by Mark Musa
preso lo stil ch’ or prender mi bisogna,
che ’n giovenil fallir è men vergogna.
Li occhi soavi ond’ io soglio aver vita
de le divine lor alte bellezze
furmi in sul cominciar tanto cortesi,
che ’n guisa d’uom cui non proprie ricchezze
ma celato di for soccorso aita
vissimi, che né lor né altri offesi.
Or, ben ch’ a me ne pesi,
divento ingiurioso et importuno;
ché ’l poverel digiuno
ven ad atto talor che ’n miglior stato
avria in altrui biasmato.
Se le man di pietà invidia m’à chiuse,
fame amorosa e ’l non poter mi scuse.
For Rachel I have served and not for Leah,
nor with another could
I live; and I’d endure,
if Heaven calls us back,
to go with her in Elijah’s chariot.
207
I thought by now that I could live my life
as I have lived it during these past years,
without more study and new stratagems;
and now that I no longer have the help
I’m used to from my lady, you see, Love,
where you have led me teaching me such art.
It’s hard not to be angry
that at my age you turn me to a thief
of that fair charming light
without which I would not live in great pain.
If I had only learned
in my first years the style I now must take,
for there’s less shame in failing when you’re young.
Those gentle eyes which were my source of life
were through their beauty lofty and divine
so very kind to me at the beginning,
that like a man, who not by his own riches
but from some hidden help that is external,
I lived, and I harmed neither them nor her.
Now, though it gives me pain
I have become annoying, tiresome;
for a poor, starving wretch
can do sometimes what in a better state
he would have blamed in others.
If pity’s hand is closed to me by envy,
let loving hunger and no strength excuse me.
Ch’ i’ ò cercate già vie più di mille
per provar senza lor se mortal cosa
mi potesse tener in vita un giorno.
L’anima, poi ch’ altrove non à posa,
corre pur a l’angeliche faville,
et io che son di cera al foco torno;
et pongo mente intorno
ove si fa men guardia a quel ch’ i’ bramo,
et come augel in ramo
ove men teme, ivi più tosto è colto,
così dal suo bel volto
l’involo or uno et or un altro sguardo,
et di ciò insieme mi nutrico et ardo.
Di mia morte mi pasco et vivo in fiamme,
stranio cibo et mirabil salamandra!
ma miracol non è, da tal si vole.
Felice agnello a la penosa mandra
mi giacqui un tempo; or a l’estremo famme
et Fortuna et Amor pur come sole:
così rose et viole
à primavera, e ’l verno à neve et ghiaccio.
Pero s’ i’ mi procaccio
quinci et quindi alimenti al viver curto,
se vol dir che sia furto,
sì ricca donna deve esser contenta
s’ altri vive del suo, ch’ ella nol senta.
Chi nol sa di ch’ io vivo, et vissi sempre
dal dì che ’n prima que’ belli occhi vidi
che mi fecer cangiar vita et costume?
Per cercar terra et mar da tutt’ i lidi
chi po saver tutte l’umane tempre?
L’un vive, ecco, d’odor là sul gran fiume,
io qui di foco et lume
queto i frali et famelici mei spirti.
Amor (et vo’ ben dirti),
disconvensi a signor l’esser sì parco.
Tu ài li strali et l’arco,
fa di tua man, non pur bramand’, io mora;
ch’ un bel morir tutta la vita onora.
I’ve searched more than a thousand ways by now
to see if there is any mortal thing
could keep me living just one day without them.
My soul which finds its rest no other place
keeps running still to those angelic sparks,
and I a man of wax, melt in the flame.
I look around to see
where what I most desire is least guarded,
and like a bird in branches
that’s captured quicker where it’s least afraid,
so from her lovely face
I steal first one and then another glance
and by them I’m both nourished and I burn.
I feed on my own death and live in flames,
a strange food and a wondrous salamander!
But it’s no miracle—he wills it so.
A happy lamb within his sorry flock
I rested for awhile; now at the end
Fortune and Love treat me as they do others:
like violets and roses
come with the spring, and ice and snow in winter.
And so if here and there
I search for nourishment for my short life,
if she would call this theft,
so rich a lady ought to be content
to let one live on what she does not miss.
All know on what I live and always have
from that first day I saw those lovely eyes
that made me change my life and all my ways.
Search all the earth and sea on every shore—
who knows all of man’s different temperaments?
There’s one who lives by smell on the great river,
I, here, with light and fire
appease my fragile spirits that are starving.
Love (and I must say this)
such stinginess does not befit a lord!
You have the bow and arrows,
let me die by your hand and not from yearning,
for a good death can honor one’s whole life.
Chiusa fiamma è più ardente, et se pur cresce,
in alcun modo più non po celarsi.
Amor, i’ ’l so, che ’l provo a le tue mani.
