CANTO XIIIEre Nessus yet had reach’d the other bank,We enter’d on a forest, where no trackOf steps had worn a way. Not verdant thereThe foliage, but of dusky hue; not lightThe boughs and tapering, but with knares deform’dAnd matted thick: fruits there were none, but thornsInstead, with venom fill’d. Less sharp than these,Less intricate the brakes, wherein abideThose animals, that hate the cultur’d fields,Betwixt Corneto and Cecina’s stream.Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the sameWho from the Strophades the Trojan bandDrove with dire boding of their future woe.Broad are their pennons, of the human formTheir neck and count’nance, arm’d with talons keenThe feet, and the huge belly fledge with wingsThese sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.The kind instructor in these words began:“Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art nowI’ th’ second round, and shalt be, till thou comeUpon the horrid sand: look therefore wellAround thee, and such things thou shalt behold,As would my speech discredit.” On all sidesI heard sad plainings breathe, and none could seeFrom whom they might have issu’d. In amazeFast bound I stood. He, as it seem’d, believ’d,That I had thought so many voices cameFrom some amid those thickets close conceal’d,And thus his speech resum’d: “If thou lop offA single twig from one of those ill plants,The thought thou hast conceiv’d shall vanish quite.”Thereat a little stretching forth my hand,From a great wilding gather’d I a branch,And straight the trunk exclaim’d: “Why pluck’st thou me?”Then as the dark blood trickled down its side,These words it added: “Wherefore tear’st me thus?Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?Men once were we, that now are rooted here.Thy hand might well have spar’d us, had we beenThe souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,That burning at one end from the other sendsA groaning sound, and hisses with the windThat forces out its way, so burst at once,Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.I, letting fall the bough, remain’d as oneAssail’d by terror, and the sage replied:“If he, O injur’d spirit! could have believ’dWhat he hath seen but in my verse describ’d,He never against thee had stretch’d his hand.But I, because the thing surpass’d belief,Prompted him to this deed, which even nowMyself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,In the upper world (for thither to returnIs granted him) thy fame he may revive.”“That pleasant word of thine,” the trunk replied“Hath so inveigled me, that I from speechCannot refrain, wherein if I indulgeA little longer, in the snare detain’d,Count it not grievous. I it was, who heldBoth keys to Frederick’s heart, and turn’d the wards,Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,That besides me, into his inmost breastScarce any other could admittance find.The faith I bore to my high charge was such,It cost me the life-blood that warm’d my veins.The harlot, who ne’er turn’d her gloating eyesFrom Caesar’s household, common vice and pestOf courts, ’gainst me inflam’d the minds of all;And to Augustus they so spread the flame,That my glad honours chang’d to bitter woes.My soul, disdainful and disgusted, soughtRefuge in death from scorn, and I became,Just as I was, unjust toward myself.By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear,That never faith I broke to my liege lord,Who merited such honour; and of you,If any to the world indeed return,Clear he from wrong my memory, that liesYet prostrate under envy’s cruel blow.”First somewhat pausing, till the mournful wordsWere ended, then to me the bard began:“Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask,If more thou wish to learn.” Whence I replied:“Question thou him again of whatsoe’erWill, as thou think’st, content me; for no powerHave I to ask, such pity’ is at my heart.”He thus resum’d; “So may he do for theeFreely what thou entreatest, as thou yetBe pleas’d, imprison’d Spirit! to declare,How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied;And whether any ever from such frameBe loosen’d, if thou canst, that also tell.”Thereat the trunk breath’d hard, and the wind soonChang’d into sounds articulate like these;Briefly ye shall be answer’d. “When departsThe fierce soul from the body, by itselfThence torn asunder, to the seventh gulfBy Minos doom’d, into the wood it falls,No place assign’d, but wheresoever chanceHurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,It rises to a sapling, growing thenceA savage plant. The Harpies, on its leavesThen feeding, cause both pain and for the painA vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall comeFor our own spoils, yet not so that with themWe may again be clad; for what a manTakes from himself it is not just he have.Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughoutThe dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”Attentive yet to listen to the trunkWe stood, expecting farther speech, when usA noise surpris’d, as when a man perceivesThe wild boar and the hunt approach his placeOf station’d watch, who of the beasts and boughsLoud rustling round him hears. And lo! there cameTwo naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight,That they before them broke each fan o’ th’ wood.“Haste now,” the foremost cried, “now haste thee death!”The other, as seem’d, impatient of delayExclaiming, “Lano! not so bent for speedThy sinews, in the lists of Toppo’s field.”And then, for that perchance no longer breathSuffic’d him, of himself and of a bushOne group he made. Behind them was the woodFull of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet,As greyhounds that have newly slipp’d the leash.On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs,And having rent him piecemeal bore awayThe tortur’d limbs. My guide then seiz’d my hand,And led me to the thicket, which in vainMourn’d through its bleeding wounds: “O GiacomoOf Sant’ Andrea! what avails it thee,”It cried, “that of me thou hast made thy screen?For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?”When o’er it he had paus’d, my master spake:“Say who wast thou, that at so many pointsBreath’st out with blood thy lamentable speech?”He answer’d: “Oh, ye spirits: arriv’d in timeTo spy the shameful havoc, that from meMy leaves hath sever’d thus, gather them up,And at the foot of their sad parent-treeCarefully lay them. In that city’ I dwelt,Who for the Baptist her first patron chang’d,Whence he for this shall cease not with his artTo work her woe: and if there still remain’d notOn Arno’s passage some faint glimpse of him,Those citizens, who rear’d once more her wallsUpon the ashes left by Attila,Had labour’d without profit of their toil.I slung the fatal noose from my own roof.”
