Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
following, near and nimble, in the wake
of wingèd Joy, the Gods’ sole harbinger,
pearl after pearl, in throngs, about they strew,
each of them sighing—lucky Nereids—
for the ingenuous Graces’ happy kiss.
Then as the Goddess’ footprint and the smile
of her escorting virgin maidens made
Cythera’ shore a land of loveliness,
an unknown violet was seen to sprout
down at the foot of every cypress tree
while many roses that were purple-hued
turned of a sudden innocently white.
Thus a most hallowed ritual was born–
libating milk out of white-rose-trimmed cups
and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade
while casting on the holy altar pearls
with the first blossom that announces April.
With a refulgent comb one of them–look–
most languorously braids Joves’s daughter’s hair,
still dripping of the sea’s still azure foam.
The other maiden, bidding every meadow
quickly reburgeon into Spring at last,
sprinkles the air with each ambrosian drop
that keeps Venus’s breast still dewy-wet.
Bashful, their sister lets the peplos fall
upon the holy limbs, concealing them
from the desire of man’s ecstatic gaze.
No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance
but lengthy ululations of wild hounds
resounded through the isle, with din of darts
and men at fight over the vanquished bear
and cries of wounded hunters in between.
In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes
given her plough; in vain had she, one day,
begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus,
a youthful god, to soften the hard rock
with gentleness of tendrils. In great ire
within its narrow groove the sacred tool
was left to rust while tendrils were devoured
before their recent bunches stood a chance
to ripen purple in the autumn sun.
‘T was only when the Graces first appeared,
hunters and squalid virgins and young lads
laid bows and fear aside, and watched in awe.
Meanwhile, its wheels still half inside the sea,
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