied sheet Of the pavilion had embroidered o'er; Cassandra hight; that maid to Hector brave (Her brother he) this costly present gave. LXXXI The curtiest cavalier, the kindliest shoot That ever from her brother's stock should grow (Albeit she knew far distant from its root, With many a branch between, should be that bough) In silk and gold upon the gorgeous suit Of hangings had she wrought in goodly show. Much prized that gift, while living, Priam's son, For its rare work and her by whom 'twas done. LXXXII But when by treachery perished Priam's heir, And Greeks the Trojans scathed in cruel sort, When her gates opened by false Sinon were, And direr ill was done than tales report, This plunder fell to Menelaus' share, Wherewith to Egypt's land he made resort; There left it to King Proteus, Egypt's lord, In ransom for his prisoned wife restored; LXXXIII She Helen hight: her Menelaus to free, To Proteus the pavilion gave away; Which, passing through the line of Ptolemy, To Cleopatra fell; from her in fray Agrippa's band on the Leucadian sea Bore off the treasure, amid other prey. Augustus and Tiberius heired the loom, Kept till the time of Constantine in Rome: LXXXIV That Constantine, whom thou shall ever rue Fair Italy, while the heavens above are rolled. Constantine to Byzantium, when he grew Weary of Tyber, bore the tent of old. Melissa from his namesake this withdrew, Its pole of ivory and its cord of gold, And all its cloth with beauteous figures fraught; Fairer Apelles' pencil never wrought. LXXXV Here the three Graces in gay vesture gowned Assisted the delivery of a queen. Not in four ages in this earthly round Was ever born a boy so fair of mien. Jove, Venus, Mars, and Mercury renowned For fluent speech, about the child are seen: Him have they strewed, and stew with heaven's perfume, Ambrosial odours and aetherial bloom. LXXXVI Hippolytus a little label said, Inscribed upon the baby's swaddling clothes. By the hand him Fortune leads in age more staid; And Valour as a guide before him goes. An unknown band in sweeping vest arraid, With long descending locks, the tapestry shows, Deputed by Corvinus to desire The tender infant from his princely sire. LXXXVII He reverently parts from Hercules' side, From her, his lady mother, Eleanor; And to the Danube wends; where far and wide They meet the boy, and as a god adore. The prudent king of Hungary is descried, Who does due honour to his ripened lore, In yet unripe, yea, raw and tender years, And ranks the stripling above all his peers. LXXXVIII One is there that in his green age and new Places Strigonia's crozier in his hand. Him ever at Corvinus' side we view; Whether he doth in court or camp command, Whether against the Turk, or German crew The puissant monarch leads his martial band, Watchful Hippolytus is at his side, And gathers virtue from his generous guide. LXXXIX There is it seen, how he his blooming age Divides mid arts and wholesome discipline: The secret spirit of the ancient page There Fuscus well instructs him to divine: "This must thou shun, that follow" -- seems the sage To say -- "if thou immortally wouldst shine." Fashioned withal with so much skill and care By her who wrought that work, their gestures were. XC A cardinal he next is seen, though young In years, at council in the Vatican; Where for deep wisdom graced by eloquent tongue, With wonder him the assembled conclave scan. "What will he be" -- they seem to say among Themselves -- "when he is ripened into man? Oh! if on him St. Peter's mantle fall, What a blest aera! what a happy call!" XCI That brave youth's liberal pastimes are designed In other place; on Alpine mountain hoar Here he affronts the bear of rugged kind; And there in rushy bottom bays the boar: Now on his jennet he outgoes the wind, And drives some goat or gallant hind before; Which falls o'ertaken on the dusty plain, By his descending faulchion cleft in twain. XCII He is descried, amid a fair array Of poets and philosophers elsewhere This pricks for him the wandering planets' way; These earth, these heaven for his instruction square. Some chant sad elegies, some verses gay Lays lyric or heroic; singers there He with rich music hears; nor moves a pace But what in every step is sovereign grace. XCIII The first part of the storied walls pourtraied That noble prince's gentle infancy. Cassandra all beside had overlaid With fears of justice, prudence, modesty, Valour, and that fifty virtue, which hath made With those fair sisters closest amity; I speak of her that gives and that bestows. With all these virtues gilt, the stripling glows. XCIV In this part is the princely youth espied With that unhappy duke, the Insubri's head; In peace they sit in council at his side, Together armed, the serpent-banner spread. The youth by one unchanging faith is tied To him for ever, well or ill bested; His followers still in flight before the foe, His guide in peril, his support in woe. XCV Him in another quarter you descry, For his Ferrara and her duke in fear, Who by strange proofs doth sift, and certify To his just brother, vouched by tokens clear, The close device of that ill treachery, Hatched by those kinsmen whom he held most dear; Hence justly he becomes that title's heir, Which Rome yet free bade righteous Tully