The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri (good e books to read txt) š
- Author: Dante Alighieri
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How can it chance, that good distributed, The many, that possess it, makes more rich, Than if āt were sharād by few?ā He answering thus: āThy mind, reverting still to things of earth, Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed To love, as beam to lucid body darts, Giving as much of ardour as it finds.
The sempiternal effluence streams abroad Spreading, wherever charity extends.
So that the more aspirants to that bliss Are multiplied, more good is there to love, And more is lovād; as mirrors, that reflect, Each unto other, propagated light.
If these my words avail not to allay Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see, Who of this want, and of all else thou hast, Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou That from thy temples may be soon erasād, Eāen as the two already, those five scars, That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal,ā
āThou,ā I had said, ācontentāst me,ā when I saw The other round was gainād, and wondāring eyes Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seemād By an ecstatic vision wrapt away;
And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd Of many persons; and at thā entrance stood A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express A motherās love, who said, āChild! why hast thou Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I Sorrowing have sought thee;ā and so held her peace, And straight the vision fled. A female next Appearād before me, down whose visage coursād Those waters, that grief forces out from one By deep resentment stung, who seemād to say: āIf thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed Over this city, namād with such debate Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles, Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace Hath claspād our daughter; āand to fuel, meseemād, Benign and meek, with visage undisturbād, Her sovran spake: āHow shall we those requite, Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn The man that loves us?ā After that I saw A multitude, in fury burning, slay With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain āDestroy, destroy: āand him I saw, who bowād Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heavān, Praying forgiveness of thā Almighty Sire, Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes, With looks, that With compassion to their aim.
Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight Returning, sought again the things, whose truth Depends not on her shaping, I observād How she had rovād to no unreal scenes Meanwhile the leader, who might see I movād, As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep, Exclaimād: āWhat ails thee, that thou canst not hold Thy footing firm, but more than half a league Hast travelād with closād eyes and tottāring gait, Like to a man by wine or sleep oāerchargād?ā
āBeloved father! so thou deign,ā said I, āTo listen, I will tell thee what appearād Before me, when so failād my sinking steps.ā
He thus: āNot if thy Countenance were maskād With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine How small soeāer, elude me. What thou sawāst Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart To the waters of peace, that flow diffusād From their eternal fountain. I not askād, What ails thee? for such cause as he doth, who Looks only with that eye which sees no more, When spiritless the body lies; but askād, To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads The slow and loitāring need; that they be found Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns.ā
So on we journeyād through the evening sky Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes With level view could stretch against the bright Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees Gathāring, a fog made towārds us, dark as night.
There was no room for āscaping; and that mist Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air.
CANTO XVI
Hellās dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, Of every planes āreft, and pallād in clouds, Did never spread before the sight a veil In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense So palpable and gross. Entāring its shade, Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids; Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, Offering me his shoulder for a stay.
As the blind man behind his leader walks, Lest he should err, or stumble unawares On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy, I journeyād through that bitter air and foul, Still listāning to my escortās warning voice, āLook that from me thou part not.ā Straight I heard Voices, and each one seemād to pray for peace, And for compassion, to the Lamb of God That taketh sins away. Their prelude still Was āAgnus Dei,ā and through all the choir, One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seemād The concord of their song. āAre these I hear Spirits, O master?ā I exclaimād; and he: āThou aimāst aright: these loose the bonds of wrath.ā
āNow who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave?
And speakāst of us, as thou thyself eāen yet Dividest time by calends?ā So one voice Bespake me; whence my master said: āReply; And ask, if upward hence the passage lead.ā
āO being! who dost make thee pure, to stand Beautiful once more in thy Makerās sight!
Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder.ā
Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake: āLong as āt is lawful for me, shall my steps Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead Shall keep us joinād.ā I then forthwith began āYet in my mortal swathing, I ascend To higher regions, and am hither come Through the fearful agony of hell.
