Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
is granted hues so soft the proud rose envies.
Now tell, O lads, and you, sweet maidens, tell
unto what mortal man, unto what lass
the Goddesses most kindly gave, one day,
most of that honey. A blind man came first:
on Vulcan’s shield he saw the world revolve,
high Ilium in ruins, and, outcast
on unknown seas, the lone Ithacan sail:
the whole Olympus to his vision burst,
baring the Cyprian and the Graces’ zone.
But when that savor soothed Corinna’s lips,
mid the Elean coaches it outsped
Pindaric steeds whose thirst Helicon quenched:
Eolus fed them with his fire, the Sun
adorned them with his spurs and, high above,
speeding ahead, an eagle showed the way.
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The sudden fragrance of that honey sprinkled
the nuptial bed of the Eolian girl:
Her lyre quavered and her heart leapt up
when in a chariot, drawn by sparrows, down
came Venus to wipe out her every tear
with her ambrosian fingers. Ah, in vain
has the Hymettus called them home again
since the first dawn when, on swift wings of bliss
skimming the high Aegean waves, behind
the Heliconian chorus came the Graces,
heedful of Phoebus’ fleeting elegy.
For after Mars on slothful Greece unleashed
the all-marauding mares of Tartary,
and Ottoman’s barbaric sons were crowned,
Italy gave the Muses a new home,
and those who spun that golden honey placed
its happy beehive for her children here.
Not that the bees of Phoebus (others, too,
are cruel equally) shun the laments
of the unseen and ever-hopeless Nymph
who, self-expanding through the quiet air,
vents her despair, and calls and calls again,
though unrequited, her despising foe;
but so much sweetness did the graces breathe,
for the Nymph’s sake, into her every word
that, utterly forgetful of their work,
those bees, now idle here in Italy,
listen to but the echo that can make
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