CANTO XXAnd now the verse proceeds to torments new,Fit argument of this the twentieth strainOf the first song, whose awful theme recordsThe spirits whelm’d in woe. Earnest I look’dInto the depth, that open’d to my view,Moisten’d with tears of anguish, and beheldA tribe, that came along the hollow vale,In silence weeping: such their step as walkQuires chanting solemn litanies on earth.As on them more direct mine eye descends,Each wondrously seem’d to be revers’dAt the neck-bone, so that the countenanceWas from the reins averted: and becauseNone might before him look, they were compell’dTo’ advance with backward gait. Thus one perhapsHath been by force of palsy clean transpos’d,But I ne’er saw it nor believe it so.Now, reader! think within thyself, so GodFruit of thy reading give thee! how I longCould keep my visage dry, when I beheldNear me our form distorted in such guise,That on the hinder parts fall’n from the faceThe tears down-streaming roll’d. Against a rockI leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim’d:“What, and art thou too witless as the rest?Here pity most doth show herself alive,When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his,Who with Heaven’s judgment in his passion strives?Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man,Before whose eyes earth gap’d in Thebes, when allCried out, ‘Amphiaraus, whither rushest?‘Why leavest thou the war?’ He not the lessFell ruining far as to Minos down,Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makesThe breast his shoulders, and who once too farBefore him wish’d to see, now backward looks,And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note,Who semblance chang’d, when woman he becameOf male, through every limb transform’d, and thenOnce more behov’d him with his rod to strikeThe two entwining serpents, ere the plumes,That mark’d the better sex, might shoot again.“Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes.On Luni’s mountains ’midst the marbles white,Where delves Carrara’s hind, who wons beneath,A cavern was his dwelling, whence the starsAnd main-sea wide in boundless view he held.“The next, whose loosen’d tresses overspreadHer bosom, which thou seest not (for each hairOn that side grows) was Manto, she who search’dThrough many regions, and at length her seatFix’d in my native land, whence a short spaceMy words detain thy audience. When her sireFrom life departed, and in servitudeThe city dedicate to Bacchus mourn’d,Long time she went a wand’rer through the world.Aloft in Italy’s delightful landA lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp,That o’er the Tyrol locks Germania in,Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills,Methinks, and more, water between the valeCamonica and Garda and the heightOf Apennine remote. There is a spotAt midway of that lake, where he who bearsOf Trento’s flock the past’ral staff, with himOf Brescia, and the Veronese, might eachPassing that way his benediction give.A garrison of goodly site and strongPeschiera stands, to awe with front oppos’dThe Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shoreMore slope each way descends. There, whatsoev’erBenacus’ bosom holds not, tumbling o’erDown falls, and winds a river flood beneathThrough the green pastures. Soon as in his courseThe steam makes head, Benacus then no moreThey call the name, but Mincius, till at lastReaching Governo into Po he falls.Not far his course hath run, when a wide flatIt finds, which overstretchmg as a marshIt covers, pestilent in summer oft.Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw’Midst of the fen a territory wasteAnd naked of inhabitants. To shunAll human converse, here she with her slavesPlying her arts remain’d, and liv’d, and leftHer body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes,Who round were scatter’d, gath’ring to that placeAssembled; for its strength was great, enclos’dOn all parts by the fen. On those dead bonesThey rear’d themselves a city, for her sake,Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot,Nor ask’d another omen for the name,Wherein more numerous the people dwelt,Ere Casalodi’s madness by deceitWas wrong’d of Pinamonte. If thou hearHenceforth another origin assign’dOf that my country, I forewarn thee now,That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.”I answer’d: “Teacher, I conclude thy wordsSo certain, that all else shall be to meAs embers lacking life. But now of these,Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou seeAny that merit more especial note.For thereon is my mind alone intent.”He straight replied: “That spirit, from whose cheekThe beard sweeps o’er his shoulders brown, what timeGraecia was emptied of her males, that scarceThe cradles were supplied, the seer was heIn Aulis, who with Calchas gave the signWhen first to cut the cable. Him they nam’dEurypilus: so sings my tragic strain,In which majestic measure well thou know’st,Who know’st it all. That other, round the loinsSo slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,Practis’d in ev’ry slight of magic wile.“Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark,Who now were willing, he had tended stillThe thread and cordwain; and too late repents.“See next the wretches, who the needle left,The shuttle and the spindle, and becameDiviners: baneful witcheries they wroughtWith images and herbs. But onward now:For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confineOn either hemisphere, touching the waveBeneath the towers of Seville. YesternightThe moon was round. Thou mayst remember well:For she good service did thee in the gloomOf the deep wood.” This said, both onward mov’d.
