In middle Ah me! how hard to make it understood How rough that wood was, wild, and terrible: By the mere thought my terror is renewed. More bitter scarce were death. But ere I tell At large of good which there by me was found, I will relate what other things befell. Scarce know I how I entered on that ground, From the right way, was I in slumber drowned. But when beneath a hill That with such terror had my heart harassed, Radiant already with that planet’s A little then was quieted by the sight The fear which deep within my heart had lain And as the man, who, breathing short in pain, Hath ’scaped the sea and struggled to the shore, Turns back to gaze upon the perilous main; Even so my soul which fear still forward bore Turned to review the pass whence I egressed, And which none, living, ever left before. My wearied frame refreshed with scanty rest, I to ascend the lonely hill essayed; The lower foot A nimble leopard, And to me in my path such hindrance threw That many a time I wheeled me to retreat. It was the hour of dawn; with retinue Of stars Those beauteous things, the sun began to shine; Touching the creature with the gaudy skin, Seeing ’twas morn, A lion Rabid with hunger and with head high thrown: The very air was tremulous with fright. A she-wolf, By her oppressed, and altogether spent By the terror breathing from her aspect fell, I lost all hope of making the ascent. And as the man who joys while thriving well, When comes the time to lose what he has won In all his thoughts weeps inconsolable, So mourned I through the brute which rest knows none: She barred my way again and yet again, And thrust me back where silent is the sun. Before mine eyes appeared there one aghast, And dumb like those that silence long maintain. When I beheld him in the desert vast, ‘Whate’er thou art, or ghost or man,’ I cried, ‘I pray thee show such pity as thou hast.’ ‘No man, For native place had Mantua,’ he replied. While yet false gods and lying were supreme. Poet I was, renowning in my lay Anchises’ righteous son, who fled from Troy What time proud Ilion was to flames a prey. But thou, why going back to such annoy? The hill delectable why fear to mount, The origin and ground of every joy?’ ‘And thou in sooth art Virgil, and the fount Whence in a stream so full doth language flow?’ ‘Of other poets light and honour thou! Let the long study and great zeal I’ve shown In searching well thy book, avail me now! My master thou, and author |