Meeting an Old Teacher in Hell — Divine Comedy

One of the solid margins bears them now, enveloped in mist that rises from the stream and saves from fire both piers and water. The mounds are like those the Flemings rear 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, or the Paduans along the Brenta, though not equal in bulk. They are not so far from the wood that Dante might not have discerned it, when a troop comes beside the pier. Each one eyes them as at eventide under a new moon, and sharpens sight as an old tailor at his needle's eye.

One catches Dante by the skirt: What wonder have we here. The looks are parched and smirched with fire, and still he knows them. Sir, Brunetto, and art thou here? My son, let Brunetto Latini turn back a little space; leave his fellows to proceed. Dante would even sit, leave obtained. Whoever of this throng one instant stops, lies then a hundred years, no fan, when the fire smites sorest. Pass on. I will walk at thy garments. Dante dares not descend to equal ground; he holds his head bent in reverent guise. He tells the lost valley, yester-morn, and the guide who leads him homeward. If thou follow but thy star, Brunetto says, thou canst not miss a glorious haven. That ungrateful race from Fiesole, still smacking of mountain-flint, will show enmity for thy good deeds. Amongst ill-savour'd crabs it suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. They are reported blind, covetous, envious, proud. Cleanse thee of their ways. Both parties shall crave thee; keep the fresh herb from the goat's tooth.

Were all my wish fulfilled, Dante says, thou hadst not been driven from man's nature. In his mind is fixed the dear, benign, paternal image, from the days Brunetto taught the way for man to win eternity. The warning he will write down for the celestial dame. Do fortune as she list, I stand prepared. Virgil looks back: He listens to good purpose who takes note. The tribe, Brunetto says, were clerks of great learning, one same sin: Priscian, Accorso's son, and him transferred from Arno to Bacchiglione. A mist new-risen; a company with whom I may not sort. I commend my Treasure to thee, wherein I yet survive; my sole request. He turns like those who try their speed for Verona's green mantle, and of them he seemed not he who loses, but who gains the prize.