“Nor only one.” The two heads now became

      One, and two figures blended in one form

      Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths

      Two arms were made: the belly and the chest

      The thighs and legs into such members chang'd,

      As never eye hath seen. Of former shape

      All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd

      That image miscreate, and so pass'd on

      With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge

      Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,

      Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems

      A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,

      So toward th' entrails of the other two

      Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire,

      As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.

      In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first,

      One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell

      Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him

      But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd,

      As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd.

      He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him.

      One from the wound, the other from the mouth

      Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd.

      Lucan in mute attention now may hear,

      Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,

      Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.

      What if in warbling fiction he record

      Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake

      Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear,

      I envy not; for never face to face

      Two natures thus transmuted did he sing,

      Wherein both shapes were ready to assume

      The other's substance. They in mutual guise

      So answer'd, that the serpent split his train

      Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit

      Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs

      Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon

      Was visible: the tail disparted took

      The figure which the spirit lost, its skin

      Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind.

      The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd

      The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet

      So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk.

      The feet behind then twisting up became

      That part that man conceals, which in the wretch

      Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke

      With a new colour veils, and generates

      Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off

      From th' other body, lo! upon his feet

      One upright rose, and prone the other fell.

      Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps

      Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath.

      Of him who stood erect, the mounting face

      Retreated towards the temples, and what there

      Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears

      From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd,

      Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd

      Into due size protuberant the lips.

      He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends

      His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears

      Into the head, as doth the slug his horns.

      His tongue continuous before and apt

      For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork

      Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid.

      The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off,

      Hissing along the vale, and after him

      The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd

      His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few

      Thus to another spake: “Along this path

      Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”

      So saw I fluctuate in successive change

      Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:

      And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events

      So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes

      Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

      Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well

      I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was

      Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou,

      The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue.