I, by the roots unwonted of this wood, Do swear to you that never broke I faith Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;

And to the world if one of you return, Let him my memory comfort, which is lying Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."

Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"

The Poet said to me, "lose not the time, But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."

Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;

For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."

Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man Do for thee freely what thy speech implores, Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased To tell us in what way the soul is bound Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst, If any from such members e'er is freed."

Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward The wind was into such a voice converted:

"With brevity shall be replied to you.

When the exasperated soul abandons The body whence it rent itself away, Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.

It falls into the forest, and no part Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it, There like a grain of spelt it germinates.

It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;

The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves, Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.

Like others for our spoils shall we return;

But not that any one may them revest, For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.

Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal Forest our bodies shall suspended be, Each to the thorn of his molested shade."

We were attentive still unto the trunk, Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us, When by a tumult we were overtaken, In the same way as he is who perceives The boar and chase approaching to his stand, Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;

And two behold! upon our left-hand side, Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously, That of the forest, every fan they broke.

He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"

And the other one, who seemed to lag too much, Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"

And then, perchance because his breath was failing, He grouped himself together with a bush.

Behind them was the forest full of black She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.

On him who had crouched down they set their teeth, And him they lacerated piece by piece, Thereafter bore away those aching members.

Thereat my Escort took me by the hand, And led me to the bush, that all in vain Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.

"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea, What helped it thee of me to make a screen?

What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"

When near him had the Master stayed his steps, He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"

And he to us: "O souls, that hither come To look upon the shameful massacre That has so rent away from me my leaves, Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;

I of that city was which to the Baptist Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this Forever with his art will make it sad.

And were it not that on the pass of Arno Some glimpses of him are remaining still, Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it Upon the ashes left by Attila, In vain had caused their labour to be done.

Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."