bear. XCVI Elsewhere in martial panoply he shone, Hasting to help the church with lifted blade; With scanty and tumultuous levy gone Against well-ordered host in arms arraid: And lo! the coming of that chief alone Affords the priestly band such present aid, Extinguished are the fires before they spread. He came, he saw, he conquered, may be said. XCVII Elsewhere he stands upon his native strand, Fighting against the mightiest armament, That whensoever against Argive land, Or Turkish, from Venetian harbour went; Scatters and overthrows the hostile band, And -- spoil and prisoners to his brother sent -- Nothing reserves save that unfading bay; The only prize he cannot give away. XCVIII Upon those figures gazed the courtly crew, But read no meaning in the storied wall: Because there was not any one to shew That these were things hereafter to befall. Those fair and quaintly fashioned forms they view With pleasure, and peruse the scrolls withal: But Bradamant, to whom the whole was known, By wise Melissa taught, rejoiced alone. XCIX Though not instructed in that history Like gentle Bradamant, the affianced knight Remembers how amid his progeny Atlantes often praised this Hippolyte. -- Who faithfully could verse such courtesy, As Charlemagne vouchsafed to every wight? With various games that solemn feast was cheered, And charged with viands aye the board appeared. C Who is a valiant knight, is here descried; For daily broke a thousand lances lay: Singly to combat or in troops they ride; On horseback or afoot, they mix in fray. Worthiest of all Rogero is espied, Who always conquers, jousting night and day; And so, in wrestling, dance, and every deed, Still from its rivals bears away the meed. CI On the last day, when at their festive cheer Was seated solemnly the assembled band, Where at Charles' left was placed the wedded peer, And Bradamant upon his better hand, Across the fields an armed cavalier, Of semblance haughty, and of stature grand, Was seen to ride towards the royal table; Himself and courser wholly clothed in sable. CII The King of Argier he; that for the scorn Received from her, when on the bridge he fell, Never to clothe himself in arms had sworn, Nor draw the faulchion nor bestride the sell, Till he had like an anchoret outworn A year and month and day in lowly cell. So to chastise themselves for such like crimes Were cavaliers accustomed in those times. CIII Albeit of Charles and Agramant the Moor Had heard the several fortunes while away, Not to foreswear himself, he armed no more Than if in nought concerned in that affray: But when the year and month were wholly o'er, And wholly past was the succeeding day, With other courser, harness, sword, and lance, The king betook him to the court of France. CIV He neither lighted from his horse, nor bowed His head; and, without sign of reverence due, His scorn for Charlemagne by gestures showed, And the high presence of so fair a crew. Astound and full of wonder stood the crowd, Such license in that haughty man to view. All leave their meat, all leave their talk, to hear The purpose of the stranger cavalier. CV To Charles and to Rogero opposite, With a loud voice, and in proud accent, "I Am Rodomont of Sarza," said the knight, "Who thee, Rogero, to the field defy; And here, before the sun withdraws his light, Will prove on thee thine infidelity; And that thou, as a traitor to thy lord, Deserv'st not any honour at this board. CVI "Albeit thy felony be plain and clear, Which thou, as christened, canst not disavow; Nathless to make it yet more plain appear, This will I prove upon thee; and, if thou Canst find a knight to combat for thee here, Him will accept; -- if one be not enow -- Will four, nay six accept; and will maintain My words against them all in listed plain." CVII Rogero, with the leave of Pepin's son, Uprose at that appeal, and thus replied: That he -- nor he alone -- but every one, Who thus impeached him as a traitor, lied; That so he by his king had ever done, Him none could justly blame; and on his side, He was prepared in listed field to shew He evermore by him had done his due. CVIII He can defend himself; nor need he crave Another warrior's help that course to run; And 'tis his hope to show him he would have Enough, perhaps would have too much, of one. Thither Orlando and Rinaldo, brave Olivier, and his white and sable son, Thither good Dudon and Marphisa wend; Who fain with that fierce paynim will contend. CIX They tell Rogero that, as newly wed The combat he in person should refuse. "Take ye no further pains," the warrior said, "For such would be for me a foul excuse." The Tartar's arms were brought, which cut the thread Of more delay and of all further truce: With spurs Orlando deck'd the youthful lord, King Charlemagne begirt him with the sword. CX Marphisa and Bradamant in corslet case His breast, and clothe him in his other gear. Astolpho led his horse of noble race: Sir Dudon held his stirrup: far and near Rinaldo and Namus made the mob give place, Assisted by the Marquis Olivier. All from the crowded lists they drive with speed, Evermore kept in order for such need. CXI The pale-faced dames and damsels troop, in guise Of pigeons round the lists, a timid show; When, homeward bound, from fruitful field they