Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
Escorted by those sounds, Erato’s song
soared limpid in the air, and with her needle
Flora depicted what the singing meant.
Weave, fragrant Goddess, weave now rosy threads,
and, painted in the middle of the veil,
let ever-daring, ever-dancing Youth
join in the singing chorus of her hopes.
Time oft and dully strikes his ancient lyre
while down a hill that no one climbs again
the dancing maiden’s coming. At her feet
the Graces waken blossoms, that she may
replenish all her garlands happily.
Oh, when your hair will lose its golden glow,
and you, sweet Youth, will lose your very name,
living and living still, those very flowers
around a tomb will shed their final scent.
Now, lovely Goddess, weave snow-dazzling threads,
and from your fingers’ effort let at once
Hesperus on the veil’s right side arise:
through rays and shadows out of myrtle trees
murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss;
unseen, a nightingale sees them, instead,
listens in silence and then sings of love:
bashful, into the forest back they flee.
Mother of wreaths, weave laurel leaves with hreads,
and let Dream linger on the veil’s left side
with Dawn’s own mirrors, flashing on the weary
eyes of a sleeping warrior the grieving
images of a mother and a father
offering at the altar vows and tears:
suddenly he awakes and with a sigh
looks at poor prisoners he still must guard.
Weave, gentle Flora, gold along with threads,
and let the painted right side now exult
with a most joyous banquet: fast about,
let Genius crown the exiles’ goblets first.
Now free is all the joy, cheerful the blame,
and genuine the praise. There in a corner
beautiful Silence sits alone and stares,
wittily warning all to keep their words
under the secret safety of the roof.
Weave, Goddess, now, weave now cerulean threads,
and let the painted left side now reveal
a woman in the darkness still awake:
holding a lamp over a cradle lit,
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