And he to me: 66 The grievous quality Of this their torment bows them so to earth, By sight what cometh underneath those stones; Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly Like are ye unto insects undeveloped, As to sustain a ceiling or a roof, In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast, Which makes of the unreal real anguish Arise in him who sees it; fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed. True is it, they were more or less bent down, According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!" 115 ISO 130 135 CANTO XI. "OUR Father, thou who dwellest in the heavens, To render thanks to thy sweet effluence. Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing, Withouten which in this rough wilderness 5 ΤΟ 15 And even as we the trespass we have suffered Put not to proof with the old Adversary, This last petition verily, dear Lord, Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, But for their sake who have remained behind us.” Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight Like unto that of which we sometimes dream, Unequally in anguish round and round. And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world. If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, That hence they carried, so that clean and light "Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me I died therefor, as know the Sienese, I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin And here must I this burden bear for it "ill God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead." Listening I downward bent my countenance; And one of them, not this one who was speaking, On me, who all bowed down was going with them. “O,” asked I him, “art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio s honour, and honour of that art "Brother," said he, "more laughing are the leaves While I was living, for the great desire And yet I should not be here, were it not How little green upon thy summit lingers, In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, 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 rumour but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead And even as we the trespass we have suffered This last petition verily, dear Lord, so, deliver. Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, 20 But for their sake who have remained behind us." 25 Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Unequally in anguish round and round And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will? Well may we help them wash away the marks That hence they carried, so that clean and light Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me All men I held in scorn to such extent I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin And here must I this burden bear for it "ill God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead." Listening I downward bent my countenance; 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 honour, and honour of that art While I was living, for the great desire And yet I should not be here, were it not How little green upon thy summit lingers, In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, 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 rumour but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead |