“Now who is this who wanders round our hill,
Ere yet the hand of death hath set him free,
And opes and shuts his eyes at his own will?”
“Who he may be, I know not; but to me
He seemeth not alone: more near art thou;
That he may answer, greet him courteously.”
Two spirits, on each other bending low,
Discours'd of me, as sad they there reposed;
Then, to accost me, raised each sightless brow;
And one began: “O soul who, still enclosed
Within thy body, journeyest to the skies,
I pray that of thy favour be disclosed
Who thou mayst be, and whence. Such wonder lies
Within us, at the grace God doth vouchsafe,
As from so strange a thing may well arise.”
And I: “There is a Tuscan stream, whose wave
That hath its mountain source in Falterone,
More than a hundred miles of course doth crave;
Anear it was I born: but to make known
My name, were but to speak in idle mood;
Because, as yet, to fame it hath not grown.”
“If I aright thy words have understood,”
Thus he who first accosted me replied:
“I think that now thou speak'st of Arno's flood.”
The other said: “But wherefore doth he hide
The river's name, even as a man afraid
To speak of somewhat monstrous?” By his side,
The soul, to whom he spake, this answer made:
“In sooth, I know not; but, perchance, 'tis well
That valley's name should never more be said.
For, mid the Alpine heights which most excel
In the rich store of founts, and whence is riven
Pelorus, do its early sources dwell;
Thence to the spot where to the sea is given
What first the clouds receive from the salt tide
Which nourishes each stream, is Virtue driven,
And, like a serpent, chased from every side;
Perchance for the ill fortune of the place,
Or for the evil men who there abide.
So much is changed the nature of the race
Who dwell in that sad valley, that they seem
Like those whom Circe held in direful case.
In truth, of them as of foul swine I deem,
(More fit to feed on husks than human food,)
'Mong whom at first doth flow its scanty stream.
Next, it descends mid wretched curs, who would
Provoke a quarrel, with no power to fight,
And turns away from them, in scornful mood.
The river, hurrying onward in its flight,
Finds that the dogs to savage wolves have grown;
Thus are its waters still in mournful plight.
And then by darker gulfs it rushes down,
And finds the foxes, with sharp cunning fill'd,
Where fear of any master is unknown.
And for no listener shall my speech be still'd;
'Twere well that this man should remember aye
What a true spirit hath to me reveal'd.
One of thy lineage, at no distant day,
Those wolves from the wild river's bank shall drive,
And with his fierceness sorely them affray:
Their flesh will sell while they are yet alive,
And slaughter them like beasts; and thus on earth
Himself of fame and them of life deprive.
Bloody, from the drear wood he issues forth,
And leaves it such, that for a thousand years
It shall not have again its early worth.”
As, at the warning voice of future fears,
The listener stops in sad and thoughtful mood,
Musing what form the coming danger wears,
Even so, that other Shade who listening stood,
A mournful aspect bore upon his brow,
Soon as this prophecy he understood.
Their words and looks made me desire to know
What might, on earth, their name and dwelling be;
Thus soft entreaty from my lips did flow.
He said, who first had spoken: “Now I see
Thou dost desire that unto thee I should
Be courteous more than thou wouldst be to me;
But, since our Heavenly Sire hath thus endued
Thee with His grace, I will not say thee nay.
Guido del Duca am I; and my blood
Was so consumed by envy's livid ray,
That but to see a man with joyous face
Turn'd all my own to paleness dull and gray:
I reap what I have sown. O human race,
Why do ye thus your very hearts entwine
With that wherein for consort is no place?
This is Riniero; of the ancient line
Of Calbolì the glory and the pride:
None of his heirs do with his valour shine.
And not alone his kinsmen, who abide
Anear the Po, 'twixt Apennines and sea,
From the true good to folly turn aside;
Because the land is full of plants which be
So venomous, that all too late ye would
Strive from their poison-roots the ground to free.
Where are Manardi, Lizio the Good,
And Traversaro, and Carpigna now?
O Romagnuoli of ignoble blood!
When shall Bologna a new Fabbro show?
And Bernardin di Fosco in Faënze,
Where from small seed a noble stem did grow?
Then, Tuscan, marvel not, although I chance
To weep at Guido della Prata's name,
And Ugolino d' Azzo, with us once;
Tignoso, and the band who with him came;
The Anastagi, Traversara's race,
(Both, now alas! unknown to virtue's fame,)
And knights, and dames, and deeds of worthy praise,
And toil, inspired by love and courtesy,
Where now all hearts are sunk in evil ways;
O Brettinoro, wherefore dost not flee,
Since all thy noble rulers now have gone,
And many more, that they unstain'd may be?
In sooth, 'tis well that heirs there should be none,
In Bagnacavallo; and to bring forth seed
Conio and Castrocaro ill have done.
Though, when their demon-father hence shall speed,
Pagani's sons may prosper; yet the same,
For aye, the witness of each guilty deed.
O Ugolin de' Fantoli, thy name
Is safe, for there are none to dim its light,
And stain, in after years, its noble fame.
But, Tuscan, leave me; more I now delight
To weep, than hold discourse: for this our speech
Recalls again my country's mournful plight.”
We knew the sound did to those spirits reach
Of our departing steps; nor did they say
Aught that distrust of our new path might teach.
Now, as alone we wended on our way,
A voice, like crashing thunder, cleft the air:
“He who shall find me, surely will me slay,”
It said, and pass'd, as when the stormwinds bear
The heavy clouds afar; even so, once more
Only the silence fell upon my ear.
And then there came another voice, that wore
The self-same likeness of the angry moan
Which tracks the storm; and these the words it bore:
“I am Aglauros, who was turn'd to stone.”
Then I drew near to him my steps who led,
And sought the shelter I had ever known.
Already stillness through the air was shed,
And thus he spake: “Behold the curb of woe,
By which your course should aye be governëd.
But yet ye take the bait your ancient foe
Holds out, that he may give a deadly wound;
Thus little strength doth rein or bridle show.
Heaven calls you to itself, and, circling round,
Unfolds its light and loveliness etern;
But ye still fix your eyes upon the ground:
Thus are ye scourged by Him who doth all hearts discern.”