Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
upon a thousand columns some day rise—
dashed all those bees, attracted by a faint
fragrance of new-born plants around the shrine.
A sacred myrtle tree,
which Beatrice from heaven calls her own,
was shining there, and from its very top,
beating his wings, a wrathful Genius, scanning
both past and future, sought abyss and skies
and, in the midst of all the seas, a mountain
inhabited by souls; then, back on earth,
upon the mortals cast he thunderbolts
and happy rays, repentance. hope and fright,
singing to Italy disasters true.
Close to that myrtle tree those roses bloomed,
which every year on the Euganean hills
the Graces pick and weave a wreath thereof
to offer, wet with tears, on April sixth,
to their own Mother. Sweetly round those buds
murmured the bees, and felt the rosebush grafted
by him who tasted on th’ Hymettus’ peak
the sacred honey more than others, singing,
first, the religion of celestial love.
And yet, despite the orchards and the shade,
a tiny dell of youthful oak trees swayed them
where, loyal to my Goddesses, the nymphs
are not mendacious Genii.
From this hill,
when through the towers of my lovely Florence
the winds are still, I hear a sylvan guest
unknown in yonder silent hermitage
of nearby Oliveto: he, past noon,
makes shady twigs his home, and with his oat
calls one by one his little sheep to drink.
At evening, then, two dark-haired maidens come,
who hardly bend the grasses as they dance
(‘t is he who leads them there). Beneath the hill
of Fiesole too many maidens dwelt
in a fair dell that from six circling mountains
like an Achean theater descends.
Mindful of all their callings from above,
Africo, carefree rivulet, replied
and, forming there the coolest little lake,
made the entire little valley bright.
Not yet had Fiammetta heard of Nymphs
when, telling tales of courtesy and love,
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