LITMIR.BIZ

      Canto XIII. The Wood of Thorns. The Harpies. The Violent against themselves. Suicides. Pier della Vigna. Lano and Jacopo da Sant' Andrea.

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      Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,

       When we had put ourselves within a wood,

       That was not marked by any path whatever.

      Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,

       Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,

       Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.

      Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,

       Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold

       'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.

      There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,

       Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,

       With sad announcement of impending doom;

      Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,

       And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;

       They make laments upon the wondrous trees.

      And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,

       Know that thou art within the second round,"

       Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till

      Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;

       Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see

       Things that will credence give unto my speech."

      I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,

       And person none beheld I who might make them,

       Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.

      I think he thought that I perhaps might think

       So many voices issued through those trunks

       From people who concealed themselves from us;

      Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off

       Some little spray from any of these trees,

       The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."

      Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,

       And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;

       And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"

      After it had become embrowned with blood,

       It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?

       Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?

      Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;

       Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,

       Even if the souls of serpents we had been."

      As out of a green brand, that is on fire

       At one of the ends, and from the other drips

       And hisses with the wind that is escaping;

      So from that splinter issued forth together

       Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip

       Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.

      "Had he been able sooner to believe,"

       My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,

       What only in my verses he has seen,

      Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;

       Whereas the thing incredible has caused me

       To put him to an act which grieveth me.

      But tell him who thou wast, so that by way

       Of some amends thy fame he may refresh

       Up in the world, to which he can return."

      And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,

       I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,

       That I a little to discourse am tempted.

      I am the one who both keys had in keeping

       Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro

       So softly in unlocking and in locking,

      That from his secrets most men I withheld;

       Fidelity I bore the glorious office

       So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.

      The courtesan who never from the dwelling

       Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,

       Death universal and the vice of courts,

      Inflamed against me all the other minds,

       And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,

       That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.

      My spirit, in disdainful exultation,

       Thinking by dying to escape disdain,

       Made me unjust against myself, the just.