Ere Nessus yet had reach’d the other bank,We enter’d on a forest, where no trackOf steps had worn a way. Not verdant thereThe foliage, but of dusky hue; not lightThe boughs and tapering, but with knares deform’dAnd matted thick: fruits there were none, but thornsInstead, with venom fill’d. Less sharp than these,Less intricate the brakes, wherein abideThose animals, that hate the cultur’d fields,Betwixt Corneto and Cecina’s stream.
Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the sameWho from the Strophades the Trojan bandDrove with dire boding of their future woe.Broad are their pennons, of the human formTheir neck and count’nance, arm’d with talons keenThe feet, and the huge belly fledge with wingsThese sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.The kind instructor in these words began:“Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art nowI’ th’ second round, and shalt be, till thou comeUpon the horrid sand: look therefore wellAround thee, and such things thou shalt behold,As would my speech discredit.” On all sidesI heard sad plainings breathe, and none could seeFrom whom they might have issu’d. In amazeFast bound I stood. He, as it seem’d, believ’d,That I had thought so many voices cameFrom some amid those thickets close conceal’d,And thus his speech resum’d: “If thou lop offA single twig from one of those ill plants,The thought thou hast conceiv’d shall vanish quite.”Thereat a little stretching forth my hand,From a great wilding gather’d I a branch,And straight the trunk exclaim’d: “Why pluck’st thou me?”
Then as the dark blood trickled down its side,These words it added: “Wherefore tear’st me thus?Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?Men once were we, that now are rooted here.Thy hand might well have spar’d us, had we beenThe souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,That burning at one end from the other sendsA groaning sound, and hisses with the windThat forces out its way, so burst at once,Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.I, letting fall the bough, remain’d as oneAssail’d by terror, and the sage replied:“If he, O injur’d spirit! could have believ’dWhat he hath seen but in my verse describ’d,He never against thee had stretch’d his hand.But I, because the thing surpass’d belief,Prompted him to this deed, which even nowMyself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,In the upper world (for thither to returnIs granted him) thy fame he may revive.”“That pleasant word of thine,” the trunk replied“Hath so inveigled me, that I from speechCannot refrain, wherein if I indulgeA little longer, in the snare detain’d,Count it not grievous. I it was, who heldBoth keys to Frederick’s heart, and turn’d the wards,Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,That besides me, into his inmost breastScarce any other could admittance find.The faith I bore to my high charge was such,It cost me the life-blood that warm’d my veins.The harlot, who ne’er turn’d her gloating eyesFrom Caesar’s household, common vice and pestOf courts, ’gainst me inflam’d the minds of all;And to Augustus they so spread the flame,That my glad honours chang’d to bitter woes.My soul, disdainful and disgusted, soughtRefuge in death from scorn, and I became,Just as I was, unjust toward myself.By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear,That never faith I broke to my liege lord,Who merited such honour; and of you,If any to the world indeed return,Clear he from wrong my memory, that liesYet prostrate under envy’s cruel blow.”First somewhat pausing, till the mournful wordsWere ended, then to me the bard began:“Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask,If more thou wish to learn.” Whence I replied:“Question thou him again of whatsoe’erWill, as thou think’st, content me; for no powerHave I to ask, such pity’ is at my heart.”He thus resum’d; “So may he do for theeFreely what thou entreatest, as thou yetBe pleas’d, imprison’d Spirit! to declare,How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied;And whether any ever from such frameBe loosen’d, if thou canst, that also tell.”Thereat the trunk breath’d hard, and the wind soonChang’d into sounds articulate like these;Briefly ye shall be answer’d. “When departsThe fierce soul from the body, by itselfThence torn asunder, to the seventh gulfBy Minos doom’d, into the wood it falls,No place assign’d, but wheresoever chanceHurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,It rises to a sapling, growing thenceA savage plant. The Harpies, on its leavesThen feeding, cause both pain and for the painA vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall comeFor our own spoils, yet not so that with themWe may again be clad; for what a manTakes from himself it is not just he have.Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughoutThe dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”Attentive yet to listen to the trunkWe stood, expecting farther speech, when usA noise surpris’d, as when a man perceivesThe wild boar and the hunt approach his placeOf station’d watch, who of the beasts and boughsLoud rustling round him hears. And lo! there cameTwo naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight,That they before them broke each fan o’ th’ wood.“Haste now,” the foremost cried, “now haste thee death!”
The other, as seem’d, impatient of delayExclaiming, “Lano! not so bent for speedThy sinews, in the lists of Toppo’s field.”And then, for that perchance no longer breathSuffic’d him, of himself and of a bushOne group he made. Behind them was the woodFull of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet,As greyhounds that have newly slipp’d the leash.On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs,And having rent him piecemeal bore awayThe tortur’d limbs. My guide then seiz’d my hand,And led me to the thicket, which in vainMourn’d through its bleeding wounds: “O GiacomoOf Sant’ Andrea! what avails it thee,”It cried, “that of me thou hast made thy screen?For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?”When o’er it he had paus’d, my master spake:“Say who wast thou, that at so many pointsBreath’st out with blood thy lamentable speech?”He answer’d: “Oh, ye spirits: arriv’d in timeTo spy the shameful havoc, that from meMy leaves hath sever’d thus, gather them up,And at the foot of their sad parent-treeCarefully lay them. In that city’ I dwelt,Who for the Baptist her first patron chang’d,Whence he for this shall cease not with his artTo work her woe: and if there still remain’d notOn Arno’s passage some faint glimpse of him,Those citizens, who rear’d once more her wallsUpon the ashes left by Attila,Had labour’d without profit of their toil.I slung the fatal noose from my own roof.”