"Say who is he around our mountain winds,
　　Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight,
　　That opes his eyes and covers them at will?"
　　
　　"I know not who he is, but know thus much
　　He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,
　　For thou art nearer to him, and take heed
　　Accost him gently, so that he may speak."
　　
　　Thus on the right two Spirits bending each
　　Toward the other, talk'd of me, then both
　　Addressing me, their faces backward lean'd,
　　And thus the one began: "O soul, who yet
　　Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky!
　　For charity, we pray thee' comfort us,
　　Recounting whence thou com'st, and who thou art:
　　For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee
　　Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been."
　　
　　"There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,"
　　I straight began: "a brooklet, whose well-head
　　Springs up in Falterona, with his race
　　Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles
　　Hath measur'd. From his banks bring, I this frame.
　　To tell you who I am were words misspent:
　　For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip."
　　
　　"If well I do incorp'rate with my thought
　　The meaning of thy speech," said he, who first
　　Addrest me, "thou dost speak of Arno's wave."
　　
　　To whom the other: "Why hath he conceal'd
　　The title of that river, as a man
　　Doth of some horrible thing?" The spirit, who
　　Thereof was question'd, did acquit him thus:
　　"I know not: but 'tis fitting well the name
　　Should perish of that vale; for from the source
　　Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep
　　Maim'd of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass
　　Beyond that limit,) even to the point
　　Whereunto ocean is restor'd, what heaven
　　Drains from th' exhaustless store for all earth's streams,
　　Throughout the space is virtue worried down,
　　As 'twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,
　　Or through disastrous influence on the place,
　　Or else distortion of misguided wills,
　　That custom goads to evil: whence in those,
　　The dwellers in that miserable vale,
　　Nature is so transform'd, it seems as they
　　Had shar'd of Circe's feeding. 'Midst brute swine,
　　Worthier of acorns than of other food
　　Created for man's use, he shapeth first
　　His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds
　　Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom
　　He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,
　　By how much more the curst and luckless foss
　　Swells out to largeness, e'en so much it finds
　　Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still
　　Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets
　　A race of foxes, so replete with craft,
　　They do not fear that skill can master it.
　　Nor will I cease because my words are heard
　　By other ears than thine. It shall be well
　　For this man, if he keep in memory
　　What from no erring Spirit I reveal.
　　Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomes
　　A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore
　　Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:
　　Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,
　　Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.
　　Many of life he reaves, himself of worth
　　And goodly estimation. Smear'd with gore
　　Mark how he issues from the rueful wood,
　　Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years
　　It spreads not to prime lustihood again."
　　
　　As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,
　　Changes his looks perturb'd, from whate'er part
　　The peril grasp him, so beheld I change
　　That spirit, who had turn'd to listen, struck
　　With sadness, soon as he had caught the word.
　　
　　His visage and the other's speech did raise
　　Desire in me to know the names of both,
　　whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd.
　　
　　The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum'd:
　　"Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do
　　For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.
　　But since God's will is that so largely shine
　　His grace in thee, I will be liberal too.
　　Guido of Duca know then that I am.
　　Envy so parch'd my blood, that had I seen
　　A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark'd
　　A livid paleness overspread my cheek.
　　Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow'd.
　　O man, why place thy heart where there doth need
　　Exclusion of participants in good?
　　This is Rinieri's spirit, this the boast
　　And honour of the house of Calboli,
　　Where of his worth no heritage remains.
　　Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript
　　('twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)
　　Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;
　　But in those limits such a growth has sprung
　　Of rank and venom'd roots, as long would mock
　　Slow culture's toil. Where is good Lizio? where
　　Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?
　　O bastard slips of old Romagna's line!
　　When in Bologna the low artisan,
　　And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,
　　A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.
　　Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep,
　　When I recall to mind those once lov'd names,
　　Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him
　　That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop,
　　With Traversaro's house and Anastagio's,
　　(Each race disherited) and beside these,
　　The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease,
　　That witch'd us into love and courtesy;
　　Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts.
　　O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still,
　　Since forth of thee thy family hath gone,
　　And many, hating evil, join'd their steps?
　　Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease,
　　Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill,
　　And Conio worse, who care to propagate
　　A race of Counties from such blood as theirs.
　　Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then
　　When from amongst you tries your demon child.
　　Not so, howe'er, that henceforth there remain
　　True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin!
　　Thou sprung of Fantolini's line! thy name
　　Is safe, since none is look'd for after thee
　　To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock.
　　But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take
　　Far more delight in weeping than in words.
　　Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart."
　　
　　We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard
　　Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way
　　Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them,
　　Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'd
　　Like vollied light'ning, when it rives the air,
　　Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever finds
　　Will slay me," then fled from us, as the bolt
　　Lanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.
　　When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing,
　　Behold the other with a crash as loud
　　As the quick-following thunder: "Mark in me
　　Aglauros turn'd to rock." I at the sound
　　Retreating drew more closely to my guide.
　　
　　Now in mute stillness rested all the air:
　　And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit.
　　But your old enemy so baits his hook,
　　He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb
　　Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n calls
　　And round about you wheeling courts your gaze
　　With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye
　　Turns with fond doting still upon the earth.
　　Therefore He smites you who discerneth all."