Inferno. Данте Алигьери

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      That in my heart’s lake had endured throughout

      The night, which I had passed so piteously.

      And even as he, who, with distressful breath,

      Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,

      Turns to the water perilous and gazes;

      So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,

      Turn itself back to re-behold the pass

      Which never yet a living person left.

      After my weary body I had rested,

      The way resumed I on the desert slope,

      So that the firm foot ever was the lower.

      And lo! almost where the ascent began,

      A panther light and swift exceedingly,

      Which with a spotted skin was covered o’er!

      And never moved she from before my face,

      Nay, rather did impede so much my way,

      That many times I to return had turned.

      The time was the beginning of the morning,

      And up the sun was mounting with those stars

      That with him were, what time the Love Divine

      At first in motion set those beauteous things;

      So were to me occasion of good hope,

      The variegated skin of that wild beast,

      The hour of time, and the delicious season;

      But not so much, that did not give me fear

      A lion’s aspect which appeared to me.

      He seemed as if against me he were coming

      With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger,

      So that it seemed the air was afraid of him;

      And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings

      Seemed to be laden in her meagreness,

      And many folk has caused to live forlorn!

      She brought upon me so much heaviness,

      With the affright that from her aspect came,

      That I the hope relinquished of the height.

      And as he is who willingly acquires,

      And the time comes that causes him to lose,

      Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent,

      E’en such made me that beast withouten peace,

      Which, coming on against me by degrees

      Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent.

      While I was rushing downward to the lowland,

      Before mine eyes did one present himself,

      Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse.

      When I beheld him in the desert vast,

      “Have pity on me,” unto him I cried,

      “Whiche’er thou art, or shade or real man!”

      He answered me: “Not man; man once I was,

      And both my parents were of Lombardy,

      And Mantuans by country both of them.

      ‘Sub Julio’ was I born, though it was late,

      And lived at Rome under the good Augustus,

      During the time of false and lying gods.

      A poet was I, and I sang that just

      Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,

      After that Ilion the superb was burned.

      But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance?

      Why climb’st thou not the Mount Delectable,

      Which is the source and cause of every joy?”

      “Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain

      Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?”

      I made response to him with bashful forehead.

      “O, of the other poets honour and light,

      Avail me the long study and great love

      That have impelled me to explore thy volume!

      Thou art my master, and my author thou,

      Thou art alone the one from whom I took

      The beautiful style that has done honour to me.

      Behold the beast, for which I have turned back;

      Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage,

      For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble.”

      “Thee it behoves to take another road,”

      Responded he, when he beheld me weeping,

      “If from this savage place thou wouldst escape;

      Because this beast, at which thou criest out,

      Suffers not any one to pass her way,

      But so doth harass him, that she destroys him;

      And has a nature so malign and ruthless,

      That never doth she glut her greedy will,

      And after food is hungrier than before.

      Many the animals with whom she weds,

      And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound

      Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain.

      He shall not feed on either earth or pelf,

      But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue;

      ’Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be;

      Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour,

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