CANTO XXIVIn the year’s early nonage, when the sunTempers his tresses in Aquarius’ urn,And now towards equal day the nights recede,When as the rime upon the earth puts onHer dazzling sister’s image, but not longHer milder sway endures, then riseth upThe village hind, whom fails his wintry store,And looking out beholds the plain aroundAll whiten’d, whence impatiently he smitesHis thighs, and to his hut returning in,There paces to and fro, wailing his lot,As a discomfited and helpless man;Then comes he forth again, and feels new hopeSpring in his bosom, finding e’en thus soonThe world hath chang’d its count’nance, grasps his crook,And forth to pasture drives his little flock:So me my guide dishearten’d when I sawHis troubled forehead, and so speedilyThat ill was cur’d; for at the fallen bridgeArriving, towards me with a look as sweet,He turn’d him back, as that I first beheldAt the steep mountain’s foot. Regarding wellThe ruin, and some counsel first maintain’dWith his own thought, he open’d wide his armAnd took me up. As one, who, while he works,Computes his labour’s issue, that he seemsStill to foresee the’ effect, so lifting meUp to the summit of one peak, he fix’dHis eye upon another. “Grapple that,”Said he, “but first make proof, if it be suchAs will sustain thee.” For one capp’d with leadThis were no journey. Scarcely he, though light,And I, though onward push’d from crag to crag,Could mount. And if the precinct of this coastWere not less ample than the last, for himI know not, but my strength had surely fail’d.But Malebolge all toward the mouthInclining of the nethermost abyss,The site of every valley hence requires,That one side upward slope, the other fall.At length the point of our descent we reach’dFrom the last flag: soon as to that arriv’d,So was the breath exhausted from my lungs,I could no further, but did seat me there.“Now needs thy best of man;” so spake my guide:“For not on downy plumes, nor under shadeOf canopy reposing, fame is won,Without which whosoe’er consumes his daysLeaveth such vestige of himself on earth,As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.Thou therefore rise: vanish thy wearinessBy the mind’s effort, in each struggle form’dTo vanquish, if she suffer not the weightOf her corporeal frame to crush her down.A longer ladder yet remains to scale.From these to have escap’d sufficeth not.If well thou note me, profit by my words.”I straightway rose, and show’d myself less spentThan I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried,“For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rockOur way we held, more rugged than before,Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talkI ceas’d not, as we journey’d, so to seemLeast faint; whereat a voice from the other fossDid issue forth, for utt’rance suited ill.Though on the arch that crosses there I stood,What were the words I knew not, but who spakeSeem’d mov’d in anger. Down I stoop’d to look,But my quick eye might reach not to the depthFor shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake:“To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps,And from the wall dismount we; for as henceI hear and understand not, so I seeBeneath, and naught discern.”—“I answer not,”Said he, “but by the deed. To fair requestSilent performance maketh best return.”We from the bridge’s head descended, whereTo the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasmOpening to view, I saw a crowd withinOf serpents terrible, so strange of shapeAnd hideous, that remembrance in my veinsYet shrinks the vital current. Of her sandsLet Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus,Pareas and Chelyder be her brood,Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so direOr in such numbers swarming ne’er she shew’d,Not with all Ethiopia, and whate’erAbove the Erythraean sea is spawn’d.Amid this dread exuberance of woeRan naked spirits wing’d with horrid fear,Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide,Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.With serpents were their hands behind them bound,Which through their reins infix’d the tail and headTwisted in folds before. And lo! on oneNear to our side, darted an adder up,And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied,Transpierc’d him. Far more quickly than e’er penWrote O or I, he kindled, burn’d, and chang’dTo ashes, all pour’d out upon the earth.When there dissolv’d he lay, the dust againUproll’d spontaneous, and the self-same formInstant resumed. So mighty sages tell,The’ Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred yearsHave well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwithRenascent. Blade nor herb throughout his lifeHe tastes, but tears of frankincense aloneAnd odorous amomum: swaths of nardAnd myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls,He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg’dTo earth, or through obstruction fettering upIn chains invisible the powers of man,Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around,Bewilder’d with the monstrous agonyHe hath endur’d, and wildly staring sighs;So stood aghast the sinner when he rose.Oh! how severe God’s judgment, that deals outSuch blows in stormy vengeance! Who he wasMy teacher next inquir’d, and thus in fewHe answer’d: “Vanni Fucci am I call’d,Not long since rained down from TuscanyTo this dire gullet. Me the beastial lifeAnd not the human pleas’d, mule that I was,Who in Pistoia found my worthy den.”I then to Virgil: “Bid him stir not hence,And ask what crime did thrust him hither: onceA man I knew him choleric and bloody.”The sinner heard and feign’d not, but towards meHis mind directing and his face, whereinWas dismal shame depictur’d, thus he spake:“It grieves me more to have been caught by theeIn this sad plight, which thou beholdest, thanWhen I was taken from the other life.I have no power permitted to denyWhat thou inquirest. I am doom’d thus lowTo dwell, for that the sacristy by meWas rifled of its goodly ornaments,And with the guilt another falsely charged.But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus,So as thou e’er shalt ’scape this darksome realmOpen thine ears and hear what I forebode.Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines,Then Florence changeth citizens and laws.From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars,A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists,And sharp and eager driveth on the stormWith arrowy hurtling o’er Piceno’s field,Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strikeEach helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground.This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.”
