Though push’d not from the height.  The guide, who mark d
How I did gaze attentive, thus began: 
“Within these ardours are the spirits, each
Swath’d in confining fire.”—­“Master, thy word,”
I answer’d, “hath assur’d me; yet I deem’d
Already of the truth, already wish’d
To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes
So parted at the summit, as it seem’d
Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay
The Theban brothers?” He replied:  “Within
Ulysses there and Diomede endure
Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now
Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. 
These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore
The ambush of the horse, that open’d wide
A portal for that goodly seed to pass,
Which sow’d imperial Rome; nor less the guile
Lament they, whence of her Achilles ’reft
Deidamia yet in death complains. 
And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy
Of her Palladium spoil’d.”—­“If they have power
Of utt’rance from within these sparks,” said I,
“O master! think my prayer a thousand fold
In repetition urg’d, that thou vouchsafe
To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. 
See, how toward it with desire I bend.” 
     He thus:  “Thy prayer is worthy of much praise,
And I accept it therefore:  but do thou
Thy tongue refrain:  to question them be mine,
For I divine thy wish:  and they perchance,
For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee.” 
     When there the flame had come, where time and place
Seem’d fitting to my guide, he thus began: 
“O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! 
If living I of you did merit aught,
Whate’er the measure were of that desert,
When in the world my lofty strain I pour’d,
Move ye not on, till one of you unfold
In what clime death o’ertook him self-destroy’d.” 
     Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn
Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire
That labours with the wind, then to and fro
Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,
Threw out its voice, and spake:  “When I escap’d
From Circe, who beyond a circling year
Had held me near Caieta, by her charms,
Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam’d the shore,
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
Of my old father, nor return of love,
That should have crown’d Penelope with joy,
Could overcome in me the zeal I had
T’ explore the world, and search the ways of life,
Man’s evil and his virtue.  Forth I sail’d
Into the deep illimitable main,
With but one bark, and the small faithful band
That yet cleav’d to me.  As Iberia far,
Far as Morocco either shore I saw,
And the Sardinian and each isle beside
Which round that ocean bathes.  Tardy with age
Were I and my companions, when we came
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain’d
The bound’ries not to be o’erstepp’d by man. 
The walls of Seville to my right I left,
On the’ other hand already Ceuta past.