The Battle of Darkness and Light . Джон Мильтон

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      Whoe'er of pencil master was or stile,

       That could portray the shades and traits which there

       Would cause each subtile genius to admire?

      Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;

       Better than I saw not who saw the truth,

       All that I trod upon while bowed I went.

      Now wax ye proud, and on with looks uplifted,

       Ye sons of Eve, and bow not down your faces

       So that ye may behold your evil ways!

      More of the mount by us was now encompassed,

       And far more spent the circuit of the sun,

       Than had the mind preoccupied imagined,

      When he, who ever watchful in advance

       Was going on, began: "Lift up thy head,

       'Tis no more time to go thus meditating.

      Lo there an Angel who is making haste

       To come towards us; lo, returning is

       From service of the day the sixth handmaiden.

      With reverence thine acts and looks adorn,

       So that he may delight to speed us upward;

       Think that this day will never dawn again."

      I was familiar with his admonition

       Ever to lose no time; so on this theme

       He could not unto me speak covertly.

      Towards us came the being beautiful

       Vested in white, and in his countenance

       Such as appears the tremulous morning star.

      His arms he opened, and opened then his wings;

       "Come," said he, "near at hand here are the steps,

       And easy from henceforth is the ascent."

      At this announcement few are they who come!

       O human creatures, born to soar aloft,

       Why fall ye thus before a little wind?

      He led us on to where the rock was cleft;

       There smote upon my forehead with his wings,

       Then a safe passage promised unto me.

      As on the right hand, to ascend the mount

       Where seated is the church that lordeth it

       O'er the well-guided, above Rubaconte,

      The bold abruptness of the ascent is broken

       By stairways that were made there in the age

       When still were safe the ledger and the stave,

      E'en thus attempered is the bank which falls

       Sheer downward from the second circle there;

       But on this, side and that the high rock graze.

      As we were turning thitherward our persons,

       "Beati pauperes spiritu," voices

       Sang in such wise that speech could tell it not.

      Ah me! how different are these entrances

       From the Infernal! for with anthems here

       One enters, and below with wild laments.

      We now were hunting up the sacred stairs,

       And it appeared to me by far more easy

       Than on the plain it had appeared before.

      Whence I: "My Master, say, what heavy thing

       Has been uplifted from me, so that hardly

       Aught of fatigue is felt by me in walking?"

      He answered: "When the P's which have remained

       Still on thy face almost obliterate

       Shall wholly, as the first is, be erased,

      Thy feet will be so vanquished by good will,

       That not alone they shall not feel fatigue,

       But urging up will be to them delight."

      Then did I even as they do who are going

       With something on the head to them unknown,

       Unless the signs of others make them doubt,

      Wherefore the hand to ascertain is helpful,

       And seeks and finds, and doth fulfill the office

       Which cannot be accomplished by the sight;

      And with the fingers of the right hand spread

       I found but six the letters, that had carved

       Upon my temples he who bore the keys;

      Upon beholding which my Leader smiled.

      XIII. The Second Circle: The Envious. Sapia of Siena.

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      We were upon the summit of the stairs,

       Where for the second time is cut away

       The mountain, which ascending shriveth all.

      There in like manner doth a cornice bind

       The hill all round about, as does the first,

       Save that its arc more suddenly is curved.

      Shade is there none, nor sculpture that appears;

       So seems the bank, and so the road seems smooth,

       With but the livid colour of the stone.

      "If to inquire we wait for people here,"

       The Poet said, "I fear that peradventure

       Too much delay will our election have."

      Then steadfast on the sun his eyes he fixed,

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