In the year's early nonage, when the sun

      Tempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn,

      And now towards equal day the nights recede,

      When as the rime upon the earth puts on

      Her dazzling sister's image, but not long

      Her milder sway endures, then riseth up

      The village hind, whom fails his wintry store,

      And looking out beholds the plain around

      All whiten'd, whence impatiently he smites

      His thighs, and to his hut returning in,

      There paces to and fro, wailing his lot,

      As a discomfited and helpless man;

      Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope

      Spring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soon

      The world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook,

      And forth to pasture drives his little flock:

      So me my guide dishearten'd when I saw

      His troubled forehead, and so speedily

      That ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridge

      Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet,

      He turn'd him back, as that I first beheld

      At the steep mountain's foot. Regarding well

      The ruin, and some counsel first maintain'd

      With his own thought, he open'd wide his arm

      And took me up. As one, who, while he works,

      Computes his labour's issue, that he seems

      Still to foresee the effect, so lifting me

      Up to the summit of one peak, he fix'd

      His eye upon another. “Grapple that,”

      Said he, “but first make proof, if it be such

      As will sustain thee.” For one capp'd with lead

      This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light,

      And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag,

      Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast

      Were not less ample than the last, for him

      I know not, but my strength had surely fail'd.

      But Malebolge all toward the mouth

      Inclining of the nethermost abyss,

      The site of every valley hence requires,

      That one side upward slope, the other fall.

      At length the point of our descent we reach'd

      From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd,

      So was the breath exhausted from my lungs,

      I could no further, but did seat me there.

      “Now needs thy best of man;” so spake my guide:

      “For not on downy plumes, nor under shade

      Of canopy reposing, fame is won,

      Without which whosoe'er consumes his days

      Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth,

      As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.

      Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness

      By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd

      To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight

      Of her corporeal frame to crush her down.

      A longer ladder yet remains to scale.

      From these to have escap'd sufficeth not.

      If well thou note me, profit by my words.”

      I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spent

      Than I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried,

      “For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rock

      Our way we held, more rugged than before,

      Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk

      I ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seem

      Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss

      Did issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill.

      Though on the arch that crosses there I stood,

      What were the words I knew not, but who spake

      Seem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look,

      But my quick eye might reach not to the depth

      For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake:

      “To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps,

      And from the wall dismount we; for as hence

      I hear and understand not, so I see

      Beneath, and naught discern.” – “I answer not,”

      Said he, “but by the deed. To fair request

      Silent performance maketh best return.”

      We from the bridge's head descended,