CANTO XIV“Say who is he around our mountain winds,Or ever death has prun’d his wing for flight,That opes his eyes and covers them at will?”“I know not who he is, but know thus muchHe comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,For thou art nearer to him, and take heedAccost him gently, so that he may speak.”Thus on the right two Spirits bending eachToward the other, talk’d of me, then bothAddressing me, their faces backward lean’d,And thus the one began: “O soul, who yetPent in the body, tendest towards the sky!For charity, we pray thee’ comfort us,Recounting whence thou com’st, and who thou art:For thou dost make us at the favour shown theeMarvel, as at a thing that ne’er hath been.”“There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,”I straight began: “a brooklet, whose well-headSprings up in Falterona, with his raceNot satisfied, when he some hundred milesHath measur’d. From his banks bring, I this frame.To tell you who I am were words misspent:For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour’s lip.”“If well I do incorp’rate with my thoughtThe meaning of thy speech,” said he, who firstAddrest me, “thou dost speak of Arno’s wave.”To whom the other: “Why hath he conceal’dThe title of that river, as a manDoth of some horrible thing?” The spirit, whoThereof was question’d, did acquit him thus:“I know not: but ’tis fitting well the nameShould perish of that vale; for from the sourceWhere teems so plenteously the Alpine steepMaim’d of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely passBeyond that limit,) even to the pointWhereunto ocean is restor’d, what heavenDrains from th’ exhaustless store for all earth’s streams,Throughout the space is virtue worried down,As ’twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,Or through disastrous influence on the place,Or else distortion of misguided wills,That custom goads to evil: whence in those,The dwellers in that miserable vale,Nature is so transform’d, it seems as theyHad shar’d of Circe’s feeding. ’Midst brute swine,Worthier of acorns than of other foodCreated for man’s use, he shapeth firstHis obscure way; then, sloping onward, findsCurs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whomHe turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,By how much more the curst and luckless fossSwells out to largeness, e’en so much it findsDogs turning into wolves. Descending stillThrough yet more hollow eddies, next he meetsA race of foxes, so replete with craft,They do not fear that skill can master it.Nor will I cease because my words are heardBy other ears than thine. It shall be wellFor this man, if he keep in memoryWhat from no erring Spirit I reveal.Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomesA hunter of those wolves, upon the shoreOf the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.Many of life he reaves, himself of worthAnd goodly estimation. Smear’d with goreMark how he issues from the rueful wood,Leaving such havoc, that in thousand yearsIt spreads not to prime lustihood again.”As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,Changes his looks perturb’d, from whate’er partThe peril grasp him, so beheld I changeThat spirit, who had turn’d to listen, struckWith sadness, soon as he had caught the word.His visage and the other’s speech did raiseDesire in me to know the names of both,whereof with meek entreaty I inquir’d.The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum’d:“Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to doFor thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.But since God’s will is that so largely shineHis grace in thee, I will be liberal too.Guido of Duca know then that I am.Envy so parch’d my blood, that had I seenA fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark’dA livid paleness overspread my cheek.Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow’d.O man, why place thy heart where there doth needExclusion of participants in good?This is Rinieri’s spirit, this the boastAnd honour of the house of Calboli,Where of his worth no heritage remains.Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript(’twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;But in those limits such a growth has sprungOf rank and venom’d roots, as long would mockSlow culture’s toil. Where is good Lizio? whereManardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?O bastard slips of old Romagna’s line!When in Bologna the low artisan,And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep,When I recall to mind those once lov’d names,Guido of Prata, and of Azzo himThat dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop,With Traversaro’s house and Anastagio’s,(Each race disherited) and beside these,The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease,That witch’d us into love and courtesy;Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts.O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still,Since forth of thee thy family hath gone,And many, hating evil, join’d their steps?Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease,Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill,And Conio worse, who care to propagateA race of Counties from such blood as theirs.Well shall ye also do, Pagani, thenWhen from amongst you tries your demon child.Not so, howe’er, that henceforth there remainTrue proof of what ye were. O Hugolin!Thou sprung of Fantolini’s line! thy nameIs safe, since none is look’d for after theeTo cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock.But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I takeFar more delight in weeping than in words.Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart.”We knew those gentle spirits at parting heardOur steps. Their silence therefore of our wayAssur’d us. Soon as we had quitted them,Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem’dLike vollied light’ning, when it rives the air,Met us, and shouted, “Whosoever findsWill slay me,” then fled from us, as the boltLanc’d sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.When it had giv’n short truce unto our hearing,Behold the other with a crash as loudAs the quick-following thunder: “Mark in meAglauros turn’d to rock.” I at the soundRetreating drew more closely to my guide.Now in mute stillness rested all the air:And thus he spake: “There was the galling bit.But your old enemy so baits his hook,He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curbAvails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav’n callsAnd round about you wheeling courts your gazeWith everlasting beauties. Yet your eyeTurns with fond doting still upon the earth.Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.”
