CANTO XXXWhat time resentment burn’d in Juno’s breastFor Semele against the Theban blood,As more than once in dire mischance was rued,Such fatal frenzy seiz’d on Athamas,That he his spouse beholding with a babeLaden on either arm, “Spread out,” he cried,“The meshes, that I take the lionessAnd the young lions at the pass: “then forthStretch’d he his merciless talons, grasping one,One helpless innocent, Learchus nam’d,Whom swinging down he dash’d upon a rock,And with her other burden self-destroy’dThe hapless mother plung’d: and when the prideOf all-presuming Troy fell from its height,By fortune overwhelm’d, and the old kingWith his realm perish’d, then did Hecuba,A wretch forlorn and captive, when she sawPolyxena first slaughter’d, and her son,Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beachNext met the mourner’s view, then reft of senseDid she run barking even as a dog;Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul.Bet ne’er the Furies or of Thebes or TroyWith such fell cruelty were seen, their goadsInfixing in the limbs of man or beast,As now two pale and naked ghost I sawThat gnarling wildly scamper’d, like the swineExcluded from his stye. One reach’d Capocchio,And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs,Dragg’d him, that o’er the solid pavement rubb’dHis belly stretch’d out prone. The other shape,He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake;“That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like moodOf random mischief vent he still his spite.”To whom I answ’ring: “Oh! as thou dost hope,The other may not flesh its jaws on thee,Be patient to inform us, who it is,Ere it speed hence.”—” That is the ancient soulOf wretched Myrrha,” he replied, “who burn’dWith most unholy flame for her own sire,And a false shape assuming, so perform’dThe deed of sin; e’en as the other there,That onward passes, dar’d to counterfeitDonati’s features, to feign’d testamentThe seal affixing, that himself might gain,For his own share, the lady of the herd.”When vanish’d the two furious shades, on whomMine eye was held, I turn’d it back to viewThe other cursed spirits. One I sawIn fashion like a lute, had but the groinBeen sever’d, where it meets the forked part.Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbsWith ill-converted moisture, that the paunchSuits not the visage, open’d wide his lipsGasping as in the hectic man for drought,One towards the chin, the other upward curl’d.“O ye, who in this world of misery,Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain,”Thus he began, “attentively regardAdamo’s woe. When living, full supplyNe’er lack’d me of what most I coveted;One drop of water now, alas! I crave.The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopesOf Casentino, making fresh and softThe banks whereby they glide to Arno’s stream,Stand ever in my view; and not in vain;For more the pictur’d semblance dries me up,Much more than the disease, which makes the fleshDesert these shrivel’d cheeks. So from the place,Where I transgress’d, stern justice urging me,Takes means to quicken more my lab’ring sighs.There is Romena, where I falsifiedThe metal with the Baptist’s form imprest,For which on earth I left my body burnt.But if I here might see the sorrowing soulOf Guido, Alessandro, or their brother,For Branda’s limpid spring I would not changeThe welcome sight. One is e’en now within,If truly the mad spirits tell, that roundAre wand’ring. But wherein besteads me that?My limbs are fetter’d. Were I but so light,That I each hundred years might move one inch,I had set forth already on this path,Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew,Although eleven miles it wind, not moreThan half of one across. They brought me downAmong this tribe; induc’d by them I stamp’dThe florens with three carats of alloy.”“Who are that abject pair,” I next inquir’d,“That closely bounding thee upon thy rightLie smoking, like a band in winter steep’dIn the chill stream?”—“When to this gulf I dropt,”He answer’d, “here I found them; since that hourThey have not turn’d, nor ever shall, I ween,Till time hath run his course. One is that dameThe false accuser of the Hebrew youth;Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy.Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out,In such a cloud upsteam’d.” When that he heard,One, gall’d perchance to be so darkly nam’d,With clench’d hand smote him on the braced paunch,That like a drum resounded: but forthwithAdamo smote him on the face, the blowReturning with his arm, that seem’d as hard.“Though my o’erweighty limbs have ta’en from meThe power to move,” said he, “I have an armAt liberty for such employ.” To whomWas answer’d: “When thou wentest to the fire,Thou hadst it not so ready at command,Then readier when it coin’d th’ impostor gold.”And thus the dropsied: “Ay, now speak’st thou true.But there thou gav’st not such true testimony,When thou wast question’d of the truth, at Troy.”“If I spake false, thou falsely stamp’dst the coin,”Said Sinon; “I am here but for one fault,And thou for more than any imp beside.”“Remember,” he replied, “O perjur’d one,The horse remember, that did teem with death,And all the world be witness to thy guilt.”“To thine,” return’d the Greek, “witness the thirstWhence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound,Rear’d by thy belly up before thine eyes,A mass corrupt.” To whom the coiner thus:“Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let passIts evil saying. Me if thirst assails,Yet I am stuff’d with moisture. Thou art parch’d,Pains rack thy head, no urging would’st thou needTo make thee lap Narcissus’ mirror up.”I was all fix’d to listen, when my guideAdmonish’d: “Now beware: a little more.And I do quarrel with thee.” I perceiv’dHow angrily he spake, and towards him turn’dWith shame so poignant, as remember’d yetConfounds me. As a man that dreams of harmBefall’n him, dreaming wishes it a dream,And that which is, desires as if it were not,Such then was I, who wanting power to speakWish’d to excuse myself, and all the whileExcus’d me, though unweeting that I did.“More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,”My master cried, “might expiate. Therefore castAll sorrow from thy soul; and if againChance bring thee, where like conference is held,Think I am ever at thy side. To hearSuch wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.”
