by Mark Musa
and this one is more fair, more chaste than she:
perhaps God wants so great a friend of virtue
taken from earth and made a star in Heaven—
rather a sun! If this be so my life,
my brief respites and my long suffering
have reached their end. O cruel separation,
why do you keep me so far from my harm?
My little fable has by now been told,
and in my middle years my time is filled.
255
They wish for night, they hate the coming dawn,
is what untroubled, happy lovers do:
for me the night redoubles woes and weeping;
the morning is for me a happier hour,
when often at the same time those two suns
will open, as it were two Orients
so similar in beauty and in light
that even the heavens fall in love with earth,
as they had done before when the first boughs
were green and in my heart their roots were sunk,
making me love another more than me.
So with me deal those two opposing hours;
it’s right I seek the one that gives me peace
and fear and hate the one that brings me pain.
256
Far potess’ io vendetta di colei
che guardando et parlando mi distrugge
et, per più doglia, poi s’asconde et fugge,
celando li occhi a me si dolci et rei!
Cosi li affitti et stanchi spirti mei
a poco a poco consumando sugge,
e ’n sul cor quasi fiero leon rugge
la notte, allor quand’ io posar devrei.
L’alma, cui morte del suo albergo caccia,
da me si parte; et di tal nodo sciolta
vassene pur a lei che la minaccia.
Meravigliomi ben s’ alcuna volta,
mentre le parla et piange et poi l’abbraccia,
non rompe il sonno suo, s’ ella l’ascolta.
257
In quel bel viso ch’ i’ sospiro et bramo
fermi eran li occhi desiosi e ’ntensi,
quando Amor porse—quasi a dir: “Che pensi?”—
quella onorata man che second’ amo.
Il cor, preso ivi come pesce a l’amo
onde a ben far per vivo esempio viensi,
al ver non volse li occupati sensi,
o come novo augello al visco in ramo;
ma la vista, privata del suo obietto,
quasi sognando si facea far via
senza la qual è ’l suo bene imperfetto.
L’alma, tra l’una et l’altra gloria mia,
qual celeste non so novo diletto
et qual strania dolcezza si sentia.
256
Could I but take my vengeance on the one
destroying me with glances and with words,
and then, for more pain, who runs off and hides,
concealing from me eyes so sweet and cruel!
And so, my weary and afflicted spirit
little by little she consumes and saps,
and like a lion above my heart there roars
the night, the time when I should be at rest.
My soul, which Death is chasing from its home,
departs from me, and freed from such a knot,
it rushes straight to her who threatens it.
It would indeed surprise me if some time
while speaking, weeping, then embracing her
it did not break her sleep, were she to listen.
257
Upon that lovely face I sigh and yearn for,
my eyes intense and full of wish were fixed,
when Love, as if to say “What’s wrong?” stretched out
that honored hand which is my second love.
My heart, now caught there like a fish on hook—
where he finds virtue living as example—
or like a young bird snared by sticky branch,
his busied senses did not turn to truth;
but then my sight, deprived now of its object,
as if within a dream, cleared its own way,
without which its own good remains imperfect.
My soul, between one glory and the other,
who knows what new and heavenly delight,
what supernatural sweetness felt inside.
258
Vive faville uscian de’ duo bei lumi
ver me sì dolcemente folgorando,
et parte d’un cor saggio, sospirando,
d’alta eloquenzia sì soavi fiumi,
che pur il rimembrar par mi consumi,
qualor a quel dì torno, ripensando
come venieno i miei spirti mancando
al variar de’ suoi duri costumi.
L’alma nudrita sempre in doglia e ’n pene
(quanto è ’l poder d’una prescritta usanza!)
contra ’l doppio piacer sì ’nferma fue
ch’ al gusto sol del disusato bene,
tremando or di paura or di speranza,
d’abandonarme fu spesso entra due.
259
Cercato ò sempre solitaria vita—
le rive il sanno et le campagne e i boschi—
per fuggir questi ingegni sordi et loschi
che la strada del Cielo ànno smarrita;
et se mia voglia in ciò fusse compita,
fuor del dolce aere de’ paesi toschi
ancor m’avria tra’ suoi bei colli foschi
Sorga, ch’ a pianger et cantar m’aita.
Ma mia fortuna, a me sempre nemica,
mi risospigne al loco ov’ io mi sdegno
veder nel fango il bel tesoro mio;
a la man ond’ io scrivo è fatta amica
a questa volta, et non è forse indegno:
Amor sel vide, et sa ’l Madonna et io.