Vedesti ben quando sì tacito arsi,
or de’ miei gridi a me medesmo incresce,
che vo noiando et prossimi et lontani.
O mondo, o penser vani!
O mia forte ventura, a che m’adduce?
O di che vaga luce
al cor mi nacque la tenace speme
onde l’annoda et preme
quella che con tua forza al fin mi mena!
La colpa è vostra et mio ’l danno et la pena.
Così di ben amar porto tormento,
et del peccato altrui cheggio perdono—
anzi del mio, che devea torcer li occhi
dal troppo lume, et di sirene al suono
chiuder li orecchi, et ancor non men pento
che di dolce veleno il cor trabocchi.
Aspett’ io pur che scocchi
l’ultimo colpo chi mi diede ’l primo;
et fia, s’ i’ dritto estimo,
un modo di pietate occider tosto,
non essendo ei disposto
a far altro di me che quel che soglia:
ché ben muor chi morendo esce di doglia.
Canzon mia, fermo in campo
starò, ch’ elli è disnor morir fuggendo;
et me stesso reprendo
di tai lamenti, sì dolce è mia sorte,
pianto, sospiri et morte.
Servo d’Amor che queste rime leggi:
ben non à ’l mondo che ’l mio mal pareggi.
A hidden flame burns hottest; should it grow,
there is no way for it to stay concealed;
you know this, Love, since I am in your hands.
You saw it well when I burned in such silence;
now I myself regret those cries of mine,
for I’ve become a nuisance near and far.
O world, O thought in vain,
O my hard fortune, where are you taking me?
O from what lovely light
was that tenacious hope born in my heart
with which she knots and chokes it,
that one who with your power leads me to death!
The fault is yours, and mine the loss and pain.
And so from loving well I bear the pain,
and for another’s sin I beg for pardon—
rather for mine, because I should have shut
my eyes from too much light and closed my ears
from siren song, but still I am not sorry
my heart is overflowing with sweet poison.
I wait for him who shot
the first to shoot the final shaft at me,
and it will be, if I
am right, the kind of pity quick to kill,
since he is not disposed
to treat me differently than in the past:
to die well is to die and leave the pain.
My song, I’ll hold the field,
for it’s dishonorable to die in flight;
and I reproach myself
for such laments; so sweet my destiny,
my tears and sighs, my death. Love’s servant,
you who read my verses here,
the world has no good equal to my bad.
208
Rapido fiume, che d’alpestra vena
rodendo intorno (onde ’l tuo nome prendi)
notte et dì meco disioso scendi
ov’ Amor me, te sol Natura mena:
vattene innanzi, il tuo corso non frena
né stanchezza né sonno; et pria che rendi
suo dritto al mar, fiso u’ si mostri attendi
l’erba più verde et l’aria più serena.
Ivi è quel nostro vivo et dolce sole
ch’ adorna e ’nfiora la tua riva manca;
forse (o che spero!) el mio tardar le dole.
Basciale ’l piede o la man bella et bianca;
dille e ’l basciar sie ’n vece di parole:
“Lo spirto è pronto, ma la carne è stanca.”
209
I dolci colli ov’ io lasciai me stesso,
partendo onde partir giamai non posso,
mi vanno innanzi, et emmi ogni or a dosso
quel caro peso ch’ Amor m’à commesso.
Meco di me mi meraviglio spesso
ch’ i’ pur vo sempre, et non son ancor mosso
dal bel giogo più volte indarno scosso,
ma com’ più me n’allungo et più m’appresso.
Et qual cervo ferito di saetta
col ferro avelenato dentr’ al fianco
fugge et più duolsi quanto più s’affretta,
tal io, con quello stral dal lato manco
che mi consuma et parte mi diletta,
di duol mi struggo et di fuggir mi stanco.
208
Rapid river, coming from alpine source
gnawing (from which your name derives) your way,
who night and day with me descends in yearning
where Love leads me, and you by Nature only,
flow on ahead; your course is not impeded
by sleep or weariness; before you give the sea
its due, look closely where the grass appears
more green and where the air is more serene.
There is that sun of ours alive and sweet,
adorning, turning your left bank to flowers;
perhaps (oh what hope!) my slowness makes her grieve.
And kiss her foot or white and lovely hand;
tell her, and let your kiss be like your words:
”The spirit’s ready, but the flesh is weak.”
209
Those hills of sweetness where I left myself,
leaving the place which I can never leave,
are there before me, and behind me still
is that dear burden Love has given me.
And many times I am amazed to find
that though I move, I’ve still not moved away
from the fair yoke in vain I’ve often shaken—
the farther I go, the closer I become.
