There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man -
It hurls it’s barbed syllables
And is mute again -
But where it fell
The Saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away!
Wherever runs the breathless sun -
Wherever roams the day -
There is it’s noiseless onset -
There is it’s victory!
Behold the keenest marksman-
The most accomplished host!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot”!
C’è una parola
Che porta una spada
Può trafiggere un uomo armato -
Scaglia le sue sillabe uncinate
Ed è muta di nuovo -
Ma dove cadde
I Salvati lo diranno
Nel giorno patriottico,
Qualche Fratello con spalline
Rese il suo respiro!
Dovunque corre il sole senza fiato -
Dovunque vaga il giorno -
Là è il suo assalto silenzioso -
Là è la sua vittoria!
Ecco il tiratore più acuto -
La schiera più compiuta!
Il bersaglio più sublime del Tempo
È un’anima “dimenticata”!
A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!
Your prayers, oh Passer by!
From such a common ball as this
Might date a Victory!
From marshallings as simple
The flags of nations swang.
Steady — my soul: What issues
Upon thine arrow hang!
Un Giorno! Aiuto! Aiuto! Un altro Giorno!
Le vostre preghiere, oh Passante!
Da una palla così comune
Potrebbe datarsi una Vittoria!
Da adunate altrettanto semplici
Ondeggiarono le bandiere delle nazioni.
Salda — mia anima: Quali esiti
Pendono dalla tua freccia!
SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.
Il SUCCESSO è stimato più dolce
Da chi non riesce mai.
Per comprendere un nettare
Occorre il più acerbo bisogno.
Nessuno di tutta la schiera purpurea
Che oggi prese la bandiera
Sa dire la definizione,
Così chiara, della vittoria,
Come colui che, vinto, morente,
Al cui orecchio interdetto
I lontani accordi del trionfo
Rompono, straziati e chiari.
Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
Who never climbed the weary league —
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro’s shore?
How many Legions overcome —
The Emperor will say?
How many Colors taken
On Revolution Day?
How many Bullets bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write “Promoted”
On this Soldier’s brow!
Chi mai non perse, è impreparato
Un Diadema a trovare!
Chi mai non ebbe sete
Fiaschi, e Tamarindo Rinfrescante!
Chi mai non scalò la lega estenuante —
Può un tale piede esplorare
I territori purpurei
Sulla riva di Pizarro?
Quante Legioni vinte —
Dirà l’Imperatore?
Quanti Vessilli presi
Nel Giorno della Rivoluzione?
Quante Pallottole porti?
Hai Tu la cicatrice Regale?
Angeli! Scrivete “Promosso”
Sulla fronte di questo Soldato!
To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.
Combattere ad alta voce è gran coraggio,
Ma più prode, io so,
Chi carica dentro il petto
La cavalleria del dolore.
Chi vince, e le nazioni non vedono,
Chi cade, e nessuno osserva,
I cui occhi morenti nessun paese
Guarda con patriottico amore.
Confidiamo, in piumata processione,
Che per costoro vadano gli angeli,
Fila dopo fila, con passo uguale
E uniformi di neve.
Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast —
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white —
I should not fear the foe then —
I should not fear the fight!
Benedici Dio, andò come i soldati,
Il moschetto sul petto —
Conceda Dio che carichi i più prodi
Di tutti i beati in armi!
Piaccia a Dio ch’io possa vederlo
In bianco di spalline —
Allora non avrei paura del nemico —
Non avrei paura della battaglia!
If any sink, assure that this, now standing —
Failed like Themselves — and conscious that it rose —
Grew by the Fact, and not the Understanding
How Weakness passed — or Force — arose —
Tell that the Worst, is easy in a Moment —
Dread, but the Whizzing, before the Ball —
When the Ball enters, enters Silence —
Dying — annuls the power to kill.
Se qualcuno affonda, assicura che questo, ora in piedi —
Cadde come Loro — e conscio che risorse —
Crebbe per il Fatto, e non per il Comprendere
Come passò la Debolezza — o la Forza — sorse —
Di’ che il Peggio, è lieve in un Momento —
Temi, solo il Sibilo, prima della Palla —
Quando la Palla entra, entra il Silenzio —
Morire — annulla il potere di uccidere.
It feels a shame to be Alive —
When Men so brave — are dead —
One envies the Distinguished Dust —
Permitted — such a Head —
The Stone — that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we — possessed
In Pawn for Liberty —
The price is great — Sublimely paid —
Do we deserve — a Thing —
That lives — like Dollars — must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait — sufficient worth —
That such Enormous Pearl
As life — dissolved be — for Us —
In Battle’s — horrid Bowl?