258
From those two lovely lights came living sparks
like lightning sweetly striking out at me,
and at the same time from a wise heart, sighing,
poured such a gentle stream of lofty words
that just the thought of it consumes me still,
when I recall that day and start to think
how all my spirits then began to swoon
under the change in her accustomed harshness.
The soul, nourished always in grief and pain
(how great the power of habitualness!),
struck by the double pleasure, felt so weak
at the mere taste of unaccustomed good,
now trembling with fear and now with hope,
threatened to leave me often in between.
259
I’ve always sought a solitary life—
the shores, the meadows and the woods know this—
to run away from deaf and devious minds
that have betrayed the path that leads to Heaven;
and if my wishes were fulfilled in this,
outside of the sweet air of Tuscany,
Sorgue, there along its lovely, shady hills,
would have me still and help me weep and sing.
But fortune which has always been my foe,
pushes me back to where I fill with anger
to see my lovely treasure in the mud;
and with this hand by which I write it has,
this once, made friends—and perhaps justly so:
Love saw to it, my lady and I know this.
260
In tale Stella duo belli occhi vidi,
tutti pien d’onestate et di dolcezza,
che presso a quei d’Amor leggiadri nidi
il mio cor lasso ogni altra vista sprezza.
Non si pareggi a lei qual più s’aprezza
in qual ch’ etade, in quai che strani lidi:
non chi recò con sua vaga bellezza
in Grecia affanni, in Troia ultimi stridi,
no la bella romana che col ferro<
br />
apre il suo casto et disdegnoso petto,
non Polissena, Isifile et Argia.
Questa eccellenzia è gloria, s’ i’ non erro,
grande a Natura; a me sommo diletto,
ma che ven tardo et subito va via.
261
Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama
di senno, di valor, di cortesia
miri fiso nelli occhi a quella mia
nemica che mia donna il mondo chiama.
Come s’acquista onor, come Dio s’ama,
come è giunta onestà con leggiadria
ivi s’impara, et qual è dritta via
di gir al Ciel, che lei aspetta et brama,
ivi ’l parlar che nullo stile aguaglia,
e ’l bel tacere, et quei cari costumi
che ’ngegno uman non po spiegar in carte.
L’infinita bellezza ch’ altrui abbaglia
non vi s’impara, ché quei dolci lumi
s’acquistan per ventura et non per arte.
260
In such a star I saw two lovely eyes
filled full of honesty and loveliness,
that next to those two charming nests of Love
my weary heart disdains all other sights.
No one can equal her, not she most praised
in any age, on any foreign shore:
not even she who with her charming beauty
brought Greece hardship and Troy its final shrieks,
and not the lovely Roman who with iron
opened that chaste, contemptuous breast of hers,
not Polyxena, Hypsipyle, Argeia.
This excellence, if I am right, is Nature’s
great glory and for me its highest joy,
but one that’s long in coming, quick to flee.
261
Let any lady who wants glorious fame
for having wisdom, virtue, courtesy,
look deep into the eyes belonging to
my enemy called by the world my lady.
How to acquire honor, how God is loved,
how chastity is wed to charming ways,
she’ll learn therein, as well as the straight path
to take to Heaven that waits and yearns for her,
and there the speech no style can imitate,
the lovely silences, the cherished ways
which mortal wit cannot explain on paper.
The endless beauty dazzling all of us
she cannot learn therein, for those sweet rays
are gained by destiny and not by art.
262
“Cara la vita, et dopo lei mi pare
vera onestà che ’n bella donna sia.”
“L’ordine volgi; e’ non fur, madre mia,
senza onestà mai cose belle o care,
“et qual si lascia di suo onor privare
né donna è più, né viva; et se qual pria
appare in vista, è tal vita aspra et ria
via più che morte et di più pene amare.
“Nè di Lucrezia mi meravigliai,
se non come a morir le bisognasse
ferro et non le bastasse il dolor solo.”
Vengan quanti filosofi fur mai
a dir di ciò, tutte lor vie fien basse,
et quest’una vedremo alzarsi a volo!
263
Arbor vittoriosa triunfale,
onor d’imperadori et di poeti:
quanti m’ài fatto dì dogliosi et lieti
in questa breve mia vita mortale!
Vera Donna, et a cui di nulla cale
se non d’onor che sovr’ ogni altra mieti,
né d’Amor visco temi o lacci o reti,
né ’nganno altrui contra ’l tuo senno vale:
gentilezza di sangue et l’altre care
cose tra noi, perle et robini et oro,
quasi vil soma egualmente dispregi;
l’alta beltà ch’ al mondo non à pare
noia t’è se non quanto il bel tesoro
di castità par ch’ ella adorni et fregi.
262
“Precious is life, and after it, I think,
true virtue that is found in a fair lady.”
