Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
Here he was shown by moon or rising sun
severe clouds sitting on cerulean hills
or the whole plainland stretching as far down
as the Tyrrhenian Sea—a boundless stage
of blissful ploughmen, temples, towns and woods—
or countless hillocks whence the Apennines
adorn with olive groves and marble homes
the splendid city where the Graces live
and share with Flora idiom and wreaths.
Mark the beginning of the rite, you lads,
and from the garlands on the threshold strewn
the uninitiated keep away.
Away, you sneering genii of Love,
away, O Momus’ livid throng, with all
of you who purchase even Ascra’s peak:
No obscene magic here, no wicked praise,
no poisoned dart avails: now you who serve
the mob and tyranny, this altar shun!
Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice
and timid offering: so leave, you too,
O lovely maidens, the maternal rooms
where Love will stalk your very loneliness:
Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears.
Lay on this altar turtle-doves along
with roses and three chalices of milk,
bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite
invites you to the song, in silence wait:
silence, so sacred to the bards, endears you
more than a smile. And you, who dare on earth
dress barren marble with eternal youth,
today, I’m certain of it, you will see
beauty’s own harmony, the living breath
that is the charm of the three priestesses
I’m bringing to the dances and the hymns:
you will be able thus to leave them here
immortal in our midst before they flee,
on time’s dark wings, to their Elysium.
Gracefully out of a most graceful home,
which, gladly laying his fair brush aside,
the handsome master from Urbino built
for one about to choose the Arno’s bank,
the first fair mortal to the altar comes.
A silken veil most lavishly reveals
her matchless contours; her white fingers grow
suddenly bright as roses newly born
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