THE DIVINE COMEDY: Inferno, Purgatorio & Paradiso (3 Classic Translations in One Edition). Dante Alighieri
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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee

       Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been."

       "There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,"

       I straight began: "a brooklet, whose well-head

       Springs up in Falterona, with his race

       Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles

       Hath measur'd. From his banks bring, I this frame.

       To tell you who I am were words misspent:

       For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip."

       "If well I do incorp'rate with my thought

       The meaning of thy speech," said he, who first

       Addrest me, "thou dost speak of Arno's wave."

       To whom the other: "Why hath he conceal'd

       The title of that river, as a man

       Doth of some horrible thing?" The spirit, who

       Thereof was question'd, did acquit him thus:

       "I know not: but 'tis fitting well the name

       Should perish of that vale; for from the source

       Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep

       Maim'd of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass

       Beyond that limit,) even to the point

       Whereunto ocean is restor'd, what heaven

       Drains from th' exhaustless store for all earth's streams,

       Throughout the space is virtue worried down,

       As 'twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,

       Or through disastrous influence on the place,

       Or else distortion of misguided wills,

       That custom goads to evil: whence in those,

       The dwellers in that miserable vale,

       Nature is so transform'd, it seems as they

       Had shar'd of Circe's feeding. 'Midst brute swine,

       Worthier of acorns than of other food

       Created for man's use, he shapeth first

       His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds

       Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom

       He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,

       By how much more the curst and luckless foss

       Swells out to largeness, e'en so much it finds

       Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still

       Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets

       A race of foxes, so replete with craft,

       They do not fear that skill can master it.

       Nor will I cease because my words are heard

       By other ears than thine. It shall be well

       For this man, if he keep in memory

       What from no erring Spirit I reveal.

       Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomes

       A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore

       Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:

       Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,

       Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.

       Many of life he reaves, himself of worth

       And goodly estimation. Smear'd with gore

       Mark how he issues from the rueful wood,

       Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years

       It spreads not to prime lustihood again."

       As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,

       Changes his looks perturb'd, from whate'er part

       The peril grasp him, so beheld I change

       That spirit, who had turn'd to listen, struck

       With sadness, soon as he had caught the word.

       His visage and the other's speech did raise

       Desire in me to know the names of both,

       whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd.

       The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum'd:

       "Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do

       For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.

       But since God's will is that so largely shine

       His grace in thee, I will be liberal too.

       Guido of Duca know then that I am.

       Envy so parch'd my blood, that had I seen

       A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark'd

       A livid paleness overspread my cheek.

       Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow'd.

       O man, why place thy heart where there doth need

       Exclusion of participants in good?

       This is Rinieri's spirit, this the boast

       And honour of the house of Calboli,

       Where of his worth no heritage remains.

       Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript

       ('twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)

       Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;

       But in those limits such a growth has sprung

       Of rank and venom'd roots, as long would mock

       Slow culture's toil. Where is good Lizio? where

       Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?

       O bastard slips of old Romagna's line!

       When in Bologna the low artisan,

       And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,

       A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.

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