CANTO XIVSoon as the charity of native landWrought in my bosom, I the scatter’d leavesCollected, and to him restor’d, who nowWas hoarse with utt’rance. To the limit thenceWe came, which from the third the second roundDivides, and where of justice is display’dContrivance horrible. Things then first seenClearlier to manifest, I tell how nextA plain we reach’d, that from its sterile bedEach plant repell’d. The mournful wood waves roundIts garland on all sides, as round the woodSpreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge,Our steps we stay’d. It was an area wideOf arid sand and thick, resembling mostThe soil that erst by Cato’s foot was trod.Vengeance of Heav’n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear’dBy all, who read what here my eyes beheld!Of naked spirits many a flock I saw,All weeping piteously, to different lawsSubjected: for on the earth some lay supine,Some crouching close were seated, others pac’dIncessantly around; the latter tribe,More numerous, those fewer who beneathThe torment lay, but louder in their grief.O’er all the sand fell slowly wafting downDilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snowOn Alpine summit, when the wind is hush’d.As in the torrid Indian clime, the sonOf Ammon saw upon his warrior bandDescending, solid flames, that to the groundCame down: whence he bethought him with his troopTo trample on the soil; for easier thusThe vapour was extinguish’d, while alone;So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewithThe marble glow’d underneath, as under stoveThe viands, doubly to augment the pain.Unceasing was the play of wretched hands,Now this, now that way glancing, to shake offThe heat, still falling fresh. I thus began:“Instructor! thou who all things overcom’st,Except the hardy demons, that rush’d forthTo stop our entrance at the gate, say whoIs yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds notThe burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn,As by the sultry tempest immatur’d?”Straight he himself, who was aware I ask’dMy guide of him, exclaim’d: “Such as I wasWhen living, dead such now I am. If JoveWeary his workman out, from whom in ireHe snatch’d the lightnings, that at my last dayTransfix’d me, if the rest be weary outAt their black smithy labouring by turnsIn Mongibello, while he cries aloud;“Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he criedIn the Phlegraean warfare, and the boltsLaunch he full aim’d at me with all his might,He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais’dThan I before had heard him: “Capaneus!Thou art more punish’d, in that this thy prideLives yet unquench’d: no torrent, save thy rage,Were to thy fury pain proportion’d full.”Next turning round to me with milder lipHe spake: “This of the seven kings was one,Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held,As still he seems to hold, God in disdain,And sets his high omnipotence at nought.But, as I told him, his despiteful moodIs ornament well suits the breast that wears it.Follow me now; and look thou set not yetThy foot in the hot sand, but to the woodKeep ever close.” Silently on we pass’dTo where there gushes from the forest’s boundA little brook, whose crimson’d wave yet liftsMy hair with horror. As the rill, that runsFrom Bulicame, to be portion’d outAmong the sinful women; so ran thisDown through the sand, its bottom and each bankStone-built, and either margin at its side,Whereon I straight perceiv’d our passage lay.“Of all that I have shown thee, since that gateWe enter’d first, whose threshold is to noneDenied, nought else so worthy of regard,As is this river, has thine eye discern’d,O’er which the flaming volley all is quench’d.”So spake my guide; and I him thence besought,That having giv’n me appetite to know,The food he too would give, that hunger crav’d.“In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began,“A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam’d,Under whose monarch in old times the worldLiv’d pure and chaste. A mountain rises there,Call’d Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams,Deserted now like a forbidden thing.It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn’s spouse,Chose for the secret cradle of her son;And better to conceal him, drown’d in shoutsHis infant cries. Within the mount, uprightAn ancient form there stands and huge, that turnsHis shoulders towards Damiata, and at RomeAs in his mirror looks. Of finest goldHis head is shap’d, pure silver are the breastAnd arms; thence to the middle is of brass.And downward all beneath well-temper’d steel,Save the right foot of potter’s clay, on whichThan on the other more erect he stands,Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;And from the fissure tears distil, which join’dPenetrate to that cave. They in their courseThus far precipitated down the rockForm Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;Then by this straiten’d channel passing henceBeneath, e’en to the lowest depth of all,Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyselfShall see it) I here give thee no account.”Then I to him: “If from our world this sluiceBe thus deriv’d; wherefore to us but nowAppears it at this edge?” He straight replied:“The place, thou know’st, is round; and though great partThou have already pass’d, still to the leftDescending to the nethermost, not yetHast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.Wherefore if aught of new to us appear,It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”Then I again inquir’d: “Where flow the streamsOf Phlegethon and Lethe? for of oneThou tell’st not, and the other of that shower,Thou say’st, is form’d.” He answer thus return’d:“Doubtless thy questions all well pleas’d I hear.Yet the red seething wave might have resolv’dOne thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see,But not within this hollow, in the place,Whither to lave themselves the spirits go,Whose blame hath been by penitence remov’d.”He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.Look thou my steps pursue: the margins giveSafe passage, unimpeded by the flames;For over them all vapour is extinct.”
