Dante. Inferno, Canto XXVI
Florence, rejoice! For thou o’er land and seaSo spread’st thy pinions that the fame of theeHath reached no less into the depths of Hell.So noble were the five I found to dwellTherein—thy sons—whence shame accrues to meAnd no great praise is thine; but if it beThat truth unveil in dreamings before dawn,Then is the vengeful hour not far withdrawnWhen Prato shall exult within her wallsTo see thy suffering. Whate’er befalls,Let it come soon, since come it must, for later,Each year would see my grief for thee the greater.
We left; and once more up the craggy sideBy the blind steps of our descent, my guide,Remounting, drew me on. So we pursuedThe rugged path through that steep solitude,Where rocks and splintered fragments strewed the landSo thick, that foot availed not without hand.Grief filled me then, and still great sorrow stirsMy heart as oft as memory recursTo what I saw; that more and more I reinMy natural powers, and curb them lest they strainWhere Virtue guide not,—that if some good star,Or better thing, have made them what they are,That good I may not grudge, nor turn to ill.
As when, reclining on some verdant hill—What season the hot sun least veils his powerThat lightens all, and in that gloaming hourThe fly resigns to the shrill gnat—even then,As rustic, looking down, sees, o’er the glen,Vineyard, or tilth where lies his husbandry,Fireflies innumerable sparkle: so to me,Come where its mighty depth unfolded, straightWith flames no fewer seemed to scintillateThe shades of the eighth pit. And as to himWhose wrongs the bears avenged, dim and more dimElijah’s chariot seemed, when to the skiesUprose the heavenly steeds; and still his eyesStrained, following them, till naught remained in viewBut flame, like a thin cloud against the blue:So here, the melancholy gulf within,Wandered these flames, concealing each its sin,Yet each, a fiery integument,Wrapped round a sinner.
On the bridge intent,Gazing I stood, and grasped its flinty side,Or else, unpushed, had fallen. And my guide,Observing me so moved, spake, saying: “BeholdWhere swathed each in his unconsuming fold,The spirits lie confined.” Whom answering,“Master,” I said, “thy words assurance bringTo that which I already had supposed;And I was fain to ask who lies enclosedIn the embrace of that dividing fire,Which seems to curl above the fabled pyre,Where with his twin-born brother, fiercely hated,Eteocles was laid.” He answered, “MatedIn punishment as once in wrath they were,Ulysses there and Diomed incurThe eternal pains; there groaning they deploreThe ambush of the horse, which made the doorFor Rome’s imperial seed to issue: thereIn anguish too they wail the fatal snareWhence dead Deidamia still must grieve,Reft of Achilles; likewise they receiveDue penalty for the Palladium.”“Master,” I said, “if in that martyrdomThe power of human speech may still be theirs,I pray—and think it worth a thousand prayers—That, till this horned flame be come more nigh,We may abide here; for thou seest that IWith great desire incline to it.” And he:“Thy prayer deserves great praise; which willinglyI grant; but thou refrain from speaking; leaveThat task to me; for fully I conceiveWhat thing thou wouldst, and it might fall perchanceThat these, being Greeks, would scorn thine utterance.”
So when the flame had come where time and placeSeemed not unfitting to my guide with graceTo question, thus he spoke at my desire:“O ye that are two souls within one fire,If in your eyes some merit I have won—Merit, or more or less—for tribute doneWhen in the world I framed my lofty verse:Move not; but fain were we that one rehearseBy what strange fortunes to his death he came.”The elder crescent of the antique flameBegan to wave, as in the upper airA flame is tempest-tortured, here and thereTossing its angry height, and in its soundAs human speech it suddenly had found,Rolled forth a voice of thunder, saying: “When,The twelvemonth past in Circe’s halls, againI left Gaeta’s strand (ere thither cameAeneas, and had given it that name)Not love of son, nor filial reverence,Nor that affection that might recompenseThe weary vigil of Penelope,Could so far quench the hot desire in meTo prove more wonders of the teeming earth,—Of human frailty and of manly worth.In one small bark, and with the faithful bandThat all awards had shared of Fortune’s hand,I launched once more upon the open main.Both shores I visited as far as Spain,—Sardinia, and Morocco, and what moreThe midland sea upon its bosom wore.The hour of our lives was growing lateWhen we arrived before that narrow straitWhere Hercules had set his bounds to showThat there Man’s foot shall pause, and further none shall go.Borne with the gale past Seville on the right,And on the left now swept by Ceuta’s site,‘Brothers,’ I cried, ‘that into the far WestThrough perils numberless are now addressed,In this brief respite that our mortal senseYet hath, shrink not from new experience;But sailing still against the setting sun,Seek we new worlds where Man has never wonBefore us. Ponder your proud destinies:Born were ye not like brutes for swinish ease,But virtue and high knowledge to pursue.’My comrades with such zeal did I imbueBy these brief words, that scarcely could I thenHave turned them from their purpose; so againWe set out poop against the morning sky,And made our oars as wings wherewith to flyInto the Unknown. And ever from the rightOur course deflecting, in the balmy nightAll southern stars we saw, and ours so low,That scarce above the sea-marge it might show.So five revolving periods the soft,Pale light had robbed of Cynthia, and as oftReplenished since our start, when far and dimOver the misty ocean’s utmost rim,Rose a great mountain, that for very heightPassed any I had seen. Boundless delightFilled us—alas, and quickly turned to dole:For, springing from our scarce-discovered goal,A whirlwind struck the ship; in circles threeIt whirled us helpless in the eddying sea;High on the fourth the fragile stern uprose,The bow drove down, and, as Another chose,Over our heads we heard the surging billows close.”