And, if so largely God hath doled his grace, That, clean beside all modern precedent, He wills me to behold his kingly state, From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death Had loosād thee; but instruct me: and instruct If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words The way directing as a safe escort.ā
āI was of Lombardy, and Marco callād: Not inexperiencād of the world, that worth I still affected, from which all have turnād The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right Unto the summit:ā and, replying thus, He added, āI beseech thee pray for me, When thou shalt come aloft.ā And I to him: āAccept my faith for pledge I will perform What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains, That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not, Singly before it urgād me, doubled now By thine opinion, when I couple that With one elsewhere declarād, each strengthāning other.
The world indeed is even so forlorn Of all good as thou speakāst it and so swarms With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point The cause out to me, that myself may see, And unto others show it: for in heaven One places it, and one on earth below.ā
Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh, āBrother!ā he thus began, āthe world is blind; And thou in truth comāst from it. Ye, who live, Do so each cause refer to heavān above, Eāen as its motion of necessity
Drew with it all that moves. If this were so, Free choice in you were none; nor justice would There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill.
Your movements have their primal bent from heaven; Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues?
Light have ye still to follow evil or good, And of the will free power, which, if it stand Firm and unwearied in Heavānās first assay, Conquers at last, so it be cherishād well, Triumphant over all. To mightier force, To better nature subject, ye abide Free, not constrainād by that, which forms in you The reasoning mind uninfluencād of the stars.
If then the present race of mankind err, Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there.
Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy.
āForth from his plastic hand, who charmād beholds Her image ere she yet exist, the soul Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods, As artless and as ignorant of aught, Save that her Maker being one who dwells With gladness ever, willingly she turns To whateāer yields her joy. Of some slight good The flavour soon she tastes; and, snarād by that, With fondness she pursues it, if no guide Recall, no rein direct her wandāring course.
Hence it behovād, the law should be a curb; A sovereign hence behovād, whose piercing view Might mark at least the fortress and main tower Of the true city. Laws indeed there are: But who is he observes them? None; not he, Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock, Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof.
Therefore the multitude, who see their guide Strike at the very good they covet most, Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause Is not corrupted nature in yourselves, But ill-conducting, that hath turnād the world To evil. Rome, that turnād it unto good, Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams Cast light on either way, the worldās and Godās.
One since hath quenchād the other; and the sword Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoinād Each must perforce decline to worse, unawād By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark The blade: each herb is judgād of by its seed.
That land, through which Adice and the Po Their waters roll, was once the residence Of courtesy and velour, ere the day, That frownād on Frederick; now secure may pass Those limits, whosoeāer hath left, for shame, To talk with good men, or come near their haunts.
Three aged ones are still found there, in whom The old time chides the new: these deem it long Ere God restore them to a better world: The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he
Conrad, and Guido of Castello, namād In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard.
On this at last conclude. The church of Rome, Mixing two governments that ill assort, Hath missād her footing, fallān into the mire, And there herself and burden much defilād.ā
āO Marco!ā I replied, shine arguments Convince me: and the cause I now discern Why of the heritage no portion came To Leviās offspring. But resolve me this Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst Is left a sample of the perishād race, And for rebuke to this untoward age?ā
āEither thy words,ā said he, ādeceive; or else Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan, Appearāst not to have heard of good Gherado; The sole addition that, by which I know him; Unless I borrowād from his daughter Gaia Another name to grace him. God be with you.
I bear you company no more. Behold The dawn with white ray glimmāring through the mist.
I must awayāthe angel comesāere he Appear.ā He said, and would not hear me more.
CANTO XVII
Call to remembrance, reader, if thou eāer Hast, on a mountain top, been taāen by cloud, Through which thou sawāst no better, than the mole Doth through opacous membrane; then, wheneāer The watāry vapours dense began to melt Into thin air, how faintly the sunās sphere Seemād wading through them; so thy nimble thought May image, how at first I re-beheld The sun, that bedward now his couch oāerhung.
Thus with my leaderās feet still equaling pace From forth that cloud I came, when now expirād The parting beams from off the nether shores.
O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark Though round about us thousand trumpets clang!
What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light Kindled in heavān, spontaneous, self-informād, Or likelier gliding down with swift
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