What time resentment burn’d in Juno’s breastFor Semele against the Theban blood,As more than once in dire mischance was rued,Such fatal frenzy seiz’d on Athamas,That he his spouse beholding with a babeLaden on either arm, “Spread out,” he cried,“The meshes, that I take the lionessAnd the young lions at the pass: “then forthStretch’d he his merciless talons, grasping one,One helpless innocent, Learchus nam’d,Whom swinging down he dash’d upon a rock,And with her other burden self-destroy’dThe hapless mother plung’d: and when the prideOf all-presuming Troy fell from its height,By fortune overwhelm’d, and the old kingWith his realm perish’d, then did Hecuba,A wretch forlorn and captive, when she sawPolyxena first slaughter’d, and her son,Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beachNext met the mourner’s view, then reft of senseDid she run barking even as a dog;Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul.Bet ne’er the Furies or of Thebes or TroyWith such fell cruelty were seen, their goadsInfixing in the limbs of man or beast,As now two pale and naked ghost I sawThat gnarling wildly scamper’d, like the swineExcluded from his stye. One reach’d Capocchio,And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs,Dragg’d him, that o’er the solid pavement rubb’dHis belly stretch’d out prone. The other shape,He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake;“That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like moodOf random mischief vent he still his spite.”
To whom I answ’ring: “Oh! as thou dost hope,The other may not flesh its jaws on thee,Be patient to inform us, who it is,Ere it speed hence.”—” That is the ancient soulOf wretched Myrrha,” he replied, “who burn’dWith most unholy flame for her own sire,And a false shape assuming, so perform’dThe deed of sin; e’en as the other there,That onward passes, dar’d to counterfeitDonati’s features, to feign’d testamentThe seal affixing, that himself might gain,For his own share, the lady of the herd.”
When vanish’d the two furious shades, on whomMine eye was held, I turn’d it back to viewThe other cursed spirits. One I sawIn fashion like a lute, had but the groinBeen sever’d, where it meets the forked part.Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbsWith ill-converted moisture, that the paunchSuits not the visage, open’d wide his lipsGasping as in the hectic man for drought,One towards the chin, the other upward curl’d.
“O ye, who in this world of misery,Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain,”Thus he began, “attentively regardAdamo’s woe. When living, full supplyNe’er lack’d me of what most I coveted;One drop of water now, alas! I crave.The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopesOf Casentino, making fresh and softThe banks whereby they glide to Arno’s stream,Stand ever in my view; and not in vain;For more the pictur’d semblance dries me up,Much more than the disease, which makes the fleshDesert these shrivel’d cheeks. So from the place,Where I transgress’d, stern justice urging me,Takes means to quicken more my lab’ring sighs.There is Romena, where I falsifiedThe metal with the Baptist’s form imprest,For which on earth I left my body burnt.But if I here might see the sorrowing soulOf Guido, Alessandro, or their brother,For Branda’s limpid spring I would not changeThe welcome sight. One is e’en now within,If truly the mad spirits tell, that roundAre wand’ring. But wherein besteads me that?My limbs are fetter’d. Were I but so light,That I each hundred years might move one inch,I had set forth already on this path,Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew,Although eleven miles it wind, not moreThan half of one across. They brought me downAmong this tribe; induc’d by them I stamp’dThe florens with three carats of alloy.”
“Who are that abject pair,” I next inquir’d,“That closely bounding thee upon thy rightLie smoking, like a band in winter steep’dIn the chill stream?”—“When to this gulf I dropt,”He answer’d, “here I found them; since that hourThey have not turn’d, nor ever shall, I ween,Till time hath run his course. One is that dameThe false accuser of the Hebrew youth;Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy.Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out,In such a cloud upsteam’d.” When that he heard,One, gall’d perchance to be so darkly nam’d,With clench’d hand smote him on the braced paunch,That like a drum resounded: but forthwithAdamo smote him on the face, the blowReturning with his arm, that seem’d as hard.
“Though my o’erweighty limbs have ta’en from meThe power to move,” said he, “I have an armAt liberty for such employ.” To whomWas answer’d: “When thou wentest to the fire,Thou hadst it not so ready at command,Then readier when it coin’d th’ impostor gold.”
And thus the dropsied: “Ay, now speak’st thou true.But there thou gav’st not such true testimony,When thou wast question’d of the truth, at Troy.”
“If I spake false, thou falsely stamp’dst the coin,”Said Sinon; “I am here but for one fault,And thou for more than any imp beside.”
“Remember,” he replied, “O perjur’d one,The horse remember, that did teem with death,And all the world be witness to thy guilt.”
“To thine,” return’d the Greek, “witness the thirstWhence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound,Rear’d by thy belly up before thine eyes,A mass corrupt.” To whom the coiner thus:“Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let passIts evil saying. Me if thirst assails,Yet I am stuff’d with moisture. Thou art parch’d,Pains rack thy head, no urging would’st thou needTo make thee lap Narcissus’ mirror up.”
I was all fix’d to listen, when my guideAdmonish’d: “Now beware: a little more.And I do quarrel with thee.” I perceiv’dHow angrily he spake, and towards him turn’dWith shame so poignant, as remember’d yetConfounds me. As a man that dreams of harmBefall’n him, dreaming wishes it a dream,And that which is, desires as if it were not,Such then was I, who wanting power to speakWish’d to excuse myself, and all the whileExcus’d me, though unweeting that I did.
“More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,”My master cried, “might expiate. Therefore castAll sorrow from thy soul; and if againChance bring thee, where like conference is held,Think I am ever at thy side. To hearSuch wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.”