"Inferno" by Dante Alighieri, Canto 29–34

“O guide belov’d!
His violent death yet unaveng’d,” said I,
“By any, who are partners in his shame,
Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think,
He pass’d me speechless by; and doing so
Hath made me more compassionate his fate.”

As were the torment, if each lazar-house
Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time
’Twixt July and September, with the isle
Sardinia and Maremma’s pestilent fen,
Had heap’d their maladies all in one foss
Together; such was here the torment: dire
The stench, as issuing steams from fester’d limbs.

More rueful was it not methinks to see
The nation in Aegina droop, what time
Each living thing, e’en to the little worm,
All fell, so full of malice was the air
(And afterward, as bards of yore have told,
The ancient people were restor’d anew
From seed of emmets) than was here to see
The spirits, that languish’d through the murky vale
Up-pil’d on many a stack.

Him no subterfuge eludes.

And with her other burden self-destroy’d
The hapless mother plung’d: and when the pride
Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height,
By fortune overwhelm’d, and the old king
With his realm perish’d, then did Hecuba,
A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw
Polyxena first slaughter’d, and her son,
Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach
Next met the mourner’s view, then reft of sense
Did she run barking even as a dog;
Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul.

But if I here might see the sorrowing soul
Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother,
For Branda’s limpid spring I would not change
The welcome sight.

I perceiv’d
How angrily he spake, and towards him turn’d
With shame so poignant, as remember’d yet
Confounds me.

“More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,”
My master cried, “might expiate. Therefore cast
All sorrow from thy soul; and if again
Chance bring thee, where like conference is held,
Think I am ever at thy side. To hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.”

As down we stood
In the dark pit beneath the giants’ feet,
But lower far than they, and I did gaze
Still on the lofty battlement, a voice
Bespoke me thus: “Look how thou walkest. Take
Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads
Of thy poor brethren.”

Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence
To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib,
Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman’s gold.
‘Him of Duera,’ thou canst say, ‘I mark’d,
Where the starv’d sinners pine.’

His jaws uplifting from their fell repast,
That sinner wip’d them on the hairs o’ th’ head,
Which he behind had mangled, then began:

Ah, obdurate earth!

I thus replied:
“Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;
And if I extricate thee not, far down
As to the lowest ice may I descend!”

Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain
Record the marvel) where the souls were all
Whelm’d underneath, transparent, as through glass
Pellucid the frail stem.

There is a place beneath,
From Belzebub as distant, as extends
The vaulted tomb, discover’d not by sight,
But by the sound of brooklet, that descends
This way along the hollow of a rock,
Which, as it winds with no precipitous course,
The wave hath eaten.