Of Valdimagra and the neighbour part
Thou know’st, tell me, who once was mighty there
They call’d me Conrad Malaspina, not
That old one, but from him I sprang.  The love
I bore my people is now here refin’d.” 
     “In your dominions,” I answer’d, “ne’er was I.
But through all Europe where do those men dwell,
To whom their glory is not manifest? 
The fame, that honours your illustrious house,
Proclaims the nobles and proclaims the land;
So that he knows it who was never there. 
I swear to you, so may my upward route
Prosper! your honour’d nation not impairs
The value of her coffer and her sword. 
Nature and use give her such privilege,
That while the world is twisted from his course
By a bad head, she only walks aright,
And has the evil way in scorn.”  He then: 
“Now pass thee on:  sev’n times the tired sun
Revisits not the couch, which with four feet
The forked Aries covers, ere that kind
Opinion shall be nail’d into thy brain
With stronger nails than other’s speech can drive,
If the sure course of judgment be not stay’d.”

CANTO IX

Now the fair consort of Tithonus old,
Arisen from her mate’s beloved arms,
Look’d palely o’er the eastern cliff:  her brow,
Lucent with jewels, glitter’d, set in sign
Of that chill animal, who with his train
Smites fearful nations:  and where then we were,
Two steps of her ascent the night had past,
And now the third was closing up its wing,
When I, who had so much of Adam with me,
Sank down upon the grass, o’ercome with sleep,
There where all five were seated.  In that hour,
When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay,
Rememb’ring haply ancient grief, renews,
And with our minds more wand’rers from the flesh,
And less by thought restrain’d are, as ’t were, full
Of holy divination in their dreams,
Then in a vision did I seem to view
A golden-feather’d eagle in the sky,
With open wings, and hov’ring for descent,
And I was in that place, methought, from whence
Young Ganymede, from his associates ’reft,
Was snatch’d aloft to the high consistory. 
“Perhaps,” thought I within me, “here alone
He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains
To pounce upon the prey.”  Therewith, it seem’d,
A little wheeling in his airy tour
Terrible as the lightning rush’d he down,
And snatch’d me upward even to the fire. 
There both, I thought, the eagle and myself
Did burn; and so intense th’ imagin’d flames,
That needs my sleep was broken off.  As erst
Achilles shook himself, and round him roll’d
His waken’d eyeballs wond’ring where he was,
Whenas his mother had from Chiron fled
To Scyros, with him sleeping in her arms;
E’en thus I shook me, soon as from my face
The slumber parted, turning deadly pale,
Like one ice-struck with dread.  Solo at my side