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"E tu ne' carmi avrai perenne vita..." -- Ugo Foscolo
To His Brother
(translation of a sonnet by Ugo Foscolo)
Some day, if I am not always fleeing From folk to folk, thou shalt see me seated On thy tomb, O brother mine, groaning for The fallen flower of thy gentle years. Our mother, living now her last sad days Alone, to thy mute ashes speaks of me, But I stretch forth deluded palms to both And only from afar salute my home. Sensing the hostile gods and secret cares That roused a raging tempest in thy life, I too pray that quiet bless thy haven. Of so much hope, today just this remains! At death, strangers, restore at least my bones Unto my melancholy mother's breast.Translation © Carl Selph, 1999On His Father's Death
(translation of a sonnet by Ugo Foscolo)
Night fell, and by the bed of death I watched My father in his final suffering Dry his dim eyes to look with tenderness On me and utter a faint word -- farewell; Then, every earthly aim forgotten, raise His head to fix his dying gaze on God; While with her hair unbound my mother beat Her breast and echoed my despairing sobs. He turned his streaming eyes on us. Ah, now, Enough! he said and, falling silent, leaned His brow on his unsteady hand and hid Himself. And all of us were hushed. But when His soul passed on, the quiet ceased: the dread Nocturnal calm moaned at our lovelorn cries.Translation © Carl Selph, 1999
(translation of a sonnet by Ugo Foscolu)
And thou in poems shalt have unending life, Shore greeted by the Arno on its course Splitting the city that today still clings To the vanished shadow of its Latin name. Once, from thy bridge into the frightened waves The Ghibelline and Papal furor poured Abundant blood, where now to pilgrims one Points out the dwelling of the untamed bard. So dear to me, O happy, famous bank, Where she with graceful paces oft would tread, Her mien and semblance to a goddess true, And on me smitten turn her blessed eyes, While I could sense the ravished breezes waft Ambrosia from her flowing, golden hair.Translation © Carl Selph, 1999Editor's Note: The "untamed bard" is Vittorio Alfieri; Foscolo's "she" was Isabella Roncioni.
(translation of a sonnet by Ugo Foscolo)
On the Capital Sentence proposed by the Cisalpine Council against the Latin LanguageNurse, host, and goddess of the muses -- all The uncouth conquerors have called you so; And this, for us, lightened the shameful load We bore -- varied, age-long, and infamous; For if your reason and Rome's bravery Were slain by vice, the years, and evil luck, Within you lived the noble tongue that wreathed Your flowing, servile hair with kingly bay. Now, Italy, burn before your Genius These last remains of an empire so great; Indeed, your Tuscan speech, celestial-- With foreign talk dilute it even more, So that still more than on your tattered robes Victors may gloat on your barbarities.Translation © Carl Selph, 1999All text on this page is copyrighted by Carl Selph and appears here by permission. All rights reserved. It may not be archived beyond one personal electronic copy for offline reading; such a copy must include the entire text of the present notice and the author's name. It may not be printed, posted on a web-site, distributed publicly or privately, used or quoted in whole or in part, or published in any manner or form whatsoever without the author's explicit permission. E-mail Wordreign to contact Carl Selph and your request will be promptly forwarded.
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