CANTO XXVI.

Argument.

Eighth valley; deceitful counsellors. — The fate of Ulysses.

F LORENOE , rejoice, who dost so much excel,
That thou dost spread thy wing o'er sea and land,
And thy name soundeth through the depths of Hell!
Five of thy sons amid the robber-band
I found; which brings unto my cheek shame's hue,
And in great honour, sooth, thou dost not stand.
But if it be that morning-dreams are true,
A little while, and thou shalt feel the woe,
Which Prato, even as others, deems thy due.
And not too soon, in sooth, if it were now;
Since thus it needs must be, I would it were:
'Twill grieve me more, the more that on my brow
The snows of age have fallen. The same stair
Form'd of the rock, erst used for our descent,
My leader climb'd, and with him me did bear.
While thus our solitary way we went,
Mid the sharp, rugged stones of this sad bourne,
Our hands unto our feet much succour lent.
I mournid then, and now once more I mourn,
When I recall what in this vale I saw:
And more than wont the curb my mind hath worn,
That it be guided aye by wisdom's law;
Lest, if by fortune's star, or higher skill,
Some good be mine, I thence might evil draw.
Even as the peasant, resting on the hill,
In the sweet time when he whose warm rays steep
The earth in joy is longest with us still,
When gnats come forth, and buzzing flies go sleep,
Down in the valley sees the golden light
Of fireflies; it may be, where he doth reap:
Thus flash'd the glittering flames' resplendence bright,
Throughout this eighth abyss of anguish dire,
While, gazing, its far depths I saw aright.
As one, avengid by the she-bear's ire,
Beheld Elijah's chariot rise on high,
And heavenward soar, borne up by steeds of fire,
In light too radiant for the mortal eye
Which follow'd, seeing but the flame, I wis,
As a bright cloud ascending to the sky;
Thus ever moved they o'er the dim abyss;
The theft within them was by none reveal'd,
Though each a sinner hid. And while on this
Still bent, my steps upon the bridge I stay'd,
And to the rocky ledge so near I came,
That if thereon my hand I had not laid,
I thence had fallen. Then Virgil mark'd my frame
Intent, and said: " Lo! there do spirits dwell;
Each wanders girded with a robe of flame. "
I said: " My Master, for thy words I well
May be more certain; but I deem'd aright,
Before thou spak'st: and would that thou shouldst tell
Who is within yon flame, whose double light
Is parted, even as rising from the pyre
Whereon Eteocles, when slain in fight,
Was with his brother laid? " " Within that fire, "
He said, " Ulysses dwells, and Diomed,
Together in their pain as in their ire.
And thus in flame they mourn their treach'rous deed,
The feignid horse of wood, which oped the path
From whence came forth the Romans' noble seed.
They ever weep the acts from which, in death,
Still for Achilles Deidamia mourns,
And still for the Palladium doth fierce wrath
Pursue them. " " Mid the fire that ever burns,
I said, " if they may speak, my guide, I pray,
And pray with the redoubled force which earns
Reply, that now thou wouldst not say me nay,
But tarry till yon double flame draws near:
See how my longing bends me tow'rds its ray. "
And thus he answer'd me: " In truth, thy prayer
Doth merit praise, and I thereto agree;
But see that now from speech thou dost forbear.
Leave thou the care of thy discourse to me;
Thy purpose do I know: they, who are Greek,
Hearing thy words, may somewhat scornful be. "
Then, when the fire towards us seem'd to seek,
My Master, deeming that the season came,
Even on this manner now began to speak:
" Ye who are two enclosed within one flame,
If aught I merited in days of yore,
If aught my meed of less or greater fame,
What time I wrote on earth my lofty lore,
Pass not away; but one of you make known
Where, lost, he saw the light of day no more. "
Now of the ancient flame the highest cone,
With murmuring sound, began to wave and shake,
As when the fire by stormy wind is blown.
The summit moved and bent, and seem'd to wake,
As though it were a tongue endow'd with speech,
And human voice sent forth, and thus it spake:
" When I departed, on the lone sea-beach,
From Circe's spell, which for a year and more
Imprison'd me near Gaeta (the which
Was by Eneas yet unnamed), the hoar
White hairs of my old father, nor the sweet
Caresses of my son, nor all the store
Of love that should have cheer'd my wife, could yet
The longing quell which ever dwelt in me,
The world and all its good and ill to greet.
Thus I set sail upon the open sea,
With but one ship alone, and the small band
Who ne'er forsook me. Onward did we flee
And saw each shore of the Hesperian land,
Even to Morocco, and Sardinia's isle,
And many another ocean-bathid strand.
I and my comrades had grown old, the while,
When we drew near unto the narrow way
Where Hercules erst sign'd each mountain pile,
That man beyond them might no further stray;
On the right hand we Seville's shore had gain'd,
And on the left already Ceuta lay.
I said: " My brothers, who have now attain'd
To the far west through thousand dangers run,
Here to the light that hath not wholly waned,
The vigil of your life, not wholly done,
Deny ye not the fair experience new
Of the unpeopled world behind the sun.
Consider well the seed from which ye grew;
To live as do the brutes ye were not made,
But virtuous deeds and knowledge to ensue."
Even from those simple words which I had said,
Such eagerness was by my comrades worn,
That scarcely now their course I could have stay'd.
And then our prow we turnid from the morn;
The wingid oars sped on, the while we steer
Our ship in her rash flight, still southward borne.
And now each star of the new hemisphere
We saw by night; and ours had sunk so low,
No more from out the wave did they appear.
Five times lit up, five times the moonlight's glow
Had wanid from the sea, since our small bark
Enter'd the wild, wide ocean, when we saw
Far off a mountain-summit dim and dark
From the great distance; and it seem'd so high,
The like I never till that hour did mark.
Then we were glad: but soon our joy pass'd by;
Because from out the land so newly found
Sprang forth the storm-wind with an angry cry,
And smote our bark. Three times it whirl'd it round;
And at the fourth, the stern on high uprose:
As fate had will'd, the prow, with sudden bound,
Sank, till above our heads the stormy waters close. "