THE DIVINE COMEDY: Inferno, Purgatorio & Paradiso (3 Classic Translations in One Edition). Dante Alighieri. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Dante Alighieri
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       Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives

       His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd,

       I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave.

       Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd,

       Who led me, coasting still, wherever place

       Along the rock was vacant, as a man

       Walks near the battlements on narrow wall.

       For those on th' other part, who drop by drop

       Wring out their all-infecting malady,

       Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou!

       Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,

       Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd!

       So bottomless thy maw!—Ye spheres of heaven!

       To whom there are, as seems, who attribute

       All change in mortal state, when is the day

       Of his appearing, for whom fate reserves

       To chase her hence? —With wary steps and slow

       We pass'd; and I attentive to the shades,

       Whom piteously I heard lament and wail;

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       And, 'midst the wailing, one before us heard

       Cry out "O blessed Virgin!" as a dame

       In the sharp pangs of childbed; and "How poor

       Thou wast," it added, "witness that low roof

       Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.

       O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue choose

       With poverty, before great wealth with vice."

       The words so pleas'd me, that desire to know

       The spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come,

       Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift

       Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he

       Bounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful prime

       Unblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deeds

       So worthy, tell me who thou was," I said,

       "And why thou dost with single voice renew

       Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'd

       Haply shall meet reward; if I return

       To finish the Short pilgrimage of life,

       Still speeding to its close on restless wing."

       "I," answer'd he, "will tell thee, not for hell,

       Which thence I look for; but that in thyself

       Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time

       Of mortal dissolution. I was root

       Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds

       O'er all the Christian land, that seldom thence

       Good fruit is gather'd. Vengeance soon should come,

       Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;

       And vengeance I of heav'n's great Judge implore.

       Hugh Capet was I high: from me descend

       The Philips and the Louis, of whom France

       Newly is govern'd; born of one, who ply'd

       The slaughterer's trade at Paris. When the race

       Of ancient kings had vanish'd (all save one

       Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe

       I found the reins of empire, and such powers

       Of new acquirement, with full store of friends,

       That soon the widow'd circlet of the crown

       Was girt upon the temples of my son,

       He, from whose bones th' anointed race begins.

       Till the great dower of Provence had remov'd

       The stains, that yet obscur'd our lowly blood,

       Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe'er

       It wrought no evil: there, with force and lies,

       Began its rapine; after, for amends,

       Poitou it seiz'd, Navarre and Gascony.

       To Italy came Charles, and for amends

       Young Conradine an innocent victim slew,

       And sent th' angelic teacher back to heav'n,

       Still for amends. I see the time at hand,

       That forth from France invites another Charles

       To make himself and kindred better known.

       Unarm'd he issues, saving with that lance,

       Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that

       He carries with so home a thrust, as rives

       The bowels of poor Florence. No increase

       Of territory hence, but sin and shame

       Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more

       As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong.

       I see the other, who a prisoner late

       Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart

       His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do

       The Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice!

       What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood

       So wholly to thyself, they feel no care

       Of their own flesh? To hide with direr guilt

       Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce

       Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ

       Himself a captive, and his mockery

       Acted again! Lo! lo his holy lip

       The vinegar and gall once more applied!

       And he 'twixt living robbers doom'd to bleed!

       Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty

       Such violence cannot fill the measure up,

       With no degree to sanction, pushes on

       Into the temple his yet eager sails!

       "O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice

       To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas'd

       In secret silence broods?—While daylight lasts,

       So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse

       Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn'dst

       To me for comment, is the general theme

       Of all our prayers: but when it darkens, then

       A different strain we utter, then record

       Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold

       Made traitor, robber, parricide: the woes

       Of Midas, which his greedy wish ensued,

       Mark'd for derision to all future times:

       And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey,

       That yet he seems by Joshua's ire pursued.

       Sapphira with her husband next, we blame;

       And praise the forefeet, that with furious ramp

       Spurn'd Heliodorus. All the mountain round