In the year’s early nonage, when the sunTempers his tresses in Aquarius’ urn,And now towards equal day the nights recede,When as the rime upon the earth puts onHer dazzling sister’s image, but not longHer milder sway endures, then riseth upThe village hind, whom fails his wintry store,And looking out beholds the plain aroundAll whiten’d, whence impatiently he smitesHis thighs, and to his hut returning in,There paces to and fro, wailing his lot,As a discomfited and helpless man;Then comes he forth again, and feels new hopeSpring in his bosom, finding e’en thus soonThe world hath chang’d its count’nance, grasps his crook,And forth to pasture drives his little flock:So me my guide dishearten’d when I sawHis troubled forehead, and so speedilyThat ill was cur’d; for at the fallen bridgeArriving, towards me with a look as sweet,He turn’d him back, as that I first beheldAt the steep mountain’s foot. Regarding wellThe ruin, and some counsel first maintain’dWith his own thought, he open’d wide his armAnd took me up. As one, who, while he works,Computes his labour’s issue, that he seemsStill to foresee the’ effect, so lifting meUp to the summit of one peak, he fix’dHis eye upon another. “Grapple that,”Said he, “but first make proof, if it be suchAs will sustain thee.” For one capp’d with leadThis were no journey. Scarcely he, though light,And I, though onward push’d from crag to crag,Could mount. And if the precinct of this coastWere not less ample than the last, for himI know not, but my strength had surely fail’d.But Malebolge all toward the mouthInclining of the nethermost abyss,The site of every valley hence requires,That one side upward slope, the other fall.
At length the point of our descent we reach’dFrom the last flag: soon as to that arriv’d,So was the breath exhausted from my lungs,I could no further, but did seat me there.
“Now needs thy best of man;” so spake my guide:“For not on downy plumes, nor under shadeOf canopy reposing, fame is won,Without which whosoe’er consumes his daysLeaveth such vestige of himself on earth,As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.Thou therefore rise: vanish thy wearinessBy the mind’s effort, in each struggle form’dTo vanquish, if she suffer not the weightOf her corporeal frame to crush her down.A longer ladder yet remains to scale.From these to have escap’d sufficeth not.If well thou note me, profit by my words.”
I straightway rose, and show’d myself less spentThan I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried,“For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rockOur way we held, more rugged than before,Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talkI ceas’d not, as we journey’d, so to seemLeast faint; whereat a voice from the other fossDid issue forth, for utt’rance suited ill.Though on the arch that crosses there I stood,What were the words I knew not, but who spakeSeem’d mov’d in anger. Down I stoop’d to look,But my quick eye might reach not to the depthFor shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake:“To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps,And from the wall dismount we; for as henceI hear and understand not, so I seeBeneath, and naught discern.”—“I answer not,”Said he, “but by the deed. To fair requestSilent performance maketh best return.”
We from the bridge’s head descended, whereTo the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasmOpening to view, I saw a crowd withinOf serpents terrible, so strange of shapeAnd hideous, that remembrance in my veinsYet shrinks the vital current. Of her sandsLet Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus,Pareas and Chelyder be her brood,Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so direOr in such numbers swarming ne’er she shew’d,Not with all Ethiopia, and whate’erAbove the Erythraean sea is spawn’d.
Amid this dread exuberance of woeRan naked spirits wing’d with horrid fear,Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide,Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.With serpents were their hands behind them bound,Which through their reins infix’d the tail and headTwisted in folds before. And lo! on oneNear to our side, darted an adder up,And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied,Transpierc’d him. Far more quickly than e’er penWrote O or I, he kindled, burn’d, and chang’dTo ashes, all pour’d out upon the earth.When there dissolv’d he lay, the dust againUproll’d spontaneous, and the self-same formInstant resumed. So mighty sages tell,The’ Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred yearsHave well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwithRenascent. Blade nor herb throughout his lifeHe tastes, but tears of frankincense aloneAnd odorous amomum: swaths of nardAnd myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls,He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg’dTo earth, or through obstruction fettering upIn chains invisible the powers of man,Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around,Bewilder’d with the monstrous agonyHe hath endur’d, and wildly staring sighs;So stood aghast the sinner when he rose.
Oh! how severe God’s judgment, that deals outSuch blows in stormy vengeance! Who he wasMy teacher next inquir’d, and thus in fewHe answer’d: “Vanni Fucci am I call’d,Not long since rained down from TuscanyTo this dire gullet. Me the beastial lifeAnd not the human pleas’d, mule that I was,Who in Pistoia found my worthy den.”
I then to Virgil: “Bid him stir not hence,And ask what crime did thrust him hither: onceA man I knew him choleric and bloody.”
The sinner heard and feign’d not, but towards meHis mind directing and his face, whereinWas dismal shame depictur’d, thus he spake:“It grieves me more to have been caught by theeIn this sad plight, which thou beholdest, thanWhen I was taken from the other life.I have no power permitted to denyWhat thou inquirest. I am doom’d thus lowTo dwell, for that the sacristy by meWas rifled of its goodly ornaments,And with the guilt another falsely charged.But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus,So as thou e’er shalt ’scape this darksome realmOpen thine ears and hear what I forebode.Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines,Then Florence changeth citizens and laws.From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars,A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists,And sharp and eager driveth on the stormWith arrowy hurtling o’er Piceno’s field,Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strikeEach helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground.This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.”