CANTO XVOne of the solid margins bears us nowEnvelop’d in the mist, that from the streamArising, hovers o’er, and saves from fireBoth piers and water. As the Flemings rearTheir mound, ’twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase backThe ocean, fearing his tumultuous tideThat drives toward them, or the Paduans theirsAlong the Brenta, to defend their townsAnd castles, ere the genial warmth be feltOn Chiarentana’s top; such were the mounds,So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to theseMade equal, by the master, whosoe’erHe was, that rais’d them here. We from the woodWere not so far remov’d, that turning roundI might not have discern’d it, when we metA troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.They each one ey’d us, as at eventideOne eyes another under a new moon,And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirtCaught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d notBut I remember’d him; and towards his faceMy hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!“And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!Oh let it not displease thee, if BrunettoLatini but a little space with theeTurn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,That I here seat me with thee, I consent;His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”“O son!” said he, “whoever of this throngOne instant stops, lies then a hundred years,No fan to ventilate him, when the fireSmites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I closeWill at thy garments walk, and then rejoinMy troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”I dar’d not from the path descend to treadOn equal ground with him, but held my headBent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.“What chance or destiny,” thus he began,“Ere the last day conducts thee here below?And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”“There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the lifeSerene, I wander’d in a valley lost,Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.But yester-morn I left it: then once moreInto that vale returning, him I met;And by this path homeward he leads me back.”“If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star,Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven:Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d.And if my fate so early had not chanc’d,Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, IHad gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work.But that ungrateful and malignant race,Who in old times came down from Fesole,Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabsIt suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.Old fame reports them in the world for blind,Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well:Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For theeThy fortune hath such honour in reserve,That thou by either party shalt be crav’dWith hunger keen: but be the fresh herb farFrom the goat’s tooth. The herd of FesoleMay of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,If any such yet spring on their rank bed,In which the holy seed revives, transmittedFrom those true Romans, who still there remain’d,When it was made the nest of so much ill.”“Were all my wish fulfill’d,” I straight replied,“Thou from the confines of man’s nature yetHadst not been driven forth; for in my mindIs fix’d, and now strikes full upon my heartThe dear, benign, paternal image, suchAs thine was, when so lately thou didst teach meThe way for man to win eternity;And how I priz’d the lesson, it behooves,That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak,What of my fate thou tell’st, that write I down:And with another text to comment onFor her I keep it, the celestial dame,Who will know all, if I to her arrive.This only would I have thee clearly note:That so my conscience have no plea against me;Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar’d.Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best,The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”Thereat my sapient guide upon his rightTurn’d himself back, then look’d at me and spake:“He listens to good purpose who takes note.”I not the less still on my way proceed,Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquireWho are most known and chief among his tribe.“To know of some is well;” thus he replied,“But of the rest silence may best beseem.Time would not serve us for report so long.In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks,Men of great learning and no less renown,By one same sin polluted in the world.With them is Priscian, and Accorso’s sonFrancesco herds among that wretched throng:And, if the wish of so impure a blotchPossess’d thee, him thou also might’st have seen,Who by the servants’ servant was transferr’dFrom Arno’s seat to Bacchiglione, whereHis ill-strain’d nerves he left. I more would add,But must from farther speech and onward wayAlike desist, for yonder I beholdA mist new-risen on the sandy plain.A company, with whom I may not sort,Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee,Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”This said he turn’d, and seem’d as one of those,Who o’er Verona’s champain try their speedFor the green mantle, and of them he seem’d,Not he who loses but who gains the prize.
CANTO XVOne of the solid margins bears us nowEnvelop’d in the mist, that from the streamArising, hovers o’er, and saves from fireBoth piers and water. As the Flemings rearTheir mound, ’twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase backThe ocean, fearing his tumultuous tideThat drives toward them, or the Paduans theirsAlong the Brenta, to defend their townsAnd castles, ere the genial warmth be feltOn Chiarentana’s top; such were the mounds,So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to theseMade equal, by the master, whosoe’erHe was, that rais’d them here. We from the woodWere not so far remov’d, that turning roundI might not have discern’d it, when we metA troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.They each one ey’d us, as at eventideOne eyes another under a new moon,And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirtCaught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d notBut I remember’d him; and towards his faceMy hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!“And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!Oh let it not displease thee, if BrunettoLatini but a little space with theeTurn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,That I here seat me with thee, I consent;His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”“O son!” said he, “whoever of this throngOne instant stops, lies then a hundred years,No fan to ventilate him, when the fireSmites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I closeWill at thy garments walk, and then rejoinMy troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”I dar’d not from the path descend to treadOn equal ground with him, but held my headBent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.“What chance or destiny,” thus he began,“Ere the last day conducts thee here below?And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”“There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the lifeSerene, I wander’d in a valley lost,Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.But yester-morn I left it: then once moreInto that vale returning, him I met;And by this path homeward he leads me back.”