It may be — a Renown to live —
I think the Man who die —
Those unsustained — Saviors —
Present Divinity —
Sembra una vergogna essere Vivi —
Quando Uomini così valorosi — son morti —
Si invidia l’Illustre Polvere —
Cui fu concesso — un tale Capo —
La Pietra — che dice difendendo Chi
Questo Spartano depose
Quel poco di Lui che noi — possedevamo
In Pegno per la Libertà —
Il prezzo è grande — Sublimemente pagato —
Meritiamo noi — una Cosa —
Che vive — come Dollari — da accumulare
Prima che si possa ottenere?
Valiamo noi che attendiamo — abbastanza —
Perché una così Enorme Perla
Come la vita — si dissolva — per Noi —
Nell’orrida — Coppa della Battaglia?
Sarà forse — una Gloria vivere —
Io penso che l’Uomo che muore —
Quei non sorretti — Salvatori —
Presentino la Divinità —
Except the Heaven had come so near —
So seemed to choose My Door —
The Distance would not haunt me so —
I had not hoped — before —
But just to hear the Grace depart —
I never thought to see —
Afflicts me with a Double loss —
‘Tis lost — and lost to me —
Se il Cielo non fosse giunto così vicino —
Non fosse parso scegliere la Mia Porta —
La Distanza non mi perseguiterebbe tanto —
Non avevo sperato — prima —
Ma udire soltanto la Grazia partire —
Che mai pensai di vedere —
Mi affligge d’una Doppia perdita —
È perduta — e perduta per me —
I took my Power in my Hand —
And went against the World —
‘Twas not so much as David — had —
But I — was twice as bold —
I aimed by Pebble — but Myself
Was all the one that fell —
Was it Goliath — was too large —
Or was myself — too small?
Presi il mio Potere nella Mano —
E andai contro il Mondo —
Non era quanto Davide — aveva —
Ma io — ero due volte più audace —
Mirai col Ciottolo — ma Io sola
Fui quella che cadde —
Fu Golia — a esser troppo grande —
O fui io — troppo piccola?
My Portion is Defeat — today —
A paler luck than Victory —
Less Paeans — fewer Bells —
The Drums don’t follow Me — with tunes —
Defeat — a somewhat slower — means —
More Arduous than Balls —
‘Tis populous with Bone and stain —
And Men too straight to stoop again —,
And Piles of solid Moan —
And Chips of Blank — in Boyish Eyes —
And scraps of Prayer —
And Death’s surprise,
Stamped visible — in Stone —
There’s somewhat prouder, over there —
The Trumpets tell it to the Air —
How different Victory
To Him who has it — and the One
Who to have had it, would have been
Contenteder — to die —
La mia Porzione è Sconfitta — oggi —
Fortuna più pallida che Vittoria —
Meno Peana — meno Campane —
I Tamburi non Mi seguono — con musiche —
Sconfitta — un mezzo — alquanto più lento —
Più Arduo delle Palle di cannone —
È popolata d’Ossa e macchia —
E Uomini troppo rigidi per chinarsi ancora —,
E Cumuli di solido Gemito —
E Schegge di Vuoto — in Occhi di Ragazzo —
E brandelli di Preghiera —
E la sorpresa della Morte,
Stampata visibile — nella Pietra —
C’è qualcosa di più fiero, laggiù —
Le Trombe lo dicono all’Aria —
Com’è diversa la Vittoria
Per Chi la possiede — e per Colui
Che ad averla avuta, sarebbe stato
Più Contento — di morire —
Wolfe demanded during dying
”Which obtain the Day”?
”General, the British” — “Easy”
Answered Wolfe “to die”
Montcalm, his opposing Spirit
Rendered with a smile
”Sweet” said he “my own Surrender
Liberty’s beguile”
Wolfe chiese morendo
”Chi ottiene il Giorno”?
