The First Circle—Limbo, or the border land of the unbaptized—The four poets, Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan—The noble castle of philosophy.
Broke the deep lethargy within my head A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted, Like to a person who by force is wakened; And round about I moved my rested eyes, Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed, To recognise the place wherein I was. True is it, that upon the verge I found me Of the abysmal valley dolorous, That gathers thunder of infinite ululations. Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous, So that by fixing on its depths my sight Nothing whatever I discerned therein. “Let us descend now into the blind world,” Began the Poet, pallid utterly; “I will be first, and thou shalt second be.” And I, who of his color was aware, Said: “How shall I come, if thou art afraid, Who ’rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?” And he to me: “The anguish of the people Who are below here in my face depicts That pity which for terror thou hast taken. Let us go on, for the long way impels us.” Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss. There, in so far as I had power to hear, Were lamentations none, but only sighs, That tremulous made the everlasting air. And this arose from sorrow without torment, Which the crowds had, that many were and great, Of infants and of women and of men. To me the Master good: “Thou dost not ask What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are? Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther, That they sinned not; and if they merit had, ’Tis not enough, because they had not baptism Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest; And if they were before Christianity, In the right manner they adored not God; And among such as these am I myself. For such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we, and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire.” Great grief seized on my heart