WHAT Scented stripling, Pyrrha, wooes thee now In pleasant cavern, all with roses fair? For whom those yellow tresses bindest thou With simple care? Full oft shall he thine altered faith bewail, His altered gods; and his unwonted gaze Shall watch the waters darken to the gale In wild amaze. Who now believing gloats on golden charms; For me, let Neptune's temple-wall declare My dripping garments own, suspended there, Him Ocean-king. Ugolino. INFERNO, C. XXXIII. 1–78. LA bocca sollevò dal fiero pasto Quel peccator, forbendola ai capelli Del capo ch' egli avea diretro guasto. Poi cominciò; tu vuoi ch' io rinnovelli Disperato dolor, che il cuor mi preme Già pur pensando pria ch' io ne favelli. Ma se le mie parole esser den seme Io non so chi tu se', nè per qual modo Tu dei saper, ch' io fui 'l conte Ugolino; E questi l'Arcivescovo Ruggieri : Or ti dirò, perch' io son tal vicino. Che per l'effetto de' suo' ma' pensieri, Fidandomi di lui, io fossi preso E poscia morto, dir non è mestieri. Però, quel che non puoi avere inteso, Cioè, come la morte mia fu cruda, Udirai, e saprai se m' ha offeso. THE grim offender from his savage feast Lifted his mouth; and wiped it with the hair Of th' head unseemly mauled that he released; Then thus began. "Am I anew to bear Desperate grief, that weighs my heart adown, Even as I think on what I shall declare? Yet, if my words may, as a seed is sown, Bring shame to the foul traitor that I gnaw, In weeping I will speak. One all unknown Thou com'st: unknown, by what decree or law Thus low thou didst descend: but Florentine I guess thy race, by what I heard, not saw. Thou hast to learn, I was Count Ugoline: He, Roger, hight Archbishop. Now I tell The cause of this ill neighbourship of mine. How by his evil thought's effect it fell, That I, in him confiding, was ensnared And put to death, thou, all men, know full well. But what to boot I trow thou hast not heard, The manner of my death how horrible, Hear now; and judge, if ill by him I fared. Breve pertugio dentro dalla muda La qual per me ha il titol della Fame, E'n che conviene ancor ch' altri si chiuda, M' avea mostrato per lo suo forame Più lune già, quand' io feci 'l mal sonno Che del futuro mi squarciò 'l velame. Questi pareva a me maestro e donno Cacciando il lupo e i lupicini al monte Perche i Pisan' veder Lucca non ponno. Con cagne magre, studiose, e conte, Gualandi con Sismondi e con Lanfranchi S' avea messi dinanzi dalla fronte. In picciol corso mi pareano stanchi Lo padre e i figli, e con l' agute sane parea lor veder fender li fianchi. Mi Quand' io fui desto innanzi la dimane, Pianger sentì' fra 'l sonno i miei figliuoli, Ch' eran con meco, e dimandar del pane. Ben se' crudel, se tu già non ti duoli, Pensando ciò che al mio cuor s'annunziava: E se non piangi, di chè pianger suoli? Già eran desti; e l'ora s' appressava A narrow orifice within the cell (Which yet from me, they call the Famine Jail, And wherein others, after me, must dwell,) Had shewn me many moons both wax and fail Through its dim passage, when I slept the sleep That rent in twain the future's darksome veil. A mighty lord, He seemed the plain to sweep, Chasing the wolf and cubs toward the hill Which Luccan towers from Pisan eyes doth keep. With dogs high-bred and lean, of eager skill, By the Gualandi the Sismondi rides, And the Lanfranchi helps his train to fill. Too short, too short the wasting strength abides Of sire or sons: I seemed to see the stroke, As the keen fangs dug through the weltering sides. I heard my sons moan faintly in their sleep |