”Generale, gli Inglesi” — “Facile”
Rispose Wolfe “morire”
Montcalm, il suo Spirito avverso
Rese con un sorriso
”Dolce” disse “la mia propria Resa
Lusinga della Libertà”
My Life had stood — a Loaded Gun —
In Corners — till a Day
The Owner passed — identified —
And carried Me away —
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods —
And now We hunt the Doe —
And every time I speak for Him —
The Mountains straight reply —
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow —
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through —
And when at Night — Our good Day done —
I guard My Master’s Head —
‘Tis better than the Eider-Duck’s
Deep Pillow — to have shared —
To foe of His — I’m deadly foe —
None stir the second time —
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye —
Or an emphatic Thumb —
Though I than He — may longer live
He longer must — than I —
For I have but the power to kill,
Without — the power to die —
La mia Vita era stata — un Fucile Carico —
Negli Angoli — finché un Giorno
Il Proprietario passò — mi riconobbe —
E mi portò via —
E ora vaghiamo per Boschi Sovrani —
E ora cacciamo la Cerva —
E ogni volta che parlo per Lui —
Le Montagne subito rispondono —
E se sorrido, una luce così cordiale
Sulla Valle risplende —
È come se un volto Vesuviano
Avesse lasciato filtrare il suo piacere —
E quando a Notte — finito il Nostro buon Giorno —
Io veglio il Capo del mio Padrone —
È meglio che dell’Anatra Eider
Il fondo Guanciale — aver diviso —
Del nemico Suo — sono nemica mortale —
Nessuno si muove una seconda volta —
Su chi io posi un Occhio Giallo —
O un Pollice enfatico —
Benché io di Lui — possa vivere più a lungo
Lui più a lungo deve — di me —
Perché io ho solo il potere di uccidere,
Senza — il potere di morire —
—
He fought like those Who’ve nought to lose —
Bestowed Himself to Balls
As One who for a further Life
Had not a further Use —
Invited Death — with bold attempt —
But Death was Coy of Him
As Other Men, were Coy of Death —
To Him — to live — was Doom —
His Comrades, shifted like the Flakes
When Gusts reverse the Snow —
But He — was left alive Because
Of Greediness to die —
—
Combatté come quelli Che nulla hanno da perdere —
Offrì Se stesso alle Pallottole
Come Uno che d’una Vita ulteriore
Non avesse ulteriore Uso —
Invitò la Morte — con audace slancio —
Ma la Morte fu Ritrosa con Lui
Come gli Altri Uomini, erano Ritrosi con la Morte —
Per Lui — vivere — era Condanna —
I Suoi Compagni, mutavano come i Fiocchi
Quando le Raffiche rovesciano la Neve —
Ma Lui — fu lasciato vivo a Causa
Dell’Avidità di morire —
He outstripped Time with but a Bout,
He outstripped Stars and Sun
And then, unjaded, challenged God
In presence of the Throne.
And He and He in mighty List
Unto this present, run,
The larger Glory for the less
A just sufficient Ring.
Superò il Tempo con una sola Sfida,
Superò le Stelle e il Sole
E poi, mai stanco, sfidò Dio
Al cospetto del Trono.
E Lui e Lui in possente Lizza
Fino a quest’oggi, corrono,
La Gloria più grande per la minore
Un’Arena appena sufficiente.
Fate slew Him, but He did not drop —
She felled — He did not fall —
Impaled Him on Her fiercest stakes —
He neutralized them all —
She stung Him — sapped His firm Advance —
But when Her Worst was done
And He — unmoved regarded Her —
Acknowledged Him a Man.
La Sorte Lo uccise, ma Egli non crollò —
Ella abbatté — Egli non cadde —
Lo impalò sui Suoi pali più feroci —
Egli li neutralizzò tutti —
Ella Lo punse — minò la Sua salda Avanzata —
ma quando il Suo Peggio fu compiuto
ed Egli — impassibile La guardò —
Lo riconobbe un Uomo.
