Excerpt
CANTO XIII
ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank,We enter'd on a forest, where no trackOf steps had worn a way. Not verdant thereThe foliage, but of dusky hue; not lightThe boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'dAnd matted thick: fruits there were none, but thornsInstead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these,Less intricate the brakes, wherein abideThose animals, that hate the cultur'd fields,Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream.Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the sameWho from the Strophades the Trojan bandDrove with dire boding of their future woe.Broad are their pennons, of the human formTheir neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keenThe feet, and the huge belly fledge with wingsThese sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.The kind instructor in these words began:"Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art nowI' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou comeUpon the horrid sand: look therefore wellAround thee, and such things thou shalt behold,As would my speech discredit." On all sidesI heard sad plainings breathe, and none could seeFrom whom they might have issu'd. In amazeFast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd,That I had thought so many voices cameFrom some amid those thickets close conceal'd,And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop offA single twig from one of those ill plants,The thought thou hast conceiv'd shall vanish quite."Thereat a little stretching forth my hand,From a great wilding gather'd I a branch,And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?"Then as the dark blood trickled down its side,These words it added: "Wherefore tear'st me thus?Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?Men once were we, that now are rooted here.Thy hand might well have spar'd us, had we beenThe souls of serpents." As a brand yet green,That burning at one end from the' other sendsA groaning sound, and hisses with the windThat forces out its way, so burst at once,Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as oneAssail'd by terror, and the sage replied:"If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'dWhat he hath seen but in my verse describ'd,He never against thee had stretch'd his hand.But I, because the thing surpass'd belief,Prompted him to this deed, which even nowMyself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,In the upper world (for thither to returnIs granted him) thy fame he may revive.""That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied"Hath so inveigled me, that I from speechCannot refrain, wherein if I indulgeA little longer, in the snare detain'd,Count it not grievous. I it was, who heldBoth keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards,Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,That besides me, into his inmost breastScarce any other could admittance find.The faith I bore to my high charge was such,It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins....