Up then and profit if thou hear'st aright.' Rising I feigned to breathe with greater ease Than what I felt, and spake: 'Now forward plod, For with my courage now my strength agrees.' 60 Up o'er the rocky rib we held our road; And rough it was and difficult and strait, And steeper far[637] than that we earlier trod. Speaking I went, to hide my wearied state, When from the neighbouring moat a voice we heard Which seemed ill fitted to articulate. Of what it said I knew not any word, Though on the arch[638] that vaults the moat set high; But he who spake appeared by anger stirred. Though I bent downward yet my eager eye, 70 So dim the depth, explored it all in vain; I then: 'O Master, to that bank draw nigh, And let us by the wall descent obtain, Because I hear and do not understand, And looking down distinguish nothing plain.' 'My sole reply to thee,' he answered bland, 'Is to perform; for it behoves,' he said, 'With silent act to answer just demand.' Then we descended from the bridge's head,[639] Where with the eighth bank is its junction wrought; 80 And full beneath me was the Bolgia spread. And I perceived that hideously 'twas fraught With serpents; and such monstrous forms they bore, Even now my blood is curdled at the thought. Henceforth let sandy Libya boast no more! Though she breed hydra, snake that crawls or flies, Twy-headed, or fine-speckled, no such store Of plagues, nor near so cruel, she supplies, Though joined to all the land of Ethiop, And that which by the Red Sea waters lies. 90 'Midst this fell throng and dismal, without hope A naked people ran, aghast with fear-- No covert for them and no heliotrope.[640] Their hands[641] were bound by serpents at their rear, Which in their reins for head and tail did get A holding-place: in front they knotted were. And lo! to one who on our side was set A serpent darted forward, him to bite At where the neck is by the shoulders met. Nor _O_ nor _I_ did any ever write 100 More quickly than he kindled, burst in flame, And crumbled all to ashes. And when quite He on the earth a wasted heap became, The ashes[642] of themselves together rolled, Resuming suddenly their former frame. Thus, as by mighty sages we are told, The Phoenix[643] dies, and then is born again, When it is close upon five centuries old. In all its life it eats not herb nor grain, But only tears that from frankincense flow; 110 It, for a shroud, sweet nard and myrrh contain. And as the man who falls and knows not how, By force of demons stretched upon the ground, Or by obstruction that makes life run low, When risen up straight gazes all around In deep confusion through the anguish keen