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LONGFELLOW'S TRANSLATION OF DANTE'S DIVINA COMMEDIA

In the North American Review for March, 1809, we read of Cary's Dante: "This we can pronounce, with confidence, to be the most literal translation in poetry in our language."

"As to Cary," writes Prescott in 1824, "I think Dante would have given him a place in his ninth heaven, if he could have foreseen his translation. It is most astonishing, giving not only the literal corresponding phrase, but the spirit of the original, the true Dantesque manner. It should be cited as an evidence of the compactness, the pliability, the sweetness of the English tongue."

If we turn to English scholars, we shall find them holding the same language, and equally ready to assure you that you may confidently accept Cary's version as a faithful transcript of the spirit and letter of the original. And this was the theory of translation throughout almost the first half of the present century. Cary's position in 1839 was higher even than it was in 1824. With many other claims to respect, he was still best known as the translator of Dante.

In 1839 Mr. Longfellow published five passages from the Purgatorio, translated with a rigorous adhesion to the words and idioms of the original. Coming out in connection with translations from the Spanish and German, and with original pieces which immediately took their place among the favorite poems of every household, they could not be expected to attract general attention. But scholars read them with avidity, for they found in them the first successful solution of one of the great problems of literature,—Can poetry pass from one language into another without losing its distinctive characteristics of form and expression? Dryden, Pope, Cowper, Sotheby, had answered no for Greek and Latin, Coleridge for German, Fairfax and Rose and Cary for Italian. But if Mr. Longfellow could translate the whole of the Divina Commedia as he had translated these five passages, great as some of these names were, it was evident that the lovers of poetry would call for new translations of all the great poets. This he has now done. The whole poem is before us, with its fourteen thousand two hundred and seventy-eight lines, the English answering line for line and word for word to the original Italian. We purpose to show, by a careful comparison of test-passages with corresponding passages of Cary, what the American poet has done for the true theory of translation.

It is evident that, while both translators have nominally the same object in view, they follow different paths in their endeavors to reach it; or, in other words, that they come to their task with very different theories of translation, and very different ideas of the true meaning of faithful rendering. Translation, according to Mr. Cary, consists in rendering the author's idea without a strict adherence to the author's words. According to Mr. Longfellow, the author's words form a necessary accompaniment of his idea, and must, wherever the idioms of the two languages admit of it, be rendered by their exact equivalents. The following passage, from the twenty-eighth canto of the Purgatorio, will illustrate our meaning:—

"In questa altezza che tutta è disciolta
Nell'aer vivo, tal moto percuote,
E fa sonar la selva perch' è folta."

Literally,

In this height which is all detached
In the living air, such motion strikes,
And makes the wood resound because it is thick.

Such are the words of Dante line by line. Let us now see how Cary renders them:—

"Upon the summit, which on every side
To visitation of the impassive air
Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes
Beneath its sway the umbrageous wood resound."

The fundamental idea of this passage is the explanation of the sound of the forest, and this idea Cary has preserved. But has he preserved it in its force and simplicity and Dantesque directness? We will not dwell upon the rendering of altezza by summit, although a little more care would have preserved the exact word of the original. But we may with good reason object to the expansion of Dante's three lines into four. We may with equal reason object to

"which on every side
To visitation of the impassive air
Is open,"

as a correct rendering of

"che tutta è disciolta
Nell'aer vivo,"—
which is all detached
In the living air.
"To visitation of the impassive air,"

is a sonorous verse; but it is not Dante's verse, unless all detached means on every side is open to visitation, and impassive air means living air. Beneath its sway, also, is not Dante's; nor can we accept umbrageous wood, with its unmeaning epithet, for the wood because it is thick, an explanation of the phenomenon which had excited Dante's wonder.

Here, then, we have Cary's theory, the preservation of the fundamental idea, but the free introduction of such accessory ideas as convenience may suggest, whether in the form of epithet or of paraphrase.

Mr. Longfellow's translation of this passage may also be accepted as the exposition of his theory:—

"Upon this height that all is disengaged
In living ether, doth this motion strike,
And make the forest sound, for it is dense."

We have here the three lines of the original, and in the order of the original; we have the exact words of the original, disciolta meaning disengaged as well as detached, and therefore the ideas of the original without modification or change. The passage is not a remarkable one in form, although a very important one in the description of which it forms a part. The sonorous second line of Mr. Cary's version is singularly false to the movement, as well as to the thought, of the original. Mr. Longfellow's lines have the metric character of Dante's precise and direct description.