Tell as a Marksman — were forgotten
Tell — this Day endures
Ruddy as that coeval Apple
The Tradition bears —
Fresh as Mankind that humble story
Though a statelier Tale
Grown in the Repetition hoary
Scarcely would prevail —
Tell had a son — The ones that knew it
Need not linger here —
Those who did not to Human Nature
Will subscribe a Tear —
Tell would not bare his Head
In Presence
Of the Ducal Hat —
Threatened for that with Death — by Gessler —
Tyranny bethought
Make of his only Boy a Target
That surpasses Death —
Stolid to Love’s supreme entreaty
Not forsook of Faith —
Mercy of the Almighty begging —
Tell his Arrow sent —
God it is said replies in Person
When the cry is meant —
Tell come Tiratore — fosse dimenticato
Tell — questo Giorno perdura
Rubicondo come quella Mela coeva
Che la Tradizione reca —
Fresca come l’Umanità quell’umile storia
Benché un più solenne Racconto
Fatto canuto nella Ripetizione
A stento prevarrebbe —
Tell aveva un figlio — Chi lo sapeva
Non deve attardarsi qui —
Chi non sapeva all’Umana Natura
Sottoscriverà una Lacrima —
Tell non volle scoprirsi il Capo
In Presenza
Del Cappello Ducale —
Minacciato per ciò di Morte — da Gessler —
La Tirannia escogitò
Di fare del suo unico Ragazzo un Bersaglio
Che sorpassa la Morte —
Impassibile alla suprema supplica dell’Amore
Non abbandonato dalla Fede —
Implorando la Misericordia dell’Onnipotente —
Tell la sua Freccia scagliò —
Dio si dice risponde in Persona
Quando il grido è sincero —
There’s the Battle of Burgoyne —
Over, every Day,
By the Time that Man and Beast
Put their work away
”Sunset” sounds majestic —
But that solemn War
Could you comprehend it
You would chastened stare —
Ecco la Battaglia di Burgoyne —
Finita, ogni Giorno,
Per il Tempo in cui Uomo e Bestia
Ripongono il loro lavoro
”Tramonto” suona maestoso —
Ma quella Guerra solenne
Se tu potessi comprenderla
Fisseresti, castigato —
We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies —
The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King —
Non sappiamo mai quanto siamo alti
Finché non ci è chiesto di alzarci
E allora se siamo fedeli al disegno
Le nostre stature toccano i cieli —
L’Eroismo che recitiamo
Sarebbe cosa normale
Se noi stessi non torcessimo i Cubiti
Per paura d’essere un Re —
My Triumph lasted till the Drums
Had left the Dead alone
And then I dropped my Victory
And chastened stole along
To where the finished Faces
Conclusion turned on me
And then I hated Glory
And wished myself were They.
What is to be is best descried
When it has also been —
Could Prospect taste of Retrospect
The tyrannies of Men
Were Tenderer — diviner
The Transitive toward.
A Bayonet’s contrition
Is nothing to the Dead.
Il mio Trionfo durò finché i Tamburi
Ebbero lasciato i Morti soli
E allora deposi la mia Vittoria
E castigata avanzai furtiva
Fin dove i Volti compiuti
Volsero su di me Conclusione
E allora odiai la Gloria
E desiderai essere Loro.
Ciò che sarà si scorge meglio
Quando è anche stato —
Potesse il Prospetto sapere di Retrospetto
Le tirannie degli Uomini
Sarebbero più Tenere — più divino
Il Transitivo verso.
La contrizione d’una Baionetta
È nulla per i Morti.
This is the place they hoped before,
Where I am hoping now.
The seed of disappointment grew
Within a capsule gay,
Too distant to arrest the feet
That walk this plank of balm —
Before them lies escapeless sea —
The way is closed they came.
Questo è il luogo che speravano prima,
Dove io sto sperando ora.
Il seme della delusione crebbe
Dentro una capsula gaia,
Troppo distante per fermare i piedi
Che percorrono quest’asse di balsamo —
Davanti a loro giace un mare senza scampo —
Chiusa è la via da cui vennero.
The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun —
The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation’s Son —
The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause
When Discipline was done
Untenable to Logic
But possibly the one —
Le cose che pensavamo di fare
Altre cose abbiamo fatto
Ma quelle peculiari industrie
Non sono mai state iniziate —
Le Terre che pensavamo di cercare
Quando grandi abbastanza da correre
Dalla Speculazione cedute
Al Figlio della Speculazione —
Il Cielo, in cui speravamo sostare
Finita la Disciplina
Insostenibile alla Logica
Ma forse l’unico —
My country need not change her gown,
Her triple suit as sweet
As when ‘twas cut at Lexington,
And first pronounced “a fit.”
Great Britain disapproves, “the stars”;
Disparagement discreet, —
There’s something in their attitude
That taunts her bayonet.
Il mio paese non deve mutare la sua veste,
Il suo triplice abito dolce
Come quando fu tagliato a Lexington,
E per la prima volta dichiarato “su misura.”
La Gran Bretagna disapprova, “le stelle”;
Denigrazione discreta, —
C’è qualcosa nel loro contegno
Che ne schernisce la baionetta.
“Go tell it” — What a Message —
To whom — is specified —
Not murmur — not endearment —
But simply — we — obeyed —
Obeyed — a Lure — a Longing?
Oh Nature — none of this —
To Law — said sweet Thermopylae
I give my dying Kiss —
“Va’ e dillo” — Che Messaggio —
A chi — è specificato —
Non mormorio — non tenerezza —
Ma semplicemente — noi — obbedimmo —
Obbedimmo — a un’Esca — a una Brama?
