The first Circle to which were drawing near Æneas and his Guide, might force a tear From hearts of iron; for the entire air Was but a storm of infantile despair; One scream—plaints of robbery of the share In sweet life to which each is born an heir. Only, clasped to their mother’s breasts, of all Promised at birth, they have—a funeral! In the next Circle, less by one degree Adverse their lot who died through perjury; For they can claim revision of their cause By eternal justice, if not man’s laws. Minos holds his high Court; sifts hearts and lives; A mute jury through Urns its verdict gives. Acquittal will not breath of life restore; But the appellant shuns his fellow Shades no more. In the third Circle a sad folk abide, Who go always wondering why they died. Their hands are wet and red with blood they spilt; And yet no neighbour charges them with guilt. Accusers, sternest, themselves keep, within; “Guilty,” they plead; unpardonable sin. If a joy, ’tis but to avow their shame; The story’s essence always is the same: “Fool I! So wholly hateful did it seem— Torture to my eyes—slant of a sun beam; Needs shut it out forthwith—so simply how, As by sending soul, body straight below?”— Next moment! if penury, mean toil were The price for breathing once more Earth’s free air, Gladly would all accept Man’s vilest lot, But Hell’s and Heaven’s laws permit it not. Slow Acheron is their eternal bound, With unamiable Styx coiled ninefold around!