The next triplet brings out the difference between the two theories even more distinctly:—

"E la percossa pianta tanto puote
        Che della sua virtute l'aura impregna,
        E quella poi girando intorno scuote."

And the stricken plant has so much power
        That with its virtue it impregnates the air,
        And that then revolving shakes around.

Thus far Dante.

"And in the shaken plant such power resides,
That it impregnates with its efficacy
The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume
That, wafted, flies abroad."

Thus far Cary.

Cary's first line is a tolerably near approach to the original, although a distinction might be made between the force of power resides in, and power possessed by. The second line falls short of the conciseness of the original by transposing the object of impregnates into the third. This, however, though a blemish, might also be passed over. But what shall we say to the expansion of aura into a full line, and that line so Elizabethan and un-Dantesque as

"The voyaging breeze upon whose subtle plume"?

In this, too, Mr. Cary is faithful to his theory. Mr. Longfellow is equally faithful to his:—

"And so much power the stricken plant possesses,
That with its virtue it impregns the air,
And this, revolving, scatters it around."

We have seen how Cary's theory permits the insertion of a new line, or, more correctly speaking, the expansion of a single word into a full line. But it admits also of the opposite extreme,—the suppression of an entire line.

"Ch'io vidi, e anche udi'parlar lo rostro,
        E sonar nella voce ed io e mio,
        Quand'era nel concetto noi e nostro."

For I saw and also heard speak the beak,
        And sound in its voice and I and my,
        When it was in the conception we and our.

Paradiso, XIX. 10.

There is doubtless something quaint and peculiar in these lines, but it is the quaintness and peculiarity of Dante. The I and my, the we and our, are traits of that direct and positive mode of expression which is one of the distinctive characteristics of his style. Do we find it in Cary?

"For I beheld and heard
The beak discourse; and what intention formed
Of many, singly as of one express."

Do we not find it in Longfellow?

"For speak I saw, and likewise heard, the beak,
And utter with its voice both I and My,
When in conception it was We and Our."

It is not surprising that the two translators, starting with theories essentially so different, should have produced such different results. Which of these results is most in harmony with the legitimate object of translation can hardly admit of a doubt. For the object of translation is to convey an accurate idea of the original, or, in other words, to render the words and idioms of the language from which the translation is made by their exact equivalents in the language into which it is made. The translator is bound by the words of the original. He is bound, so far as the difference between languages admits of it, by the idioms of the original. And as the effect of words and idioms depends in a great measure upon the skill with which they are arranged, he is bound also by the rhythm of the original. If you would copy Raphael, you must not give him the coloring of Titian. The calm dignity of the "School of Athens" conveys a very imperfect idea of the sublime energy of the sibyls and prophets of the Sistine Chapel.

But can this exactitude be achieved without forcing language into such uncongenial forms as to produce an artificial effect, painfully reminding you, at every step, of the labor it cost? And here we come to the question of fact; for if Mr. Longfellow has succeeded, the answer is evident. We purpose, therefore, to take a few test-passages, and, placing the two translations side by side with the original, give our readers an opportunity of making the comparison for themselves.

First, however, let us remind the reader that, if it were possible to convey an accurate idea of Dante's style by a single word, that word would be power. Whatever he undertakes to say, he says in the form best suited to convey his thought to the reader's mind as it existed in his own mind. If it be a metaphysical idea, he finds words for it which give it the distinctness and reality of a physical substance. If it be a landscape, he brings it before you, either in outline or in detail, either by form or by color, as the occasion requires, but always with equal force. That landscape of his ideal world ever after takes its place in your memory by the side of the landscapes of your real world. Even the sounds which he has described linger in the ear as the types of harshness, or loudness, or sweetness, instantly coming back to you whenever you listen to the roaring of the sea, or the howling of the wind, or the carol of birds. He calls things by their names, never shrinking from a homely phrase where the occasion demands it, nor substituting circumlocution for direct expression. Words with him seem to be things, real and tangible; not hovering like shadows over an idea, but standing out in the clear light, bold and firm, as the distinct representatives of an idea. In his verse every word has its appropriate place, and something to do in that place which no other word could do there. Change it, and you feel at once that something has been lost.

Next to power, infinite variety is the characteristic of Dante's style, as it is of his invention. With a stronger individuality than any poet of any age or country, there is not a trace of mannerism in all his poem. The stern, the tender, the grand, simple exposition, fierce satire, and passionate appeal have each their appropriate words and their appropriate cadence. This Cary did not perceive, and has told the stories of Francesca and of Ugolino with the same Miltonian modulation. Longfellow, by keeping his original constantly before him, has both seen and reproduced it.

