Some there I mark’d, as high as to their brow
Immers’d, of whom the mighty Centaur thus: 
“These are the souls of tyrants, who were given
To blood and rapine.  Here they wail aloud
Their merciless wrongs.  Here Alexander dwells,
And Dionysius fell, who many a year
Of woe wrought for fair Sicily.  That brow
Whereon the hair so jetty clust’ring hangs,
Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locks
Obizzo’ of Este, in the world destroy’d
By his foul step-son.”  To the bard rever’d
I turned me round, and thus he spake; “Let him
Be to thee now first leader, me but next
To him in rank.”  Then farther on a space
The Centaur paus’d, near some, who at the throat
Were extant from the wave; and showing us
A spirit by itself apart retir’d,
Exclaim’d:  “He in God’s bosom smote the heart,
Which yet is honour’d on the bank of Thames.”

A race I next espied, who held the head,
And even all the bust above the stream. 
’Midst these I many a face remember’d well. 
Thus shallow more and more the blood became,
So that at last it but imbru’d the feet;
And there our passage lay athwart the foss.

“As ever on this side the boiling wave
Thou seest diminishing,” the Centaur said,
“So on the other, be thou well assur’d,
It lower still and lower sinks its bed,
Till in that part it reuniting join,
Where ’t is the lot of tyranny to mourn. 
There Heav’n’s stern justice lays chastising hand
On Attila, who was the scourge of earth,
On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts
Tears ever by the seething flood unlock’d
From the Rinieri, of Corneto this,
Pazzo the other nam’d, who fill’d the ways
With violence and war.”  This said, he turn’d,
And quitting us, alone repass’d the ford.

CANTO XIII

Ere Nessus yet had reach’d the other bank,
We enter’d on a forest, where no track
Of steps had worn a way.  Not verdant there
The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light
The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform’d
And matted thick:  fruits there were none, but thorns
Instead, with venom fill’d.  Less sharp than these,
Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide
Those animals, that hate the cultur’d fields,
Betwixt Corneto and Cecina’s stream.

Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same
Who from the Strophades the Trojan band
Drove with dire boding of their future woe. 
Broad are their pennons, of the human form
Their neck and count’nance, arm’d with talons keen
The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings
These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.