CANTO XXAnd now the verse proceeds to torments new,Fit argument of this the twentieth strainOf the first song, whose awful theme recordsThe spirits whelm’d in woe. Earnest I look’dInto the depth, that open’d to my view,Moisten’d with tears of anguish, and beheldA tribe, that came along the hollow vale,In silence weeping: such their step as walkQuires chanting solemn litanies on earth.As on them more direct mine eye descends,Each wondrously seem’d to be revers’dAt the neck-bone, so that the countenanceWas from the reins averted: and becauseNone might before him look, they were compell’dTo’ advance with backward gait. Thus one perhapsHath been by force of palsy clean transpos’d,But I ne’er saw it nor believe it so.Now, reader! think within thyself, so GodFruit of thy reading give thee! how I longCould keep my visage dry, when I beheldNear me our form distorted in such guise,That on the hinder parts fall’n from the faceThe tears down-streaming roll’d. Against a rockI leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim’d:“What, and art thou too witless as the rest?Here pity most doth show herself alive,When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his,Who with Heaven’s judgment in his passion strives?Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man,Before whose eyes earth gap’d in Thebes, when allCried out, ‘Amphiaraus, whither rushest?‘Why leavest thou the war?’ He not the lessFell ruining far as to Minos down,Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makesThe breast his shoulders, and who once too farBefore him wish’d to see, now backward looks,And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note,Who semblance chang’d, when woman he becameOf male, through every limb transform’d, and thenOnce more behov’d him with his rod to strikeThe two entwining serpents, ere the plumes,That mark’d the better sex, might shoot again.“Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes.On Luni’s mountains ’midst the marbles white,Where delves Carrara’s hind, who wons beneath,A cavern was his dwelling, whence the starsAnd main-sea wide in boundless view he held.“The next, whose loosen’d tresses overspreadHer bosom, which thou seest not (for each hairOn that side grows) was Manto, she who search’dThrough many regions, and at length her seatFix’d in my native land, whence a short spaceMy words detain thy audience. When her sireFrom life departed, and in servitudeThe city dedicate to Bacchus mourn’d,Long time she went a wand’rer through the world.Aloft in Italy’s delightful landA lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp,That o’er the Tyrol locks Germania in,Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills,Methinks, and more, water between the valeCamonica and Garda and the heightOf Apennine remote. There is a spotAt midway of that lake, where he who bearsOf Trento’s flock the past’ral staff, with himOf Brescia, and the Veronese, might eachPassing that way his benediction give.A garrison of goodly site and strongPeschiera stands, to awe with front oppos’dThe Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shoreMore slope each way descends. There, whatsoev’erBenacus’ bosom holds not, tumbling o’erDown falls, and winds a river flood beneathThrough the green pastures. Soon as in his courseThe steam makes head, Benacus then no moreThey call the name, but Mincius, till at lastReaching Governo into Po he falls.Not far his course hath run, when a wide flatIt finds, which overstretchmg as a marshIt covers, pestilent in summer oft.Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw’Midst of the fen a territory wasteAnd naked of inhabitants. To shunAll human converse, here she with her slavesPlying her arts remain’d, and liv’d, and leftHer body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes,Who round were scatter’d, gath’ring to that placeAssembled; for its strength was great, enclos’dOn all parts by the fen. On those dead bonesThey rear’d themselves a city, for her sake,Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot,Nor ask’d another omen for the name,Wherein more numerous the people dwelt,Ere Casalodi’s madness by deceitWas wrong’d of Pinamonte. If thou hearHenceforth another origin assign’dOf that my country, I forewarn thee now,That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.”I answer’d: “Teacher, I conclude thy wordsSo certain, that all else shall be to meAs embers lacking life. But now of these,Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou seeAny that merit more especial note.For thereon is my mind alone intent.”He straight replied: “That spirit, from whose cheekThe beard sweeps o’er his shoulders brown, what timeGraecia was emptied of her males, that scarceThe cradles were supplied, the seer was heIn Aulis, who with Calchas gave the signWhen first to cut the cable. Him they nam’dEurypilus: so sings my tragic strain,In which majestic measure well thou know’st,Who know’st it all. That other, round the loinsSo slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,Practis’d in ev’ry slight of magic wile.“Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark,Who now were willing, he had tended stillThe thread and cordwain; and too late repents.“See next the wretches, who the needle left,The shuttle and the spindle, and becameDiviners: baneful witcheries they wroughtWith images and herbs. But onward now:For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confineOn either hemisphere, touching the waveBeneath the towers of Seville. YesternightThe moon was round. Thou mayst remember well:For she good service did thee in the gloomOf the deep wood.” This said, both onward mov’d.