rise, Scared by wide-sweeping winds, which loudly blow, Mid flash and clap; and when the sable skies Threat hail and rain, the harvest's waste and woe: A timid troop, they for Rogero fear, Ill matched they deem with that fierce cavalier. CXII So him deemed all the rabble; and so most Of those bold cavalier and barons thought; In that they had not yet the memory lost Of what that paynim had in Paris wrought, When singly fire and sword the warrior tost, And much of that fair town to ruin brought; Whose signs remained, and yet will long remain: Nor ever greater havoc plagued that reign. CXIII Bradamant's heart above those others' beat: Not that she deemed the Saracen in might, Or valour which in the heart-core hath its seat, Was of more prowess than the youthful knight; Nor (what oft gives success in martial feat That with the paynim was the better right. Yet cannot she her some ill misgivings quell. But upon those that love such fear sits well. CXIV Oh! in her fear for him, how willingly She battle for Rogero would have done! If lifeless on the listed field to lie Surer than sure, -- in fight with Ulien's son. More than one death would she consent to die, If she withal could suffer more than one, Rather than she in that unhappy strife Would see her cherished consort risk his life. CXV But prayer availed not on the damsel's part To make Rogero leave to her the quest: She then with mournful face and beating heart Stood by to view that pair to fight addrest. From right and left the peer and paynim start, And at each other run with lance in rest. The spears seem ice, as they in shivers fly. The fragments birds, that mount through middle sky. CXVI Rodomont's lance which smote in the career Upon mid-shield, yet harmed it little; so Perfect was famous Hector's iron gear, Hardened by Vulcan's hand, and safe from blow. As well against the shield his levelled spear Rogero guides, and that good buckler -- though Well steeled within and out, with bone between, And nigh a palm in thickness -- pierces clean; CXVII And -- but his lance resists not that fierce shock, And at the first assault its splinters fly, And bits and fragments of the shivered stock Seem fledged with feathers they ascend so high; Were his arms hewn from adamantine rock, The spear would pierce the paynim's panoply; And end that battle: but it breaks withal, And on their croups both staggering coursers fall. CXVIII With bridle and with spur the martial pair Raise their proud horses nimbly from the ground; And having broke their spears, with faulchions bare Return, to bandy fierce and cruel wound. Wheeling with wondrous mastery, here and there, The bold and ready coursers in a round, The warriors with their biting swords begin To try where either's armour is most thin. CXIX Rodomont had not that hard dragon-hide Which heretofore had cased the warrior's breast; Nor Nimrod's trenchant sword was at his side; Nor the accustomed helm his temples prest. For on that bridge which spanned the narrow tide, A loser to Dordona's lady, vest And arms suspended from the votive stone He left; as I, meseems, erewhile have shown. CXX Clad was the king in other goodly mail; Yet not like that first panoply secure: But neither this, nor that, nor harder scale Could Balisarda's deadly dint endure; Against which neither workmanship avail, Enchantment, temper, nor prime steel and pure. So here so there Rogero plied his sword, He more than once the paynim's armour bored. CXXI When Rodomont beholds in that fierce close His widely crimsoned arms, nor can restrain The greater portion of those griding blows From biting to the quick, through plate and chain, He with more fury, with more rage o'erflows, Than in mid winter the tempestrous main Flings down his shield, and with both hands outright Lays at Rogero's helm with all his might. CXXII With that excessive force, wherewith the gin, Erected in two barges upon Po, And raised by men and wheels, with deafening din Descends upon the sharpened piles below, With all his might he smote the paladin With either hand; was never direr blow: Him the charmed helmet helped, or -- such its force -- The stroke would have divided man and horse. CXXIII As if about to fall, the youthful lord Twice nodded, opening legs and arms; anew Rodomont smote, in that he would afford His foe no time his spirits to renew: Then threatened other stroke; but that fine sword Bore not such hammering, and in shivers flew; And the bold Saracen, bereft of brand Was in the combat left with unarmed hand. CXXIV But not for this doth Rodomont refrain: He swoops upon the Child, unheeding aught: So sore astounded is Rogero's brain; So wholly overclouded is his thought. But him the paynim well awakes again, Whom by the neck he with strong arm has caught, And gripes and grapples with such mighty force, He falls on earth, pulled headlong from his horse. CXXV Yet leaps from earth as nimbly, moved by spleen Far less than shame; for on his gentle bride He turned his eyes, and that fair face serene Now troubled the disdainful warrior spied. She in sore doubt her champion's fall had seen; And well nigh at that sight the lady died. Rogero, quickly to revenge the affront, Clutches his sword and faces Rodomont. CXXVI He at Rogero rode, who that rude shock Shunned