Soon as the charity of native land

      Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leaves

      Collected, and to him restor'd, who now

      Was hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thence

      We came, which from the third the second round

      Divides, and where of justice is display'd

      Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen

      Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next

      A plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bed

      Each plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves round

      Its garland on all sides, as round the wood

      Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge,

      Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wide

      Of arid sand and thick, resembling most

      The soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod.

      Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'd

      By all, who read what here my eyes beheld!

      Of naked spirits many a flock I saw,

      All weeping piteously, to different laws

      Subjected: for on the earth some lay supine,

      Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd

      Incessantly around; the latter tribe,

      More numerous, those fewer who beneath

      The torment lay, but louder in their grief.

      O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down

      Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow

      On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd.

      As in the torrid Indian clime, the son

      Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band

      Descending, solid flames, that to the ground

      Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop

      To trample on the soil; for easier thus

      The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone;

      So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith

      The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove

      The viands, doubly to augment the pain.

      Unceasing was the play of wretched hands,

      Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off

      The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began:

      “Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st,

      Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth

      To stop our entrance at the gate, say who

      Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not

      The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn,

      As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?”

      Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd

      My guide of him, exclaim'd: “Such as I was

      When living, dead such now I am. If Jove

      Weary his workman out, from whom in ire

      He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day

      Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out

      At their black smithy labouring by turns

      In Mongibello, while he cries aloud;

      “Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he cried

      In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts

      Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might,

      He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”

      Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'd

      Than I before had heard him: “Capaneus!

      Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy pride

      Lives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage,

      Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full.”

      Next turning round to me with milder lip

      He spake: “This of the seven kings was one,

      Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held,

      As still he seems to hold, God in disdain,

      And sets his high omnipotence at nought.

      But, as I told him, his despiteful mood

      Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it.

      Follow me now; and look thou set not yet

      Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood

      Keep ever close.” Silently on we pass'd

      To where there gushes from the forest's bound

      A little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet lifts

      My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs

      From Bulicame, to be portion'd out

      Among the sinful women; so ran this

      Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank

      Stone-built, and either margin at its side,

      Whereon