“You shift the order, mother, there is nothing
that’s fair or dear and is not without virtue,
“and who allows her honor to be taken
is not a lady or alive—if some
appear to be, their life is grim and harsh
much more than death and bitterer with sorrow.
“Lucretia’s story still surprises me
because she needed steel so she could die,
and that her grief alone did not suffice.”
Let all philosophers that ever were
come speak of this—their ways will all be low,
and hers alone we’ll see rise high in flight.
263
O tree triumphal and victorious,
the honor of the emperors and poets,
how many days of grief and joy you gave me
in this brief life of my mortality!
Lady of truth who cares for nothing but
the honor which you reap above all others,
nor do you fear Love’s viscous snares or nets,
nor can deceit avail against your wisdom!
Gentility of blood and other cherished
things we possess, rubies and pearls and gold,
like useless weight you equally despise.
Your lofty beauty, unequalled in the world,
bores you, except that it seems to adorn
and crown the lovely treasure of your chasteness.
264
I’ vo pensando, et nel penser m’assale
una pietà sì forte di me stesso
che mi conduce spesso
ad altro lagrimar ch’ i’ non soleva:
ché vedendo ogni giorno il fin più presso,
mille fiate ò chieste a Dio quell’ale
co le quai del mortale
carcer nostr’intelletto al Ciel si leva.
Ma infin a qui niente mi releva
prego o sospiro o lagrimar ch’ io faccia;
et cosi per ragion conven che sia,
ché chi possendo star cadde tra via
degno è che mal suo grado a terra giaccia.
Quelle pietose braccia
in ch’ io mi fido veggio aperte ancora,
ma temenza m’accora
per gli altrui esempli, et del mio stato tremo,
ch’ altri mi sprona et son forse a l’estremo.
L’un penser parla co la mente, et dice:
“Che pur agogni? onde soccorso attendi?
Misera, non intendi
con quanto tuo disnore il tempo passa?
Prendi partito accortamente, prendi,
et del cor tuo divelli ogni radice
del piacer che felice
nol po mai fare et respirar nol lassa.
“Se già è gran tempo fastidita et lassa
se’ di quel falso dolce fuggitivo
che ’l mondo traditor può dare altrui,
a che ripon’ più la speranza in lui?
ché d’ogni pace et di fermezza è privo.
Mentre che ’l corpo è vivo,
ài tu ’l freno in bailia de’ penser tuoi.
Deh stringilo or che poi,
ché dubbioso è ’l tardar, come tu sai,
e ’l cominciar non fia per tempo omai.
“Già sai tu ben quanta dolcezza porse
agli occhi tuoi la vista di colei,
264
I go on thinking, and I’m seized in thought
by such abundant pity for myself
that often I am led
to weeping for a different kind of grief:
for seeing every day the end come closer,
a thousand times I’ve begged God for those wings
with which our intellect
can soar to Heaven from this mortal jail.
But until now
I have received no help,
no matter how I plead or sigh or weep,
and it is only just that it be so—
if he who can walk straight chooses to fall,
then he deserves to lie upon the ground.
Those arms stretched out in mercy
in which I trust are open to me still,
but I still fear to think
how others ended, and I dread my state
and am spurred on, and it could be too late.
A thought speaks to the mind and it declares:
“You’re longing still? What help do you expect?
You poor thing, don’t you see
with what dishonor time is passing by?
Make up your mind now, wisely, and decide
to pull out of your heart every last root
of pleasure that can never
bring happiness, nor will it let you breathe.
Since you have long been tired and disgusted
by that false sweetness of a fleeting good,
a gift the treacherous world bestows on some,
why do you still place hope in such a thing
devoid of all peace and stability?
While life is in your body
you have the rein of all thoughts in your hands.
Hold tight now while you can,
for, as you know, delay is dangerous,
and now is not too early to begin.
“How well you know the great amount of sweetness
your eyes have taken from the sight of her,
la qual anco vorrei
ch’ a nascer fosse, per più nostra pace.
Ben ti ricordi et ricordar ten dei
de l’imagine sua, quand’ ella corse
al cor, là dove forse
non potea fiamma intrar per altrui face.
“Ella l’accese, et se l’ardor fallace
durò molt’anni in aspettando un giorno
che per nostra salute unqua non vene,
or ti solleva a più beata spene
mirando ’l ciel che ti si volve intorno
immortal et adorno;
ché dove del mal suo qua giù sì lieta
vostra vaghezza acqueta
un mover d’occhi, un ragionar, un canto,
quanto fia quel placer, se questo è tanto?”
Da l’altra parte un pensier dolce et agro,