We begin our quotations with the celebrated inscription over the gate of hell, and the entrance of the two poets into "the secret things." The reader will remember that the last three triplets contain a remarkable example of the correspondence of sound with sense.

"Per me si va nella città dolente;
        Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;
        Per me si va tra la perduta gente;
Giustizia mosse'l mio alto fattore;
        Fecemi la divina potestate,
        La somma sapienza e'l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fur cose create
        Se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:
        Lasciate ogni speranza voi che'ntrate.
Queste parole di colore oscuro
        Vid'io scritte al sommo d'una porta;
        Perch'io: maestro, il senso lor m'è duro.
Ed egli a me, come persona accorta:
        Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto,
        Ogni viltà convien che qui sia morta.
Noi sem venuti al luogo ov'io t'ho detto
        Che vederai le genti dolorose
        Ch' hanno perduto il ben dello'ntelletto.
E poichè la sua mano alla mia pose
        Con lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,
        Mi mise dentro alle secrete cose.
Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai
        Risonavan per l'aer senza stelle,
        Perch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
        Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
        Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,
Facevano un tumulto il qual s'aggira
        Sempre'n quell'aria senza tempo tinta,
        Come la rena quando'l turbo spira."

Inferno, III. 1-30.

"'Through me the way is to the city dolent;
        Through me the way is to eternal dole;
        Through me the way among the people lost.
Justice incited my sublime Creator;
        Created me divine Omnipotence,
        The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.
Before me there were no created things,
        Only eterne, and I eternal last.
        All hope abandon, ye who enter in!'
These words in sombre color I beheld
        Written upon the summit of a gate;
        Whence I: 'Their sense is, Master, hard to me!'
And he to me, as one experienced:
        'Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
        All cowardice must needs be here extinct.
We to the place have come, where I have told thee
        Thou shalt behold the people dolorous
        Who have foregone the good of intellect.'
And after he had laid his hand on mine
        With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,
        He led me in among the secret things.
There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
        Resounded through the air without a star,
        Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.
Languages diverse, horrible dialects,
        Accents of anger, words of agony,
        And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
        Forever in that air forever black,
        Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes."

—Longfellow.

        "'Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'
S        uch characters, in color dim, I marked
Over a portal's lofty arch inscribed.
Whereat I thus: 'Master, these words import
Hard meaning.' He as one prepared replied:
'Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;
Here be vile fear extinguished. We are come
Where I have told thee we shall see the souls
To misery doomed, who intellectual good
Have lost.' And when his hand he had stretched forth
To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered.
Into that secret place he led me on.
        Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,
Resounded through the air pierced by no star,
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,
Horrible languages, outcries of woe,
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,
With hands together smote that swelled the sounds,
Made up a tumult, that forever whirls
Round through that air with solid darkness stained,
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies."

Cary.

The following, though less remarkable for its poetry than many others which we might select, is very difficult for the translator. We cite it as an illustration of the boldness with which Mr. Longfellow meets difficulties.

"E quale è quei che suo dannaggio sogna,
        Che sognando disidera sognare,
        Si che quel ch'è, come non fosse, agogna;
Tal mi fec'io non potendo parlare:
        Che disiava scusarmi e scusava
        Me tuttavia e not mi credea fare
Maggior difetto men vergogna lava,
        Disse'l maestro, che'l tuo non è stato:
        Però d'ogni tristizia ti disgrava;
E fa ragion ch'io ti sempre allato,
        Se più avvien che fortuna t'accoglia
        Dove sien genti in simigliante piato:
Che voler ciò udire è bassa voglia."

Inferno, XXX. 136-148.

"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.
        Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,
        So that he craves what is, as if it were not;
Such I became, not having power to speak,
        For to excuse myself I wished, and still
        Excused myself, and did not think I did it.
'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'
        The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;
        Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,
And make account that I am aye beside thee,
        If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee
        Where there are people in a like dispute;
For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"

Longfellow.

"As a man that dreams of harm
Befallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,
And that which is, desires as if it were not;
Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,
Wished to excuse myself, and all the while
Excused me, though unweeting that I did.
'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.'"

Cary.

The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly difficult, but strikingly beautiful.

