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,1 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 I straight perceiv’d our passage lay.

      “Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate

      We enter’d first, whose threshold is to none

      Denied, nought else so worthy of regard,

      As is this river, has thine eye discern’d,

      O’er which the flaming volley all is quench’d.”

      So spake my guide; and I him thence besought,

      That having giv’n me appetite to know,

      The food he too would give, that hunger crav’d.

      “In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began,

      “A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam’d,

      Under whose monarch in old times the world

      Liv’d pure and chaste. A mountain rises there,

      Call’d Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams,

      Deserted now like a forbidden thing.

      It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn’s spouse,

      Chose for the secret cradle of her son;

      And better to conceal him, drown’d in shouts

      His infant cries. Within the mount, upright

      An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns

      His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome

      As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold

      His head is shap’d, pure silver are the breast

      And arms; thence to the middle is of brass.

      And downward all beneath well-temper’d steel,

      Save the right foot of potter’s clay, on which

      Than on the other more erect he stands,

      Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;

      And from the fissure tears distil, which join’d

      Penetrate to that cave. They in their course

      Thus far precipitated down the rock

      Form