Inferno, XXX. 136-148.
"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.
Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,
So that he craves what is, as if it were not;
Such I became, not having power to speak,
For to excuse myself I wished, and still
Excused myself, and did not think I did it.
'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'
The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;
Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,
And make account that I am aye beside thee,
If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee
Where there are people in a like dispute;
For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"
Longfellow.
"As a man that dreams of harm
Befallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,
And that which is, desires as if it were not;
Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,
Wished to excuse myself, and all the while
Excused me, though unweeting that I did.
'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'
My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore cast
All sorrow from thy soul; and if again
Chance bring thee where like conference is held,
Think I am ever at thy side. To hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"
Cary.
The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly difficult, but strikingly beautiful.
"Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,
Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,
E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamava
Tenendo gli occhi con fatica fisi
A me che tutto chin con loro andava.
Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,
L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arte
Ch'alluminare è chiamata in Parisi?
Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carte
Che pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:
L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.
Ben non sare'io stato sì cortese
Mentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disio
Dell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.
Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:
Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosse
Che, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.
Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,
Com' poco verde in su la cima dura
Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!
Credette Cimabue nella pintura
Tenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,
Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.
Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro Guido
La gloria della lingua; e forse è nato
Chi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.
Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiato
Di vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,
E muta nome perchè muta lato.
Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindi
Da te la carne, che se fossi morto
Innanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,
Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più corto
Spazio all' eterno ch'un muover di ciglia
Al cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.
Colui che del cammin sì poco piglia
Diranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,
Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,
Ond'era sire, quando fu distrutta
La rabbia Fiorentina, che superba
Fu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.
La vostra nominanza è color d'erba
Che viene e va, e quei la discolora
Per cui ell'esce della terra acerba."
Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.
"And one of them, not this one who was speaking,
Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,
Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed
On me, who all bowed down was going with them.
'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,
Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art
Which is in Paris called illuminating?'
'Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves
Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;
All his the honor now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteous
While I was living, for the great desire
Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:
And yet I should not be here, were it not
That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,
How little green upon thy summit lingers,
If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that he
Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,
So that the other's fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other taken
The glory of our tongue, and he perchance
Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath
Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,
And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off
From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead
Before thou left the pappo and the dindi,
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter
Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye
Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the road
In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;
And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrown
The Florentine delirium, that superb
Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the color of grass
Which comes and goes, and that discolors it
By which it issues green from out the earth.'"
Longfellow.