        "Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,
        Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,
E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamava
        Tenendo gli occhi con fatica fisi
        A me che tutto chin con loro andava.
Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,
        L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arte
        Ch'alluminare è chiamata in Parisi?
Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carte
        Che pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:
        L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.
Ben non sare'io stato sì cortese
        Mentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disio
        Dell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.
Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:
        Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosse
        Che, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.
Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,
        Com' poco verde in su la cima dura
        Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!
Credette Cimabue nella pintura
        Tenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,
        Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.
Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro Guido
        La gloria della lingua; e forse è nato
        Chi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.
Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiato
        Di vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,
        E muta nome perchè muta lato.
Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindi
        Da te la carne, che se fossi morto
        Innanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,
Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più corto
        Spazio all' eterno ch'un muover di ciglia
        Al cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.
Colui che del cammin sì poco piglia
        Diranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,
        Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,
Ond'era sire, quando fu distrutta
        La rabbia Fiorentina, che superba
        Fu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.
La vostra nominanza è color d'erba
        Che viene e va, e quei la discolora
        Per cui ell'esce della terra acerba."

Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.

        "And one of them, not this one who was speaking,
        Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,
        Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed
        On me, who all bowed down was going with them.
'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,
        Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art
        Which is in Paris called illuminating?'
'Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves
        Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;
        All his the honor now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteous
        While I was living, for the great desire
        Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:
        And yet I should not be here, were it not
        That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,
        How little green upon thy summit lingers,
        If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that he
        Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,
        So that the other's fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other taken
        The glory of our tongue, and he perchance
        Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath
        Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,
        And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off
        From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead
        Before thou left the pappo and the dindi,
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter
        Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye
        Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the road
        In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;
        And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrown
        The Florentine delirium, that superb
        Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the color of grass
        Which comes and goes, and that discolors it
        By which it issues green from out the earth.'"

Longfellow.

"Listening I bent my visage down: and one
(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight
That urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;
Holding his eyes with difficulty fixed
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,
'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thou
Agobbio's glory, glory of that art
Which they of Paris call the limner's skill?'
'Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,
Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honor now; my light obscured.
In truth, I had not been thus courteous to him
The while I lived, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.
Nor were I even here, if, able still
To sin, I had not turned me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipped
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting's field; and now
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched
The lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh
Part shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst died
Before the coral and the pap were left,
Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and that
Is, to eternity compared, a space
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye
To the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treads
So leisurely before me, far and wide
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now
Is in Sienna scarce with whispers named:
There was he sovereign, when destruction caught
The maddening rage of Florence, in that day
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth.'"

—Cary.

For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!

"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stava
        Per avvisar da presso un'altra storia
        Che diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.
Quivi era storiata l'alta gloria
        Del roman prence lo cui gran valore
        Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:
I' dico di Trajano imperadore;
        Ed una vedovella gli era al freno
        Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
        Di cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oro
        Sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
        Parea dicer: signor, fammi vendetta
        Del mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;
Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspetta
        Tanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio
        (Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)
Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,
        La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui bene
        A te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?
Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che conviene
        Ch'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:
        Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.
Colui che mai non vide cosa nuova
        Produsse esto visibile parlare,
        Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."

Purgatorio, X. 70-96.

"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
        To examine near at hand another story,
        Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
        Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
        Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
        And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
        In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
        Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
        Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
        Seemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,
        For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'
And he to answer her: 'Now wait until
        I shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like one
        In whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou not
Return?' And he: 'Who shall be where I am
        Will give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of others
        What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?
Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
        That I discharge my duty ere I move;
        Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'
He who on no new thing has ever looked
        Was the creator of this visible language,
        Novel to us, for here it is not found."

Longfellow.

"To behold the tablet next,
Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,
I moved me. There was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be performed, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth."—Cary.

How different is the character of the following description, which fills the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a rapid succession of pictures!