Oh Natura — niente di questo —
Alla Legge — disse la dolce Termopili
Io do il mio Bacio morente —
DEAR CHILDREN,—You have done more for me—‘tis least that I can do, to tell you of brave Frazer—“killed at Newbern,” darlings. His big heart shot away by a “Minie ball.”
I had read of those—I didn’t think that Frazer would carry one to Eden with him. Just as he fell, in his soldier’s cap, with his sword at his side, Frazer rode through Amherst. Classmates to the right of him, and classmates to the left of him, to guard his narrow face! He fell by the side of Professor dark, his superior officer—lived ten minutes in a soldier’s arms, asked twice for water—murmured just, “My God!” and passed! Sanderson, his classmate, made a box of boards in the night, put the brave boy in, covered with a blanket, rowed six miles to reach the boat,—so poor Frazer came. They tell that Colonel Clark cried like a little child when he missed his pet, and could hardly resume his post. They loved each other very much. Nobody here could look on Frazer—not even his father. The doctors would not allow it.
The bed on which he came was enclosed in a large casket shut entirely, and covered from head to foot with the sweetest flowers. He went to sleep from the village church. Crowds came to tell him good-night, choirs sang to him, pastors told how brave he was—early-soldier heart. And the family bowed their heads, as the reeds the wind shakes.
So our part in Frazer is done, but you must come next summer, and we will mind ourselves of this young crusader —too brave that he could fear to die. We will play his tunes—maybe he can hear them; we will try to comfort his broken-hearted Ella, who, as the clergyman said, “gave him peculiar confidence.”… Austin is stunned completely. Let us love better, children, it’s most that’s left to do.
I said I should come “in a day.” Emily never fails except for a cause; that you know, dear L——.
The nights turned hot, when Vinnie had gone, and I must keep no window raised for fear of prowling “booger,” and I must shut my door for fear front door slide open on me at the “dead of night,” and I must keep “gas” burning to light the danger up, so I could distinguish it—these gave me a snarl in the brain which don’t unravel yet, and that old nail in my breast pricked me; these, dear, were my cause. Truth is so best of all I wanted you to know. Vinnie will tell of her visit… .
About Commencement, children, I can have no doubt, if you should fail me then, my little life would fail of itself. Could you only lie in your little bed and smile at me, that would be support. Tell the doctor I am inexorable, besides I shall heal you quicker than he. You need the balsam. And who is to cut the cake, ask F——, and chirp to those trustees? Tell me, dears, by the coming mail, that you will not fail me… .
Jennie Hitchcock’s mother was buried yesterday, so there is one orphan more, and her father is very sick besides. My father and mother went to the service, and mother said while the minister prayed, a hen with her chickens came up, and tried to fly into the window. I suppose the dead lady used to feed them, and they wanted to bid her good-by.
Life is death we’re lengthy at, Death the hinge to life.
The dear ones will excuse—they knew there was a cause. Emily was sick, and Vinnie’s middle name restrained her loving pen.
These are my first words since I left my pillow—that will make them faithful, although so long withheld. We had another fire—it was in Phoenix Row, Monday a week ago, at two in the night. The horses were harnessed to move. the office—Austin’s office, I mean. After a night of terror, we went to sleep for a few moments, and I could not rise. The others bore it better. The brook from Pelham saved the town. The wind was blowing so, it carried the burning shingles as far as Tom’s piazza. We are weak and grateful. The fire-bells are oftener now, almost, than the church-bells. Thoreau would wonder which did the most harm.
The little gifts came sweetly. The bulbs are in the sod—the seeds in homes of paper till the sun calls them. It is snowing now… . “Fine sleighing we have this summer,” says Austin with a scoff. The box of dainty ones—I don’t know what they were, buttons of spice for coats of honey —pleased the weary mother. Thank you each for all.
The beautiful words for which L——asked were that genius is the ignition of affection—not intellect, as is supposed, —the exaltation of devotion, and in proportion to our capacity for that, is our experience of genius. Precisely as they were uttered I cannot give them, they were in a letter that I do not find, but the suggestion was this.
It is startling to think that the lips, which are keepers of thoughts so magical, yet at any moment are subject to the seclusion of death.
… I must leave you, dear, to come perhaps again,—
We never know we go—when we are going We jest and shut the door— Fate following behind us bolts it And we accost no more.
I give you my parting love.