“Say who is he around our mountain winds,Or ever death has prun’d his wing for flight,That opes his eyes and covers them at will?”“I know not who he is, but know thus muchHe comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,For thou art nearer to him, and take heedAccost him gently, so that he may speak.”Thus on the right two Spirits bending eachToward the other, talk’d of me, then bothAddressing me, their faces backward lean’d,And thus the one began: “O soul, who yetPent in the body, tendest towards the sky!For charity, we pray thee’ comfort us,Recounting whence thou com’st, and who thou art:For thou dost make us at the favour shown theeMarvel, as at a thing that ne’er hath been.”“There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,”I straight began: “a brooklet, whose well-headSprings up in Falterona, with his raceNot satisfied, when he some hundred milesHath measur’d. From his banks bring, I this frame.To tell you who I am were words misspent:For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour’s lip.”“If well I do incorp’rate with my thoughtThe meaning of thy speech,” said he, who firstAddrest me, “thou dost speak of Arno’s wave.”To whom the other: “Why hath he conceal’dThe title of that river, as a manDoth of some horrible thing?” The spirit, whoThereof was question’d, did acquit him thus:“I know not: but ’tis fitting well the nameShould perish of that vale; for from the sourceWhere teems so plenteously the Alpine steepMaim’d of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely passBeyond that limit,) even to the pointWhereunto ocean is restor’d, what heavenDrains from th’ exhaustless store for all earth’s streams,Throughout the space is virtue worried down,As ’twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,Or through disastrous influence on the place,Or else distortion of misguided wills,That custom goads to evil: whence in those,The dwellers in that miserable vale,Nature is so transform’d, it seems as theyHad shar’d of Circe’s feeding. ’Midst brute swine,Worthier of acorns than of other foodCreated for man’s use, he shapeth firstHis obscure way; then, sloping onward, findsCurs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whomHe turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,By how much more the curst and luckless fossSwells out to largeness, e’en so much it findsDogs turning into wolves. Descending stillThrough yet more hollow eddies, next he meetsA race of foxes, so replete with craft,They do not fear that skill can master it.Nor will I cease because my words are heardBy other ears than thine. It shall be wellFor this man, if he keep in memoryWhat from no erring Spirit I reveal.Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomesA hunter of those wolves, upon the shoreOf the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.Many of life he reaves, himself of worthAnd goodly estimation. Smear’d with goreMark how he issues from the rueful wood,Leaving such havoc, that in thousand yearsIt spreads not to prime lustihood again.”As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,Changes his looks perturb’d, from whate’er partThe peril grasp him, so beheld I changeThat spirit, who had turn’d to listen, struckWith sadness, soon as he had caught the word.His visage and the other’s speech did raiseDesire in me to know the names of both,whereof with meek entreaty I inquir’d.The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum’d:“Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to doFor thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.But since God’s will is that so largely shineHis grace in thee, I will be liberal too.Guido of Duca know then that I am.Envy so parch’d my blood, that had I seenA fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark’dA livid paleness overspread my cheek.Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow’d.O man, why place thy heart where there doth needExclusion of participants in good?This is Rinieri’s spirit, this the boastAnd honour of the house of Calboli,Where of his worth no heritage remains.Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript(’twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;But in those limits such a growth has sprungOf rank and venom’d roots, as long would mockSlow culture’s toil. Where is good Lizio? whereManardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?O bastard slips of old Romagna’s line!When in Bologna the low artisan,And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep,When I recall to mind those once lov’d names,Guido of Prata, and of Azzo himThat dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop,With Traversaro’s house and Anastagio’s,(Each race disherited) and beside these,The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease,That witch’d us into love and courtesy;Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts.O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still,Since forth of thee thy family hath gone,And many, hating evil, join’d their steps?Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease,Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill,And Conio worse, who care to propagateA race of Counties from such blood as theirs.Well shall ye also do, Pagani, thenWhen from amongst you tries your demon child.Not so, howe’er, that henceforth there remainTrue proof of what ye were. O Hugolin!Thou sprung of Fantolini’s line! thy nameIs safe, since none is look’d for after theeTo cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock.But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I takeFar more delight in weeping than in words.Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart.”We knew those gentle spirits at parting heardOur steps. Their silence therefore of our wayAssur’d us. Soon as we had quitted them,Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem’dLike vollied light’ning, when it rives the air,Met us, and shouted, “Whosoever findsWill slay me,” then fled from us, as the boltLanc’d sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.When it had giv’n short truce unto our hearing,Behold the other with a crash as loudAs the quick-following thunder: “Mark in meAglauros turn’d to rock.” I at the soundRetreating drew more closely to my guide.Now in mute stillness rested all the air:And thus he spake: “There was the galling bit.But your old enemy so baits his hook,He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curbAvails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav’n callsAnd round about you wheeling courts your gazeWith everlasting beauties. Yet your eyeTurns with fond doting still upon the earth.Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.”