The Battle of Darkness and Light - Джон Мильтон

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Were joined in battle with their adversaries,

       And I was praying God for what he willed.

      Routed were they, and turned into the bitter

       Passes of flight; and I, the chase beholding,

       A joy received unequalled by all others;

      So that I lifted upward my bold face

       Crying to God, 'Henceforth I fear thee not,'

       As did the blackbird at the little sunshine.

      Peace I desired with God at the extreme

       Of my existence, and as yet would not

       My debt have been by penitence discharged,

      Had it not been that in remembrance held me

       Pier Pettignano in his holy prayers,

       Who out of charity was grieved for me.

      But who art thou, that into our conditions

       Questioning goest, and hast thine eyes unbound

       As I believe, and breathing dost discourse?"

      "Mine eyes," I said, "will yet be here ta'en from me,

       But for short space; for small is the offence

       Committed by their being turned with envy.

      Far greater is the fear, wherein suspended

       My soul is, of the torment underneath,

       For even now the load down there weighs on me."

      And she to me: "Who led thee, then, among us

       Up here, if to return below thou thinkest?"

       And I: "He who is with me, and speaks not;

      And living am I; therefore ask of me,

       Spirit elect, if thou wouldst have me move

       O'er yonder yet my mortal feet for thee."

      "O, this is such a novel thing to hear,"

       She answered, "that great sign it is God loves thee;

       Therefore with prayer of thine sometimes assist me.

      And I implore, by what thou most desirest,

       If e'er thou treadest the soil of Tuscany,

       Well with my kindred reinstate my fame.

      Them wilt thou see among that people vain

       Who hope in Talamone, and will lose there

       More hope than in discovering the Diana;

      But there still more the admirals will lose."

      XIV. Guido del Duca and Renier da Calboli. Cities of the Arno Valley. Denunciation of Stubbornness.

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      "Who is this one that goes about our mountain,

       Or ever Death has given him power of flight,

       And opes his eyes and shuts them at his will?"

      "I know not who, but know he's not alone;

       Ask him thyself, for thou art nearer to him,

       And gently, so that he may speak, accost him."

      Thus did two spirits, leaning tow'rds each other,

       Discourse about me there on the right hand;

       Then held supine their faces to address me.

      And said the one: "O soul, that, fastened still

       Within the body, tow'rds the heaven art going,

       For charity console us, and declare

      Whence comest and who art thou; for thou mak'st us

       As much to marvel at this grace of thine

       As must a thing that never yet has been."

      And I: "Through midst of Tuscany there wanders

       A streamlet that is born in Falterona,

       And not a hundred miles of course suffice it;

      From thereupon do I this body bring.

       To tell you who I am were speech in vain,

       Because my name as yet makes no great noise."

      "If well thy meaning I can penetrate

       With intellect of mine," then answered me

       He who first spake, "thou speakest of the Arno."

      And said the other to him: "Why concealed

       This one the appellation of that river,

       Even as a man doth of things horrible?"

      And thus the shade that questioned was of this

       Himself acquitted: "I know not; but truly

       'Tis fit the name of such a valley perish;

      For from its fountain-head (where is so pregnant

       The Alpine mountain whence is cleft Peloro

       That in few places it that mark surpasses)

      To where it yields itself in restoration

       Of what the heaven doth of the sea dry up,

       Whence have the rivers that which goes with them,

      Virtue is like an enemy avoided

       By all, as is a serpent, through misfortune

       Of place, or through bad habit that impels them;

      On which account have so transformed their nature

       The dwellers in that miserable valley,

       It seems that Circe had them in her pasture.

      'Mid ugly swine, of acorns worthier

       Than other food for human use created,

       It first directeth its impoverished way.

      Curs findeth it thereafter, coming downward,

       More snarling than their puissance demands,

       And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle.

      It goes on falling, and the more it grows,

       The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves,

       This maledict and misadventurous ditch.

      Descended then through many a hollow gulf,

       It finds the foxes so replete with fraud,

       They fear no cunning that may master them.

      Nor will I cease because another hears me;

       And well 'twill be for him, if still he mind him

       Of what a truthful spirit to me unravels.

      Thy grandson I behold, who doth become

       A hunter of those wolves upon the bank

       Of the wild stream, and terrifies them all.

      He sells their flesh, it being yet alive;

       Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves;

       Many of life, himself of praise, deprives.

      Blood-stained he issues from the dismal forest;

       He leaves it such, a thousand years from now

       In its primeval state 'tis not re-wooded."

      As at the announcement of impending ills

       The face of him who listens is disturbed,

       From whate'er side the peril seize upon him;

      So I beheld that other soul, which stood

       Turned round to listen,

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