Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
with her own friends for pastime there she sat
or plunged into those waters, shunning you,
O Love, who spied upon her furtively,
and found her fairer in the crystal foam.
The wondrous mysteries were then revealed
in that diversion whereby Dioneo,
king of the group, displeased the Graces’ sight.
Away he chased the turtle-doves that watched
on full-spread wings the entrance to a cave:
moaning in vain beneath the myrtle’s lashing,
they cast their shadows ‘round him, begging him
not to draw near, but, armless, fast they flee
on bleeding wings in terror to the sky.
The moon that floods the sunken cave with light
shows on a bunch of lilies a Napea
asleep and blended in a Faun’s embrace.
By that example spurred, the daring lad
hoped to ensnare Fiammetta, and invoked
as many white-haired Satyrs as he knew
with all the envious nymphs until then banned
from all that playing, all that mystery;
witty and shrewd and idle, every night
to Dioneo they recounted tales
of fun and caves and nuptial beds of blooms.
Dictated by the Gods, a book still lives,
but hapless is the lass that touches it:
her rose will quickly lose its native hue,
and never will the Graces fall in love
with artful blushing on a woman’s cheeks.
O youthful Goddesses, my hymn’s one joy,
for you the lovely lady now renews
your holy rites and lures the earthly bees
to her Felsinean hillock whence the shepherd
watches Astrea in love with sky and sea.
Shading her hearth with most exotic plants,
her home she lends for fun to wandering throngs
or she invites them to the healthy shade
of her harmonious cottage never touched
by winter’s frost or summer’s wrathful storm.
With her own hand the lovely lady wets
the milky calyxes of lemon buds,
shy violets, and thyme, to bees so dear;
as balm of dew she begs from peaceful stars
and consecrates new honeycombs to you,
deep in her heart she sighes a silent prayer.
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