Journal of Italian Translation

Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo
her dear first infant’s wailings she mistakes
for presages of death, and in that error
sends nothing but her weeping to the sky.
Blessèd is she, who has not yet been told
that infants would prefer eternal sleep,
and that their cries bespeak a life of woe.
As Flora at the song of Erato
perfected her embroidery, bright Dawn
wreathed the whole veil’s soft-waving, airy hems
with roses we know not — whose scent alone,
only if God is near, can reach the earth.
And, last of all immortal Goddesses,
blonde Hebe full of dew descended there:
her hair held fast by myriads of pearls,
she emptied the whole amphora she brought
and, silent still, with sweet ambrosia sprinkled
the fated, famous toil of all the other
Divinities: that veil eternal grew.
Finally all the Goddesses displayed
before the Graces the whole wondrous work;
in Love’s high flames in the meantime unscorched,
around they wandered to cheer up the earth
and, though so veiled, bare virgins were they still.
The holy veil gives out a sudden sound
as of a distant harp most dearly borne
on Zephyrs’ wings: in such a guise, one day,
throughout the isles of the Aegean Sea
an unknown harmony was faintly heard
after the fierce Bacchantes bound the lyre
that once was Orpheus’ to his handsome hair
sad plunged it down into the flowing waves:
sighing together with the near Ionian,
instantly the Aegean’s holy tide
echoed that melody till every isle
and Continent was full of all its awe.
Graces, farewell. Our festive hymns are yours,
but you will have much more lest we forget
upon the hills of Florence this sweet rite
when April’s here again. Your three enchanting
maidens around the altar will adorn
the golden harp with still a modern sound;
still more delightful dances will they weave,
and a more blissful song raise to you still.
Spring, leafy altar, votive swan and wreath,
dark cypress trees and golden honeycombs,
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