Me of my native place the dear constraint Led to restore the leaves which round were strewn, To him whose voice by this time was grown faint. Thence came we where the second round joins on Unto the third, wherein how terrible The art of justice can be, is well shown. But, clearly of these wondrous things to tell, I say we entered on a plain of sand Which from its bed doth every plant repel. The dolorous wood lies round it like a band, As that by the drear fosse is circled round. Upon its very edge we came to a stand. And there was nothing within all that bound But burnt and heavy sand; like that once trod Beneath the feet of Cato Shouldst thou awake in any that may read Of what before mine eyes was spread abroad. I of great herds of naked souls took heed. Most piteously was weeping every one; And different fortunes seemed to them decreed. For some of them And some were sitting huddled up and bent, While others, restless, wandered up and down. More numerous were they that roaming went Than they that were tormented lying low; But these had tongues more loosened to lament. O’er all the sand, deliberate and slow, Broad open flakes of fire were downward rained, As ’mong the Alps Such Alexander And all unbroken on the earth remained; Wherefore he bade his phalanxes tread well The ground, because when taken one by one The burning flakes they could the better quell. So here eternal fire As tinder ’neath the steel, so here the sands Kindled, whence pain more vehement was known. And, dancing up and down, the wretched hands Beat here and there for ever without rest; Brushing away from them the falling brands. And I: ‘O Master, by all things confessed Victor, except by obdurate evil powers Who at the gate Who is the enormous one who noway cowers Beneath the fire; with fierce disdainful air Lying as if untortured by the showers?’ And that same shade, because he was aware That touching him I of my Guide was fain To learn, cried: ‘As in life, myself I bear In death. Though Jupiter should tire again His smith, from whom he snatched in angry bout The bolt by which I at the last was slain; At the black forge in Mongibello While “Ho, good Vulcan, help me!” he shall shout— The cry he once at Phlegra’s Though hurled with all his might at me shall fly His bolts, yet sweet revenge he shall not taste.’ Then spake my Guide, and in a voice so high Never till then heard I from him such tone: ‘O Capaneus, because unquenchably Thy pride doth burn, worse pain by thee is known. Into no torture save thy madness wild Fit for thy fury couldest thou be thrown.’ Then, to me turning with a face more mild, He said: ‘Of the Seven Kings was he of old, Who leaguered Thebes, and as he God reviled Him in small reverence still he seems to hold; But for his bosom his own insolence Supplies fit ornament, Thy feet upon the burning sand should tread; But keep them firm where runs the forest fence.’ We reached a place—nor any word we said— Where issues from the wood a streamlet small; I shake but to recall its colour red. Like that which does from BulicamË And losel women later ’mong them share; So through the sand this brooklet’s waters crawl. Its botto |