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. “O brothers!” I began, “who to the west Through perils without number now have reach’d, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form’d to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high. With these few words I sharpen’d for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn’d, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the’ other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum’d, as oft Vanish’d the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter’d, when from far Appear’d a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e’er beheld. Joy seiz’d us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl’d her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos’d.” CANTO XXVII