Soon as the charity of native landWrought in my bosom, I the scatter’d leavesCollected, and to him restor’d, who nowWas hoarse with utt’rance. To the limit thenceWe came, which from the third the second roundDivides, and where of justice is display’dContrivance horrible. Things then first seenClearlier to manifest, I tell how nextA plain we reach’d, that from its sterile bedEach plant repell’d. The mournful wood waves roundIts garland on all sides, as round the woodSpreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge,Our steps we stay’d. It was an area wideOf arid sand and thick, resembling mostThe soil that erst by Cato’s foot was trod.Vengeance of Heav’n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear’dBy all, who read what here my eyes beheld!Of naked spirits many a flock I saw,All weeping piteously, to different lawsSubjected: for on the earth some lay supine,Some crouching close were seated, others pac’dIncessantly around; the latter tribe,More numerous, those fewer who beneathThe torment lay, but louder in their grief.O’er all the sand fell slowly wafting downDilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snowOn Alpine summit, when the wind is hush’d.As in the torrid Indian clime, the sonOf Ammon saw upon his warrior bandDescending, solid flames, that to the groundCame down: whence he bethought him with his troopTo trample on the soil; for easier thusThe vapour was extinguish’d, while alone;So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewithThe marble glow’d underneath, as under stoveThe viands, doubly to augment the pain.
Unceasing was the play of wretched hands,Now this, now that way glancing, to shake offThe heat, still falling fresh. I thus began:“Instructor! thou who all things overcom’st,Except the hardy demons, that rush’d forthTo stop our entrance at the gate, say whoIs yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds notThe burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn,As by the sultry tempest immatur’d?”Straight he himself, who was aware I ask’dMy guide of him, exclaim’d: “Such as I wasWhen living, dead such now I am. If JoveWeary his workman out, from whom in ireHe snatch’d the lightnings, that at my last dayTransfix’d me, if the rest be weary outAt their black smithy labouring by turnsIn Mongibello, while he cries aloud;“Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he criedIn the Phlegraean warfare, and the boltsLaunch he full aim’d at me with all his might,He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais’dThan I before had heard him: “Capaneus!Thou art more punish’d, in that this thy prideLives yet unquench’d: no torrent, save thy rage,Were to thy fury pain proportion’d full.”Next turning round to me with milder lipHe spake: “This of the seven kings was one,Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held,As still he seems to hold, God in disdain,And sets his high omnipotence at nought.But, as I told him, his despiteful moodIs ornament well suits the breast that wears it.Follow me now; and look thou set not yetThy foot in the hot sand, but to the woodKeep ever close.” Silently on we pass’dTo where there gushes from the forest’s boundA little brook, whose crimson’d wave yet liftsMy hair with horror. As the rill, that runsFrom Bulicame, to be portion’d outAmong the sinful women; so ran thisDown through the sand, its bottom and each bankStone-built, and either margin at its side,Whereon I straight perceiv’d our passage lay.“Of all that I have shown thee, since that gateWe enter’d first, whose threshold is to noneDenied, nought else so worthy of regard,As is this river, has thine eye discern’d,O’er which the flaming volley all is quench’d.”So spake my guide; and I him thence besought,That having giv’n me appetite to know,The food he too would give, that hunger crav’d.“In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began,“A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam’d,Under whose monarch in old times the worldLiv’d pure and chaste. A mountain rises there,Call’d Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams,Deserted now like a forbidden thing.It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn’s spouse,Chose for the secret cradle of her son;And better to conceal him, drown’d in shoutsHis infant cries. Within the mount, uprightAn ancient form there stands and huge, that turnsHis shoulders towards Damiata, and at RomeAs in his mirror looks. Of finest goldHis head is shap’d, pure silver are the breastAnd arms; thence to the middle is of brass.And downward all beneath well-temper’d steel,Save the right foot of potter’s clay, on whichThan on the other more erect he stands,Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;And from the fissure tears distil, which join’dPenetrate to that cave. They in their courseThus far precipitated down the rockForm Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;Then by this straiten’d channel passing henceBeneath, e’en to the lowest depth of all,Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyselfShall see it) I here give thee no account.”Then I to him: “If from our world this sluiceBe thus deriv’d; wherefore to us but nowAppears it at this edge?” He straight replied:“The place, thou know’st, is round; and though great partThou have already pass’d, still to the leftDescending to the nethermost, not yetHast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.Wherefore if aught of new to us appear,It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”Then I again inquir’d: “Where flow the streamsOf Phlegethon and Lethe? for of oneThou tell’st not, and the other of that shower,Thou say’st, is form’d.” He answer thus return’d:“Doubtless thy questions all well pleas’d I hear.Yet the red seething wave might have resolv’dOne thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see,But not within this hollow, in the place,Whither to lave themselves the spirits go,Whose blame hath been by penitence remov’d.”He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.Look thou my steps pursue: the margins giveSafe passage, unimpeded by the flames;For over them all vapour is extinct.”