“If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star,Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven:Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d.And if my fate so early had not chanc’d,Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, IHad gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work.But that ungrateful and malignant race,Who in old times came down from Fesole,Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabsIt suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.Old fame reports them in the world for blind,Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well:Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For theeThy fortune hath such honour in reserve,That thou by either party shalt be crav’dWith hunger keen: but be the fresh herb farFrom the goat’s tooth. The herd of FesoleMay of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,If any such yet spring on their rank bed,In which the holy seed revives, transmittedFrom those true Romans, who still there remain’d,When it was made the nest of so much ill.”“Were all my wish fulfill’d,” I straight replied,“Thou from the confines of man’s nature yetHadst not been driven forth; for in my mindIs fix’d, and now strikes full upon my heartThe dear, benign, paternal image, suchAs thine was, when so lately thou didst teach meThe way for man to win eternity;And how I priz’d the lesson, it behooves,That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak,What of my fate thou tell’st, that write I down:And with another text to comment onFor her I keep it, the celestial dame,Who will know all, if I to her arrive.This only would I have thee clearly note:That so my conscience have no plea against me;Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar’d.Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best,The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”Thereat my sapient guide upon his rightTurn’d himself back, then look’d at me and spake:“He listens to good purpose who takes note.”I not the less still on my way proceed,Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquireWho are most known and chief among his tribe.“To know of some is well;” thus he replied,“But of the rest silence may best beseem.Time would not serve us for report so long.In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks,Men of great learning and no less renown,By one same sin polluted in the world.With them is Priscian, and Accorso’s sonFrancesco herds among that wretched throng:And, if the wish of so impure a blotchPossess’d thee, him thou also might’st have seen,Who by the servants’ servant was transferr’dFrom Arno’s seat to Bacchiglione, whereHis ill-strain’d nerves he left. I more would add,But must from farther speech and onward wayAlike desist, for yonder I beholdA mist new-risen on the sandy plain.A company, with whom I may not sort,Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee,Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”This said he turn’d, and seem’d as one of those,Who o’er Verona’s champain try their speedFor the green mantle, and of them he seem’d,Not he who loses but who gains the prize.
One of the solid margins bears us nowEnvelop’d in the mist, that from the streamArising, hovers o’er, and saves from fireBoth piers and water. As the Flemings rearTheir mound, ’twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase backThe ocean, fearing his tumultuous tideThat drives toward them, or the Paduans theirsAlong the Brenta, to defend their townsAnd castles, ere the genial warmth be feltOn Chiarentana’s top; such were the mounds,So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to theseMade equal, by the master, whosoe’erHe was, that rais’d them here. We from the woodWere not so far remov’d, that turning roundI might not have discern’d it, when we metA troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.They each one ey’d us, as at eventideOne eyes another under a new moon,And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirtCaught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d notBut I remember’d him; and towards his faceMy hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!
“And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!Oh let it not displease thee, if BrunettoLatini but a little space with theeTurn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,That I here seat me with thee, I consent;His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”“O son!” said he, “whoever of this throngOne instant stops, lies then a hundred years,No fan to ventilate him, when the fireSmites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I closeWill at thy garments walk, and then rejoinMy troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”I dar’d not from the path descend to treadOn equal ground with him, but held my headBent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.“What chance or destiny,” thus he began,“Ere the last day conducts thee here below?And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”“There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the lifeSerene, I wander’d in a valley lost,Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.But yester-morn I left it: then once moreInto that vale returning, him I met;And by this path homeward he leads me back.”“If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star,Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven:Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d.And if my fate so early had not chanc’d,Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, IHad gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work.But that ungrateful and malignant race,Who in old times came down from Fesole,Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabsIt suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.Old fame reports them in the world for blind,Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well:Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For theeThy fortune hath such honour in reserve,That thou by either party shalt be crav’dWith hunger keen: but be the fresh herb farFrom the goat’s tooth. The herd of FesoleMay of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,If any such yet spring on their rank bed,In which the holy seed revives, transmittedFrom those true Romans, who still there remain’d,When it was made the nest of so much ill.”“Were all my wish fulfill’d,” I straight replied,“Thou from the confines of man’s nature yetHadst not been driven forth; for in my mindIs fix’d, and now strikes full upon my heartThe dear, benign, paternal image, suchAs thine was, when so lately thou didst teach meThe way for man to win eternity;And how I priz’d the lesson, it behooves,That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak,What of my fate thou tell’st, that write I down:And with another text to comment onFor her I keep it, the celestial dame,Who will know all, if I to her arrive.This only would I have thee clearly note:That so my conscience have no plea against me;Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar’d.Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best,The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”Thereat my sapient guide upon his rightTurn’d himself back, then look’d at me and spake:“He listens to good purpose who takes note.”I not the less still on my way proceed,Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquireWho are most known and chief among his tribe.“To know of some is well;” thus he replied,“But of the rest silence may best beseem.Time would not serve us for report so long.In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks,Men of great learning and no less renown,By one same sin polluted in the world.With them is Priscian, and Accorso’s sonFrancesco herds among that wretched throng:And, if the wish of so impure a blotchPossess’d thee, him thou also might’st have seen,Who by the servants’ servant was transferr’dFrom Arno’s seat to Bacchiglione, whereHis ill-strain’d nerves he left. I more would add,But must from farther speech and onward wayAlike desist, for yonder I beholdA mist new-risen on the sandy plain.A company, with whom I may not sort,Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee,Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”This said he turn’d, and seem’d as one of those,Who o’er Verona’s champain try their speedFor the green mantle, and of them he seem’d,Not he who loses but who gains the prize.