"Along the bank to rightward come with us, And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil Of living man to climb: and were it not That I am hinder'd by the rock, wherewith This arrogant neck is tam'd, whence needs I stoop My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives, Whose name thou speak'st not him I fain would view. To mark if e'er I knew himnd to crave His pity for the fardel that I bear. I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn A mighty one: Aldobranlesco's name My sire's, I know not if ye e'er have heard. My old blood and forefathers' gallant deeds Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot The common mother, and to such excess, Wax'd in my scorn of all men, that I fell, Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna's sons, Each child in Campagnatico, can tell. I am Omberto; not me only pride Hath injur'd, but my kindred all involv'd In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains Under this weight to groan, till I appease God's angry justice, since I did it not Amongst the living, here amongst the dead." List'ning I bent my visage down: and one (Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight That urg'd him, saw me, knew me straight, and call'd, Holding his eyes With difficulty fix'd Intent upon me, stooping as I went Companion of their way. "O!" I exclaim'd, "Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer's skill?" "Brother!" said he, "with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves. His all the honour now; mine borrow'd light. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv'd, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid. Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn'd me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp'd E'en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! imbue thought To lord it over painting's field; and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclips'd. Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch'd The letter'd prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel'd from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar'd, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven's slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam'd: There was he sov'reign, when destruction caught The madd'ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth." I thus to him: