The Divine Comedy (Illustrated Edition). Dante Alighieri

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      Then as the dark blood trickled down its side,

      These words it added: “Wherefore tear’st me thus?

      Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?

      Men once were we, that now are rooted here.

      Thy hand might well have spar’d us, had we been

      The souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,

      That burning at one end from the’ other sends

      A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind

      That forces out its way, so burst at once,

      Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.

      I, letting fall the bough, remain’d as one

      Assail’d by terror, and the sage replied:

      “If he, O injur’d spirit! could have believ’d

      What he hath seen but in my verse describ’d,

      He never against thee had stretch’d his hand.

      But I, because the thing surpass’d belief,

      Prompted him to this deed, which even now

      Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;

      That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,

      In the upper world (for thither to return

      Is granted him) thy fame he may revive.”

      “That pleasant word of thine,” the trunk replied

      “Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech

      Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge

      A little longer, in the snare detain’d,

Count it not grievous. I it was,2 who held

      Both keys to Frederick’s heart, and turn’d the wards,

      Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,

      That besides me, into his inmost breast

      Scarce any other could admittance find.

      The faith I bore to my high charge was such,

      It cost me the life-blood that warm’d my veins.

      The harlot, who ne’er turn’d her gloating eyes

      From Caesar’s household, common vice and pest

      Of courts, ’gainst me inflam’d the minds of all;

      And to Augustus they so spread the flame,

      That my glad honours chang’d to bitter woes.

      My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought

      Refuge in death from scorn, and I became,

      Just as I was, unjust toward myself.

      By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear,

      That never faith I broke to my liege lord,

      Who merited such honour; and of you,

      If any to the world indeed return,

      Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies

      Yet prostrate under envy’s cruel blow.”

      First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words

      Were ended, then to me the bard began:

      “Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask,

      If more thou wish to learn.” Whence I replied:

      “Question thou him again of whatsoe’er

      Will, as thou think’st, content me; for no power

      Have I to ask, such pity’ is at my heart.”

      He thus resum’d; “So may he do for thee

      Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet

      Be pleas’d, imprison’d СКАЧАТЬ