CANTO XIII.

ARGUMENT.

DANTE enters the second compartment of the seventh circle; which contains those who have done violence to themselves, and their possessions. The first are changed into rough knotted trees, in which the harpies build their nests; the second are torn by dogs. He converses with Pietro della Vigne.

THE further bank had Nessus scarcely gain'd,

When we betook ourselves into a wood,

Which not a trace of any path contain❜d.

No verdant leaves, but of a dusky hue;

No polish'd boughs, but knotted, coarse, and rude;
No fruits were there, but thorns with poison grew :

Not, by the beasts that spurn the richer ground,
Are stocks so rugged, or such tangled trees
Betwixt Cecina and Corneto found.

Here the foul harpies build their nests, by whom
The Trojans were expell'd the Strophades,

With mournful augury of ills to come.

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Claw'd are their feet, and plumed their paunch

profound;

Perch'd in the trees, with shrieks they fill the air. "Ere further thou proceed," exclaim'd my guide, "Know, we have enter'd on the second round, And in it still are destined to abide,

Till we arrive within the sandy plain.

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So

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Wherefore observe ;-for things will meet thine eye,

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Whence confirmation will my words obtain."

Now lamentation from each side resounded,

But none who utter'd them could I descry;
Whereat I stay'd my footsteps, all confounded.

I do believe he fancied that I thought

These numerous cries were from the thicket sent

By some who from our view concealment sought:
Wherefore the master said: "Let but a shoot
From any of these trees by thee be rent,

It will at once thy present thoughts confute."
A little space I then my hand extend,

And pluck a twig from off a knotted thorn, [rend?"
Whose trunk exclaim'd: "Why thus my branches

When o'er its leaves the blood began to roll,

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Now turn'd to stocks are we, who once were men:
Thy hand to pity well might have inclined,
E'en had our souls the souls of serpents been."
Like to a sapling, lighted at one end,

Which at the other hisses with the wind,

And drops of sap doth from the outlet send;

So from the broken twig, both words and blood

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Flow'd forth;-whereat I dropp'd it on the ground;
And like a man by fear opprest I stood.

"Had he been able to believe before,

O injured soul!" exclaim'd the sage profound,
"What in my verses he hath seen of yore,

He would not thus thy suffering branch have torn; 49
But so incredible it seem'd, that I

Advised him to the deed which now I mourn.
But tell me who thou art, and what thy name,
That he, returning to the world on high,

As some amends, may renovate thy fame."
The trunk replied: "So sweet thy winning tongue,
I needs must speak ;-nor let it anger thee,
If I should haply my discourse prolong.
Know-I am he, who held the double keys
Of Frederick's heart, at pleasure turn'd by me,
Or locking or unlocking with such ease,

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That death, that vice, on courts attendant ever,

Fired all against me ;-they again the mind

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Th

Of Cæsar so inflamed, that in short space

My blushing honours were for woes resign'd. Indignant, and high swelling with disgust,

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In death I thought I should escape disgrace ;-
Though just to others, to myself unjust.

Now by these fresh and tender roots I

swear,

I never broke the faith I owed my lord,
Who merited so well the fame he bare.
And if you e'er regain the light of heaven,
Let honour to my memory be restored,
Still suffering from the blow by envy given."

The poet waited till his speech was o'er,

And then address'd me: "Let not time be lost,
But speak-and if it please thee, ask him more."

Whereat I said, "Entreat him to impart

What thou believ'st will satisfy me most;

I cannot speak ;-such pity fills my heart."

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He then resumed "E'en to the utmost may
This man fulfil the object of thy prayer,
O injured soul! as thou be pleased to say
How in these knots the soul can be detain'd;
And whether from such limbs as now ye wear
Hath any one perchance deliverance gain'd?"
The trunk, thus question'd, violently blew,

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And then to speech like this the breathing changed: "The words I give in answer shall be few. When the fierce soul doth from the body bound, By self-inflicted violence estranged,

Minos assigns it to this seventh round. Within the wood it falls, and taketh root

Wherever chance the hapless soul impel,

And there, like to a grain of spelt, doth shoot.
A sapling grown, still higher its boughs are sent,
Till, feeding on its leaves, the harpies fell
Give to the anguish that they cause, a vent.

Like others, we shall seek our mortal clay;

But none again their bodies may resume;
(Man merits not the boon he throws away)
For we shall drag them to this mournful glade;
And to be hung around it is their doom—
Each on the thorn of his tormented shade."

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