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to do the best I could. First, the good judge

      stabbed in court by that man of blood, Tacco;

      Guccio who, fleeing Campoldino,

      10 was swallowed too by Arno’s stormy flood;

      the Pisan who forgave the enemies

      who slew his son; Frederick Novello;

      13 Count Orso; Peter Brosse wrongly hanged

      by the Queen of Brabant. (Let her beware

      of joining ugly company in Hell.)

      16 When free of these and others begging me

      to tell their kindred they needed prayers

      I begged my guide, “Master, enlighten me.

      19 Your Aeneid says that divine decree

      cannot be altered by the human will.

      Surely that means these beg my help in vain?”

      “I wrote plain truth,” said he, “but wrote before 22

      God came in mercy to humanity,

      was born as a divinely honest man

      who suffered and defeated wretched death. 25

      Since then, when justice is embraced by love

      in a last moment of pure penitence,

      justice and mercy form one healing flame. 28

      Be patient if you do not understand.

      Enlightenment awaits you high above,

      smiling in bliss. Her name is Beatrice.” 31

      I shouted, “Master, let us hurry up!

      I am not tired now, and before sun sets

      will climb up very fast to reach the top.” 34

      “Before that Heavenly event,” said he,

      “the sun will set twice more, but just ahead

      sits one who may know an easier ascent.” 37

      Him we approached was Lombard. With calm pride

      he gazed on us as resting lions do

      out of moving eyes. When Virgil asked 40

      where lay the way up he did not say,

      but asked from where we came. My leader said,

      “Mantua,” at which the soul, leaping up, 43

      embraced him, cried, “My city! Know that I,

      Sordello, am poet of Mantua,

      only excelled by one born long ago.” 46

      Then Virgil happily embraced him too.

      O Italy, you hostelry of slaves!

      49 You vessel, captainless in stormy sea!

      Why cannot souls who love their cities well

      co-operate to keep their country whole?

      52 Even within a single city wall

      new money fights with old, each wrestling for

      a strangle-hold, making alliances

      55 with foreigners through bribery, bad pacts

      which are not kept, preventing unity.

      There is no peace within Italian shores.

      58 Unlike beehives who recognise a queen

      you are a brothel, ruled by squabbling whores.

      The Emperor Justinian once made

      61 a legal code to pacify his land

      which other lands employ – not Italy,

      which won’t submit to legal spurs and bit.

      64 None is allowed to take the reins in hand.

      Devout priests should obey our Lord’s command

      and let a Caesar ride our Latin steed.

      67 O German Albert, Holy Roman King,

      all Europe should be yours, but you don’t heed

      its central garden which has run to seed.

      70 Come, govern us! Our wretched noblemen,

      Montagues, Capulets, Filippeschi,

      Monaldi dread each other! Unite us

      73 under one head we all should recognise!

      Rome, a poor widow, weeps for your great work

      of restoration. Pity and help Rome

      become the Queen of Christendom again 76

      or pity your reputation. And may

      almighty Jove, once crucified for us,

      not turn away from our chaotic state. 79

      Tyrants dominate Italian towns

      where mob-rule is not led by rascal clowns.

      My Florence, this digression won’t touch you 82

      where citizens take public good to heart

      and to their tongue. You are too smart for rule

      by mob or tyrant. Athens and Sparta 85

      did not legislate constantly like you.

      Elsewhere folk dodge the burdens of the state –

      your people grab for office before asked, 88

      and so are peaceful, rich – except when not!

      You change your constitution in a week,

      laws, government and coinage restlessly, 91

      improving nothing like a sick woman

      tossing and turning in her bed and sure

      each new position may achieve a cure. 94

      7: The Climb Halts

      1 Those Mantuans, Sordello and my guide,

      embraced each other happily until

      the first drew back enquiring, “Who are you?”

      4 “A soul from Hell,” the greater poet said.

      “Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome,

      buried my bones before the Christian faith

      7 let saved souls make a staircase of this hill,

      so I, Virgil, will not reach paradise.”

      Like one who thinks, “This is . . . it cannot be!

      10 It must . . . but surely not?” Sordello stood

      wondering, as if his eyes perceived

      a marvel far too great to be believed,

      13 then bowed as low as anybody could.

      “You are the glory of the Latin race!”

      he cried, “Through you our language is as strong,

      16 will live as long, as Gospel scriptures do.

      Tell me the miracle that brings you here,

      and if you think me fit to know, from which

      19 cloister of Hell.” Said Virgil, “I have come

      through all the rings of Hell, but dwell with souls

      who do not suffer pain. Ours is the state

      of babies who die before christening 22

      cleans

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