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black, And the clean white expires. The other two Lookā€™d on exclaiming: ā€œAh, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, Nor only one.ā€ The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appearā€™d, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members changā€™d, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanishā€™d. Two yet neither seemā€™d That image miscreate, and so passā€™d on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward thā€™ entrails of the other two Approaching seemā€™d, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.

In that part, whence our life is nourishā€™d first, One he transpiercā€™d; then down before him fell Stretchā€™d out. The pierced spirit lookā€™d on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawnā€™d, As if by sleep or fevā€™rous fit assailā€™d.

He eyā€™d the serpent, and the serpent him.

One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breathā€™d a thick smoke, whose vapā€™ry columns joinā€™d.

Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.

What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake

Him changā€™d, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The otherā€™s substance. They in mutual guise So answerā€™d, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the piercā€™d spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Softā€™ning, his indurated to a rind.

The shoulders next I markā€™d, that entā€™ring joinā€™d The monsterā€™s armpits, whose two shorter feet So lengthenā€™d, as the otherā€™s dwindling shrunk.

The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Thā€™ excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From thā€™ other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell.

Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature changā€™d beneath.

Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward draggā€™d, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swellā€™d Into due size protuberant the lips.

He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpenā€™d visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns.

His tongue continuous before and apt For uttā€™rance, severs; and the otherā€™s fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid.

The soul, transformā€™d into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turnā€™d His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: ā€œAlong this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!ā€

So saw I fluctuate in successive change Thā€™ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swervā€™d, events So strange may be its warrant. Oā€™er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

Yet ā€˜scapā€™d they not so covertly, but well I markā€™d Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who changā€™d not: thou, The otherā€™s fate, Gaville, still dost rue.

 

CANTO XXVI

 

FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that oā€™er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell!

Among the plundā€™rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds.

But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now.

Would so it were, since it must needs befall!

For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more.

We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scalā€™d the flinty steps, which late We downward tracā€™d, and drew me up the steep.

Pursuing thus our solitary way

Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands.

Then sorrow seizā€™d me, which eā€™en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon.

As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclinā€™d, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling oā€™er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view exposā€™d. As he, whose wrongs The bears avengā€™d, at its departure saw Elijahā€™s chariot, when the steeds erect Raisā€™d their steep flight for heavā€™n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursuā€™d them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kennā€™d; Eā€™en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft.

Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And graspā€™d a flinty mass, or else had fallā€™n, Though pushā€™d not from the height. The guide, who mark d How I did gaze attentive, thus began: ā€œWithin these ardours are the spirits, each Swathā€™d in confining fire.ā€ā€”ā€œMaster, thy word,ā€

I answerā€™d, ā€œhath assurā€™d me; yet I deemā€™d Already of the truth, already wishā€™d To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seemā€™d Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?ā€ He replied: ā€œWithin Ulysses there and Diomede endure

Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath.

These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that openā€™d wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sowā€™d imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles ā€˜reft Deidamia yet in death complains.

And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoilā€™d.ā€ā€”ā€œIf they have power Of uttā€™rance from within these sparks,ā€ said I, ā€œO master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urgā€™d, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive.

See, how toward it with desire I bend.ā€

He thus: ā€œThy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee.ā€

When there the flame had come, where time and place Seemā€™d fitting to my guide, he thus began: ā€œO ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire!

If living I of you did merit aught, Whateā€™er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pourā€™d, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death oā€™ertook him self-destroyā€™d.ā€

Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: ā€œWhen I escapā€™d From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had namā€™d the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crownā€™d Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had Tā€™ explore the world, and search the ways of life, Manā€™s evil and his virtue. Forth I sailā€™d Into the deep illimitable main,

With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleavā€™d to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordainā€™d The boundā€™ries not to be oā€™ersteppā€™d by man.

The walls of Seville to my right I left, On theā€™ other hand already Ceuta past.

ā€œO brothers!ā€ I began, ā€œwho to the west Through perils without number now have reachā€™d, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not formā€™d to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.

With these few words I sharpenā€™d for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turnā€™d, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left.

Each star of theā€™ other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illumā€™d, as oft Vanishā€™d the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enterā€™d, when from far Appearā€™d a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I eā€™er beheld. Joy seizā€™d us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirlā€™d her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow closā€™d.ā€

 

CANTO XXVII

 

NOW upward rose the flame, and stillā€™d its light To speak no more, and now passā€™d on with leave From the mild poet gainā€™d, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confusā€™d, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look.

As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shapā€™d its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seemā€™d Piercā€™d through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turnā€™d the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obeyā€™d Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: ā€œO thou! to whom I now direct my voice!

That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, Depart thou, I solicit thee no more,ā€™

Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but eā€™en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood.ā€

Leaning I listenā€™d yet with heedful ear, When, as he touchā€™d my side, the leader thus: ā€œSpeak thou: he is a Latian.ā€ My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: ā€œO spirit! who art hidden here below!

Never was thy Romagna without war

In her proud tyrantsā€™ bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath

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