warily, retiring from his ground, And, as he past, the paynim's bridle took With his left had, and turned his courser round; While with his right he at his rider struck, Whom he in belly, flank and breast would wound; And twice sore anguish felt the monarch, gored In flank and thigh, by good Rogero's sword. CXXVII Rodomont, grasping still in that close fight The hilt and pommel of his broken blade, Layed at Rogero's helmet with such might, That him another stroke might have dismaid: But good Rogero, who should win of right, Seizing his arm, the king so rudely swayed, Bringing his left his better hand to speed, That he pulled down the paynim from his steed. CXXVIII Through force or skill, so fell the Moorish lord, He stood his match, I rather ought to say Fell on his feet; because Rogero's sword Gave him, 'twas deemed, advantage in the fray. Rogero stands aloof, with wary ward As fain to keep the paynim king at bay. For the wise champion will not let a wight So talk and bulky close with him in fight; CXXIX Rogero flank and thigh dyed red beheld, And other wounds; and hoped he would have failed By little and by little, as it welled; So that he finally should have prevailed. His hilt and pommel in his fist yet held The paynim, which with all his might he scaled At young Rogero; whom he smote so sore, The stripling never was so stunned before. CXXX In the helmet-cheek and shoulder-bone below The Child was smit, and left so sore astound, He, tripping still and staggering to and fro, Scarce kept himself from falling to the ground. Rodomont fain would close upon his foe; But his foot fails him, weakened by the wound, Which pierced his thigh: he overtasked his might; And on his kneepan fell the paynim knight. CXXXI Rogero lost no time, and with fierce blows Smote him in face and bosom with his brand; Hammered, and held the Saracen so close, To ground he bore that champion with his hand. But he so stirred himself, again he rose: He gripes Rogero so, fast locked they stand. Seconding their huge vigour by address, They circle one another, shake, and press. CXXXII His wounded thigh and gaping flank had sore Weakened the vigour of the Moorish king: Rogero had address; had mickle lore; Was greatly practised in the wrestlers' ring: He marked his vantage, nor from strife forbore; And, where he saw the blood most freely spring, And where most wounded was the warrior, prest The paynim with his feet, his arms, and breast. CXXXIII Rodomont filled with spite and rage, his foe Takes by the neck and shoulders, and now bends Towards him, and now pushes from him; now Raises from earth, and on his chest suspends; Whirls here and there and grapples; and to throw The stripling sorely in that strife contends. Collected in himself, Rogero wrought, To keep his vantage taxing strength and thought. CXXXIV So shifting oft his hold, about the Moor His arms the good and bold Rogero wound; Against his left flank shoved his breast, and sore Strained him with all his strength engirdled round. At once he past his better leg before Rodomont's knees and pushed, and from the ground Uplifted high in air the Moorish lord; Then hurled him down head foremost on the sward. CXXXV Such was the shock wherewith King Rodomont With battered head and spine the champion smote, That, issuing from his wounds as from a font, Streams of red blood the crimsoned herbage float. Rogero, holding Fortune by the front, Lest he should rise, with one hand griped his throat, With one a dagger at his eyes addrest; And with his knees the paynim's belly prest. CXXVI As sometimes where they work the golden vein Within Pannonian or Iberian cave, In unexpected ruin whelm the train By impious avarice there condemned to slave, So with the load they lie opprest, with pain A passage can their prisoned spirit have: No less opprest the doughty paynim lay, Pinned to the ground in that disastrous fray. CXXXVII Rogero at his vizor doth present His naked poniard's point, with threatening cry, That he will slay him, save he yields, content To let him live, if he for grace apply. But Rodomont, who rather than be shent For the least deed of shame, preferred to die, Writhed, struggled, and with all his vigour tried To pull Rogero down, and nought replied. CXXXVIII As mastiff that below the deer-hound lies, Fixed by the gullet fast, with holding bite, Sorely bestirs himself and vainly tries, With lips besmeared with foam and eyes alight, And cannot from beneath the conqueror rise, Who foils his foe by force, and not despite; So vainly strives the monarch of Argier To rise from underneath the cavalier. CXXXIX Yet Rodomont so twists and strives, he gains The freedom of his better arm anew; And with the right hand, which his poniard strains, For he had drawn his deadly dagger too, Would wound Rogero underneath the reins: But now the wary youth the error knew Through which he might have died, by his delay That impious Saracen forthwith to slay; CXL And smiting twice or thrice his horrid front, Raising as high as he could raise in air His dagger, buried it in Rodomont; And freed himself withal from further care. Loosed from the more than icy corse, to font Of fetid Acheron, and hell's foul repair, The indignant spirit fled, blaspheming loud; Erewhile on earth so haughty and so proud.