Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
Pray, gracious maidens, with her, and with me,
O lads, just look at her. Her secret sigh,
the smile upon her lips, the tranquil flame
exulting in her eyes should tell you what
she prays for, and how fast the Goddesses
listen to her. Surely she begs the Three
to help her do their lovely will on earth.
The worth that Heaven, sorry for mankind,
bestows on the chaste virgins from the sky
will never fall on you, O artisans
and youthful bards of futile elegance,
but only on the gentlest lady eager
to imitate them. Therefore, run to her,
and you will sense the Graces as they breathe
feelings of love and images of grace.
Remember: Love unchaste they ever dread.
III
Come, lady with the harp, and play again!
Look at your lovely friend, arriving last:
she’ll dance around the altar in this rite.
The town whose plainland Pales fills with pastures
through industrious canals and countless poplars
singing sublimely in the lofty air
(fat oxen shade its outskirts) calls her back
to its nocturnal splendor in the midst
of gardens fresh with trees and golden-bright
with chariots along th’ Olona’s banks.
Once more the pleasure of her country home
this gentle one was seeking, for so near
is still Bellona’s cry she could not find
either upon the Tiber or the Arno—
where the more sacred Italy abides –
a single altar whence a regal bride
could lift her prayer to the Goddesses.
But then she heard the song, she heard the harp:
swiftly she turned to us just as in heaven
Hebe in her long, tucked-up dress would do.
Perched on her arm, she holds a youthful Swan;
now from her forehead she removes a chain,
pearl-studded, and soon binds the bird with it.
Slowly the Swan, with undulating grace
winding his neck around her neck, now feels
her raven hair on his white plumage loose,
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