Just like a stag that’s wounded by an arrow,
a poisoned piece of iron stuck in his side,
will flee and feel more pain the more it runs,
so I, with that shaft piercing my left side,
destroying me while giving me delight,
am pained with grief and tired from my running.
210
Non da l’ispano Ibero a l’indo Idaspe
ricercando del mar ogni pendice,
né dal lito vermiglio a l’onde caspe,
né ’n ciel né ’n terra è più d’una fenice.
Qual destro corvo o qual manca cornice
canti ’l mio fato, o qual Parca l’innaspe?
ché sol trovo pietà sorda com’ aspe,
misero, onde sperava esser felice.
Ch’ i’ non vo’ dir di lei, ma chi la scorge,
tutto ’l cor di dolcezza et d’amor gl’empie,
tanto n’à seco et tant’ altrui ne porge.
Et per far mie dolcezze amare et empie,
o s’infinge o non cura o non s’accorge
del fiorir queste inanzi tempo tempie.
211
Voglia mi sprona, Amor mi guida et scorge,
Piacer mi tira, Usanza mi trasporta;
Speranza mi lusinga et riconforta
et la man destra al cor già stanco porge,
e ’l misero la prende et non s’accorge
di nostra cieca et disleale scorta;
regnano i sensi et la ragion è morta;
de l’un vago desio l’altro risorge.
Vertute, onor, bellezza, atto gentile,
dolci parole ai be’ rami n’àn giunto
ove soavemente il cor s’invesca.
Mille trecento ventisette, a punto
su l’ora prima, il dì sesto d’aprile,
nel laberinto intrai, né veggio ond’ esca.
210
Not from Spain’s Ebro to India’s Hydaspes,
though searching every slope into the sea,
not from the Red shore to the Caspian waves,
in Heaven, on earth, is there another phoenix.
What crow to right, what raven to my left
sings of my fate? What Sister Fate enspools it?
For me alone Pity is a deaf asp,
wretch that I am, where I hoped to find joy.
I will not speak of her; to see her, though,
fills up one’s heart with sweetness and with love—
she has so much, so much she offers others.
To make the sweetness I feel cruel and bitter
she feigns, or does not care, or does not see
my temples flower white before their time.
211
Desire spurs me, Love sees and guides my way,
Pleasure pulls me, Habit carries me away,
Hope teases me, gives me encouragement;
to my tired heart it offers its right hand,
and the poor thing accepts it unaware
of how disloyal and blind our guide can be.
The senses reign, and reason now is dead;
from one pleasing desire comes another.
Virtue, honor, beauty, gracious bearing,
sweet words have caught me in her lovely branches
in which my heart is tenderly entangled.
In thirteen twenty-seven, and precisely
at the first hour of the sixth of April
I entered the labyrinth, and I see no way out.
212
&n
bsp; Beato in sogno et di languir contento,
d’abbracciar l’ombre et seguir l’aura estiva,
nuoto per mar che non à fondo o riva;
solco onde, e ’n rena fondo, et scrivo in vento;
e ’l sol vagheggio si ch’ elli à già spento
col suo splendor la mia vertù visiva;
et una cerva errante et fugitiva
caccio con un bue zoppo e ’nfermo et lento.
Cieco et stanco ad ogni altro ch’ al mio danno,
il qual di et notte palpitando cerco,
sol Amor et Madonna et Morte chiamo.
Così venti anni, grave et lungo affanno,
pur lagrime et sospiri et dolor merco:
in tale Stella presi l’esca et l’amo!
213
Grazie ch’ a pochi il Ciel largo destina,
rara vertù non già d’umana gente,
sotto biondi capei canuta mente
e ’n umil donna alta beltà divina,
leggiadria singulare et pellegrina
e ’l cantar che ne l’anima si sente,
l’andar celeste e ’l vago spirto ardente
ch’ ogni dur rompe et ogni altezza inchina,
et que’ belli occhi che i cor fanno smalti,
possenti a rischiarar abisso et notti
et torre l’alme a’ corpi et darle altrui,
col dir pien d’intelletti dolci et alti,
coi sospiri soavemente rotti:
da questi magi transformato fui.
212
Blest in my dreams and satisfied to languish,
embrace shadows and chase a summer breeze,
I swim a sea that knows no depth or shore,
plow waves and build on sand and write in wind,
and I gaze at the sun whose splendor now
extinguishes the power of my sight;
and for a doe that wanders off and flees
I hunt with ox that’s lame and sick and slow.
Weary and blind to all but my own harm,
which day and night I seek with trembling heart,
only for Love, Lady, and Death I call.
So twenty years of long and heavy labor
have won me only tears and sighs of sorrow—
under this star I took the bait and hook.
213
Those graces generous Heaven gives to few,
uncommon virtues, unknown in mankind,
beneath blond hair the wisdom of gray age,
beauty, divine and high in modest lady,