And now the verse proceeds to torments new,Fit argument of this the twentieth strainOf the first song, whose awful theme recordsThe spirits whelm’d in woe. Earnest I look’dInto the depth, that open’d to my view,Moisten’d with tears of anguish, and beheldA tribe, that came along the hollow vale,In silence weeping: such their step as walkQuires chanting solemn litanies on earth.As on them more direct mine eye descends,Each wondrously seem’d to be revers’dAt the neck-bone, so that the countenanceWas from the reins averted: and becauseNone might before him look, they were compell’dTo’ advance with backward gait. Thus one perhapsHath been by force of palsy clean transpos’d,But I ne’er saw it nor believe it so.Now, reader! think within thyself, so GodFruit of thy reading give thee! how I longCould keep my visage dry, when I beheldNear me our form distorted in such guise,That on the hinder parts fall’n from the faceThe tears down-streaming roll’d. Against a rockI leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim’d:“What, and art thou too witless as the rest?Here pity most doth show herself alive,When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his,Who with Heaven’s judgment in his passion strives?Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man,Before whose eyes earth gap’d in Thebes, when allCried out, ‘Amphiaraus, whither rushest?‘Why leavest thou the war?’ He not the lessFell ruining far as to Minos down,Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makesThe breast his shoulders, and who once too farBefore him wish’d to see, now backward looks,And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note,Who semblance chang’d, when woman he becameOf male, through every limb transform’d, and thenOnce more behov’d him with his rod to strikeThe two entwining serpents, ere the plumes,That mark’d the better sex, might shoot again.“Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes.On Luni’s mountains ’midst the marbles white,Where delves Carrara’s hind, who wons beneath,A cavern was his dwelling, whence the starsAnd main-sea wide in boundless view he held.“The next, whose loosen’d tresses overspreadHer bosom, which thou seest not (for each hairOn that side grows) was Manto, she who search’dThrough many regions, and at length her seatFix’d in my native land, whence a short spaceMy words detain thy audience. When her sireFrom life departed, and in servitudeThe city dedicate to Bacchus mourn’d,Long time she went a wand’rer through the world.Aloft in Italy’s delightful landA lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp,That o’er the Tyrol locks Germania in,Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills,Methinks, and more, water between the valeCamonica and Garda and the heightOf Apennine remote. There is a spotAt midway of that lake, where he who bearsOf Trento’s flock the past’ral staff, with himOf Brescia, and the Veronese, might eachPassing that way his benediction give.A garrison of goodly site and strongPeschiera stands, to awe with front oppos’dThe Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shoreMore slope each way descends. There, whatsoev’erBenacus’ bosom holds not, tumbling o’erDown falls, and winds a river flood beneathThrough the green pastures. Soon as in his courseThe steam makes head, Benacus then no moreThey call the name, but Mincius, till at lastReaching Governo into Po he falls.Not far his course hath run, when a wide flatIt finds, which overstretchmg as a marshIt covers, pestilent in summer oft.Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw’Midst of the fen a territory wasteAnd naked of inhabitants. To shunAll human converse, here she with her slavesPlying her arts remain’d, and liv’d, and leftHer body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes,Who round were scatter’d, gath’ring to that placeAssembled; for its strength was great, enclos’dOn all parts by the fen. On those dead bonesThey rear’d themselves a city, for her sake,Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot,Nor ask’d another omen for the name,Wherein more numerous the people dwelt,Ere Casalodi’s madness by deceitWas wrong’d of Pinamonte. If thou hearHenceforth another origin assign’dOf that my country, I forewarn thee now,That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.”I answer’d: “Teacher, I conclude thy wordsSo certain, that all else shall be to meAs embers lacking life. But now of these,Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou seeAny that merit more especial note.For thereon is my mind alone intent.”He straight replied: “That spirit, from whose cheekThe beard sweeps o’er his shoulders brown, what timeGraecia was emptied of her males, that scarceThe cradles were supplied, the seer was heIn Aulis, who with Calchas gave the signWhen first to cut the cable. Him they nam’dEurypilus: so sings my tragic strain,In which majestic measure well thou know’st,Who know’st it all. That other, round the loinsSo slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,Practis’d in ev’ry slight of magic wile.“Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark,Who now were willing, he had tended stillThe thread and cordwain; and too late repents.“See next the wretches, who the needle left,The shuttle and the spindle, and becameDiviners: baneful witcheries they wroughtWith images and herbs. But onward now:For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confineOn either hemisphere, touching the waveBeneath the towers of Seville. YesternightThe moon was round. Thou mayst remember well:For she good service did thee in the gloomOf the deep wood.” This said, both onward mov’d.