"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieri
        Del mio maestro i passi, ed amendue
        Già mostravam com'eravam leggieri,
Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;
        Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la via
        Veder lo letto delle piante tue.
Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,
        Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragne
        Portan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;
Onde li molte volte si ripiagne
        Per la puntura della rimembranza
        Che solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:
Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,
        Secondo l'artificio, figurato
        Quanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.
Vedea colui che fu nobil creato
        Più d'altra creatura giù dal cielo
        Folgoreggiando scendere da un lato.
Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teio
        Celestial giacer dall'altra parte,
        Grave alia terra per lo mortal gelo
Vedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e Marte
        Armati ancora intorno al padre loro
        Mirar le membra de'giganti sparte.
Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoro
        Quasi smarrito riguardar le genti
        Che'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.
O Niobe, con che occhi dolenti
        Vedev'io te segnata in su la strada
        Tra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!
O Saul, come'n su la propria spada
        Quivi parevi morto in Gelboè
        Che poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!
O folle Aragne, si vedea io te
        Già mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracci
        Dell opera che mal per te si fe'.
O Roboam, già non par che minnacci
        Quivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spavento
        Nel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.
Mostrava ancora il duro pavimento
        Come Almeone a sua madre fe'caro
        Parer lo sventurato adornamento.
Mostrava come i figli si gittaro
        Sovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,
        E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.
Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempio
        Che fe'Tamiri quando disse a Ciro
        Sangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.
Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiro
        Gli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,
        Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.
Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:
        O Ilion, come te basso e vile
        Mostrava il segno che lì si discerne!
Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,
        Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'ivi
        Mirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?
Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.
        Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,
        Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."

Purgatorio, XII. 10-69

"I had moved on, and followed willingly
        The footsteps of my Master, and we both
        Already showed how light of foot we were,
When unto me he said: 'Cast down thine eyes;
        'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,
        To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.'
As, that some memory may exist of them,
        Above the buried dead their tombs in earth
        Bear sculptured on them what they were before;
Whence often there we weep for them afresh,
        From pricking of remembrance, which alone
        To the compassionate doth set its spur;
So saw I there, but of a better semblance
        In point of artifice, with figures covered
        Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects.
I saw that one who was created noble
        More than all other creatures, down from heaven
        Flaming with lightnings fall upon one side.
I saw Briareus smitten by the dart
        Celestial, lying on the other side,
        Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.
I saw Thymbræus, Pallas saw, and Mars,
        Still clad in armor round about their father,
        Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.
I saw, at foot of his great labor, Nimrod,
        As if bewildered, looking at the people
        Who had been proud with him in Sennaar.
O Niobe! with what afflicted eyes
        Thee I beheld upon the pathway traced,
        Between thy seven and seven children slain!
O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword
        Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,
        That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne! so I thee beheld
        E'en then half spider, sad upon the shreds
        Of fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!
O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten
        Thine image there; but full of consternation
        A chariot bears it off, when none pursues!
Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement
        How unto his own mother made Alcmæon
        Costly appear the luckless ornament;
Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves
        Upon Sennacherib within the temple,
        And how, he being dead, they left him there;
Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage
        That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,
        'Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!'
Displayed how routed fled the Assyrians
        After that Holofernes had been slain,
        And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.
I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;
        O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,
        Displayed the image that is there discerned!
Who e'er of pencil master was or stile,
        That could portray the shades and traits which there
        Would cause each subtile genius to admire?
Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;
        Better than I saw not who saw the truth,
        All that I trod upon while bowed I went."

Longfellow.

        "I now my leader's track not loath pursued;
And each had shown how light we fared along,
When thus he warned me: 'Bend thine eyesight down:
For thou, to ease the way, shalt find it good
To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.'
        As, in memorial of the buried, drawn
Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptured form
Of what was once, appears, (at sight whereof
Tears often stream forth, by remembrance waked,
Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel,)
So saw I there, but with more curious skill
Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space
From forth the mountain stretches. On one part
Him I beheld, above all creatures erst
Created noblest, lightening fall from heaven:
On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced,
Briareus; cumbering earth he lay, through dint
Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbræan god,
With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,
Armed still, and gazing on the giants' limbs
Strewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:
At foot of the stupendous work he stood,
As if bewildered, looking on the crowd
Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain.
        O Niobe! in what a trance of woe
Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,
Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul!
How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own sword
Expiring, in Gilboa, from that hour
Ne'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew.
        O fond Arachne! thee I also saw,
Half spider now, in anguish, crawling up
The unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane.
        O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem
Lowering no more defiance; but fear-smote,
With none to chase him, in his chariot whirled.
        Was shown beside upon the solid floor,
How dear Alcmæon forced his mother rate
That ornament, in evil hour received:
How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fell
His sons, and how a corpse they left him there.
Was shown the scath, and cruel mangling made
By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried,
'Blood thou didst thirst for: take thy fill of blood.'
Was shown how routed in the battle fled
The Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en
The relics of the carnage. Troy I marked,
In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fallen,
How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!
        What master of the pencil or the style
Had traced the shades and lines, that might have made
The subtlest workman wonder? Dead, the dead;
The living seemed alive: with clearer view
His eye beheld not who beheld the truth,
Than mine what I did tread on, while I went
Low bending."

—Cary.